Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“You don’t want me,” the woman was saying, pointing to her ample breasts. Rebus didn’t dare look at Hackman, fearing he’d be salivating.

“Afraid I do,” Rebus told her, gesturing to the uniforms. Client and dancer were ushered toward the patrol car.

“One in the front, one in the back,” the driver told his partner. The dancer looked at Rebus as she clacked past him on her heels.

“Hang on,” he said, removing his jacket and slipping it over her shoulders. Then he turned to Hackman. “I need to see to this,” he explained.

“Like your chances, eh?” The Englishman leered.

“Don’t want a diplomatic incident,” Rebus corrected him. “Will you be okay?”

“Never better,” Hackman confirmed, slapping Rebus on the back. “I’m sure my friends here”-making sure the doormen could hear him-“will waive their entry fee for an officer of the law…”

“Just one thing, Stan,” Rebus cautioned.

“What’s that then?”

“Don’t let your hands wander.”

The CID suite was deserted, no sign of Rat-Ass Reynolds or Shug Davidson. Easy enough to secure two interview rooms. Easy to get a couple of uniforms on overtime to act as babysitters.

“Glad of the business,” one of them said.

First, the dancer. Rebus took her a plastic cup of tea. “I even remember how you like it,” he told her. Molly Clark sat with arms folded, still wearing his jacket and not much else. She was shuffling her feet, face twitching.

“Might have let me get changed,” she complained, giving a loud sniff.

“Afraid you’ll catch a cold? Don’t worry, a car will run you back in five minutes.”

She looked at him, eyes rimmed with kohl, cheeks rouged. “You’re not charging me?”

“What with? Our friend’s not going to want to pursue it, trust me.”

“It’s me should be pursuing him!”

“Whatever you say, Molly.” Rebus offered her a cigarette.

“There’s a No Smoking sign,” she reminded him.

“So there is,” he agreed, lighting up.

She hesitated another moment. “Go on then…” Took the cigarette from him, leaned across the table so he could light it for her. He knew her perfume would be clinging to his jacket for weeks. She inhaled and held the smoke deep within her.

“When we came to see you on Sunday,” Rebus began, “Eric was a bit shaky when it came to explaining how you met. I think I can guess now.”

“Bully for you.” She was examining the cigarette’s glowing tip. Her body rocked a little, and Rebus realized she was pumping one knee up and down.

“So he knows what you do for a living?” Rebus asked.

“Is it any business of yours?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then…” Another drag on the cigarette, as if drawing nourishment from it. The smoke billowed into Rebus’s face. “No secrets between Eric and me.”

“Fair enough.”

She finally made eye contact. “He was touching me up. And as for that line about me grabbing his wallet…” She snorted. “Different culture, same shit.” She calmed a little. “That’s why Eric means something.”

Rebus nodded his understanding. “It’s our Kenyan friend who’s in trouble, not you,” he assured her.

“Really?” She gave him that wide smile again, same as on Sunday. The whole dreary room seemed to brighten for an instant.

“Eric’s a lucky man.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Rebus told the Kenyan. Interview room 2, ten minutes later. The Nook was sending a car for Molly-a car and some clothes. She’d promised to leave Rebus’s jacket at the station’s front desk.

“My name is Joseph Kamweze and I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me your passport, Joseph.” Rebus held out his hand. “If you’re a diplomat, it’ll say so.”

“I do not have it with me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Balmoral.”

“Now there’s a surprise. Room paid for by Pennen Industries?”

“Mr. Richard Pennen is a good friend to my country.”

Rebus leaned back in his chair. “How’s that then?”

“In matters of trade and humanitarian assistance.”

“He sticks microchips into weapons.”

“I do not see the connection.”

“What are you doing in Edinburgh, Joseph?”

“I am part of my nation’s trade mission.”

“And what part of your job description took you into the Nook tonight?”

“I was thirsty, Inspector.”

“And maybe a wee bit horny…?”

“I am not sure what it is that you are trying to insinuate. I have already told you that I have immunity.”

“And I couldn’t be happier for you. Tell me, do you know a British politician called Ben Webster?”

Kamweze nodded. “I met him one time in Nairobi, at the high commission.”

“You’ve not seen him this trip?”

“I did not have a chance to talk with him the night his life ended.”

Rebus stared at him. “You were at the castle?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“You saw Mr. Webster there?”

The Kenyan nodded. “I thought it unnecessary to speak with him on that occasion, as he would be joining us for lunch at Prestonfield House.” Kamweze’s face fell. “But then this great tragedy unfolded before our eyes.”

Rebus tensed. “How do you mean?”

“Please do not misunderstand. I only say that his fall was a great loss to the international community.”

“You didn’t see what happened?”

“No one did. But perhaps the cameras were of some assistance.”

“Security cameras?” Rebus felt like slapping himself across the head. The castle was an army HQ-of course there’d be cameras.

“We were given a tour of the control room. It was impressively technical, but then terrorism is an everyday threat, is it not, Inspector?”

Rebus didn’t answer for a moment.

“What’s everyone saying about it?” he eventually asked.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Kamweze’s brow had furrowed.

“The other missions-that little League of Nations I saw you with at Prestonfield-any rumors about Mr. Webster?”

The Kenyan shook his head.

“Tell me, does everyone feel as warmly toward Richard Pennen as you seem to?”

“Again, Inspector, I do not think I-” Kamweze broke off and rose hurriedly to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “I would like to leave now.”

“Something to hide, Joseph?”

“I feel you have brought me here under false pretenses.”

“We could go back to the real ones-start discussing your little one-man delegation and its fact-finding tour of Edinburgh’s lap-dancing bars.” Rebus leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “These places have cameras, too, Joseph. They’ll have you on tape.”

“Immunity…”

“I’m not talking about charging you with anything, Joseph. I’m talking about the folks back home. I’m assuming you’ve got family in Nairobi…mum and dad, maybe a wife and kids?”

“I want to leave now!” Kamweze slammed a fist down on the table.

“Easy there,” Rebus said, holding up his hands. “Thought we were having a nice wee chat here.”

“Do you wish a diplomatic incident, Inspector?”

“I’m not sure.” Rebus seemed to ponder the notion. “Do you?”

“I am outraged!” Another thump on the table and the Kenyan headed for the door. Rebus did nothing to stop him. Instead, he lit a cigarette and lifted his legs onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. Stretched back and stared at the ceiling. Naturally, Steelforth hadn’t said anything about cameras, and Rebus knew he’d have a hell of a time persuading anyone to hand over the footage. It was owned by the military and sited within the military-strictly out of Rebus’s jurisdiction.