Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Lost somebody?” he asked.

“Friend of mine called Santal.”

He shook his head. “Not a great one for names.” So she gave a brief description. He shook his head again. “If you just sit and chill, maybe she’ll come to you.” He held out a ready-rolled joint. “On the house.”

“Only available to new customers?” she guessed.

“Even the forces of law and order need to relax at day’s end.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I’m impressed. Is it the hair?”

“The bag doesn’t help,” he commented. “What you really want is a muddy backpack. That thing”-indicating the guilty item-“makes you look like you’re off to the gym.”

“Thanks for the advice. You weren’t scared I might want to bust you?”

He shrugged. “You want a riot, go right ahead.”

She gave a brief smile. “Maybe another time.”

“This ‘friend’ of yours, any chance she might have been part of the advance guard?”

“Depends what you mean.”

He had paused to light the joint, inhaling deeply, then exhaling and speaking at the same time. “Stands to reason there’ll be blockades from first light, your lot trying to stop us getting near the hotel.” He offered her a hit, but she shook her head. “You’ll never know till you try,” he teased.

“Believe it or not, I was a teenager once…So the advance guard headed out of here earlier?”

“Ordnance survey maps in hand. Only the Ochil Hills between us and victory.”

“Cross-country in the dark? Isn’t that a bit risky?”

He offered a shrug, then drew on the joint again. A young woman was hovering nearby. “Get you anything?” he asked her. The transaction took half a minute: a tiny shrink-wrapped package for three ten-pound notes.

“Cheers,” the woman said. Then, to Siobhan: “Evening, Officer.” She was giggling as she left them. The dealer was looking at Siobhan’s overalls.

“I know when I’m beaten,” she admitted.

“So take my advice: sit and chill for a while. You might find something you didn’t know you were looking for.” He stroked his beard as he spoke.

“That’s…deep,” Siobhan told him, her tone letting him know she was thinking the exact opposite.

“You’ll see,” he retorted, moving past her into the gloom. She walked back to the fence and decided to phone Rebus. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m in Stirling, no sign of Santal. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you need me in the meantime, feel free to call.”

An exhausted but excited-looking group was entering the compound. Siobhan snapped shut her phone and moved to within earshot of them as they were met by some of their comrades.

“Heat-seeking radar…dogs…”

“Armed to the teeth, man…”

“American accents…marines, if you ask me…no ID…”

“Choppers…searchlights…”

“Had us for dead…”

“Tracked us halfway back to base camp…”

Then the questions started. How close did they get? Any weak points in the security? Did they reach the fence? Was anyone still out there?

“We split up…”

“Submachine guns, I figure…”

“Weren’t messing…”

“Split into ten groups of three…easier to lie low…”

“State of the art…”

More questions flew at them. Siobhan started counting heads, stopped at fifteen. Meaning a further fifteen were still out on the Ochils somewhere. In the hubbub, she launched her own question.

“Where’s Santal?”

A shake of the head. “Didn’t see her after we split up.”

One of them had unfolded a map, to show how far they’d gotten. He had a flashlight strapped to his forehead and was tracing the route with a muddied finger. Siobhan squeezed closer.

“It’s a total-exclusion zone…”

“Has to be a weak spot…”

“Force of numbers, that’s all we’ve got…”

“We’ll be ten thousand strong by morning.”

“Herbal cigarettes for all our brave soldiers!” As the dealer started handing them out, there were bursts of laughter from the crowd-a release of tension. Siobhan retreated to the back of the throng. A hand grasped her arm. It was the young woman who’d bought from the dealer earlier.

“Pigs better get wings,” she hissed.

Siobhan glared at her. “Or what?”

The young woman offered a malevolent smile. “Or I might have to squeal.”

Siobhan said nothing, just hoisted her bag and backed away. The young woman waved her off. The same guard was on duty at the gate.

“Did the disguise hold?” he asked with something just shy of a smirk.

All the way back to her car, Siobhan tried to think of a comeback…

Rebus had acted the gentleman: returned to Gayfield Square bearing cup noodles and chicken tikka wraps.

“You’re spoiling me,” Ellen Wylie said as he switched on the kettle.

“You also get first choice-chicken and mushroom or beef curry?”

“Chicken.” She watched him peel open the plastic containers. “So how did it go?”

“I found Hackman.”

“And?”

“He wanted a tour of the fleshpots.”

“Yuck.”

“I told him I couldn’t oblige, and in return he told me very little we don’t already know.”

“Or couldn’t have guessed?” She’d come over to join Rebus at the kettle. Picked up one of the wraps and examined its sell-by date: July 5. “Half-price,” she commented.

“I knew you’d be impressed. But there’s even more.” He produced the Mars Bar from his pocket and handed it over. “So what news of Edward Isley?”

“Again, there’s more paperwork coming north,” she said, “but the DI that I spoke to was one of the brighter lights on the tree. Recited most of it from memory.”

“Let me guess: no shortage of enemies…someone with a grudge…keeping an open mind…no progress to report?”

“Just about sums it up,” Wylie admitted. “I got the impression a few stops had been left unpulled.”

“Nothing to connect Fast Eddie to Mr. Guest?”

She shook her head. “Different prisons, no sign of shared associates. Isley didn’t know Newcastle, and Guest hadn’t been hanging around Carlisle or the M6.”

“And Cyril Colliar probably knew neither of them.”

“Bringing us back to their shared appearance on BeastWatch.” Wylie watched Rebus pour water onto the noodles. He offered her a spoon and they stirred their individual pots.

“Have you spoken to anyone at Torphichen?” he asked.

“Told them you were short-handed.”

“Rat-ass probably hinted we were involved in a bunk-up.”

“How well you know DC Reynolds,” she said with a smile. “By the way, some JPEGS arrived from Inverness.”

“That was quick.” He watched as she logged on at the computer. The photos appeared as thumbnails, but Wylie enlarged each one.

“It looks just like Auchterarder,” Rebus commented.

“Photographer got some close-ups,” Wylie said, bringing them up on screen. Tattered remnants of cloth, but none of it looking recent. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I don’t see anything for us, do you?”

“No,” she agreed. One of the phones started ringing. She picked up and listened.

“Send him up,” she said, replacing the receiver. “Guy called Mungo,” she explained. “Says he has an appointment.”

“More of an open invitation,” Rebus said, sniffing the contents of the wrap he’d just opened. “Wonder if he likes chicken tikka…”

Mungo did indeed, and demolished the gift in two huge bites while Rebus and Wylie examined the photographs.

“You work fast,” Rebus said by way of thanks.

“What are we looking at?” Ellen Wylie asked.

“Friday night,” Rebus explained, “a dinner at the castle.”