Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Not thirsty?” she asked, and couldn’t help smiling.

“The detective told you,” Kamweze realized. “He, too, threatened me like this.”

“Thing is, he can’t prosecute. Me, on the other hand…well, unless you give me a good reason to dump a front-page exclusive…” She could see he hadn’t yet taken the bait. “A front page that will be seen around the world…How long till the press in your own country picks up the story and runs with it? How long till your government masters get to hear of it? Your neighbors, friends-”

“Enough,” he growled. His eyes were focused on the table. It was highly polished, throwing his own reflection back at him.

“Enough,” he repeated, and his tone told her he was beaten. She bit into another of the biscuits. “What do you want?”

“Not much, really,” she assured him. “Just everything you can tell me about Mr. Richard Pennen.”

“Am I to be your Deep Throat, Miss Henderson?”

“If the thought excites you,” she offered.

Thinking to herself: But really, you’re just another dupe who got caught…another flawed civil servant.

Another informer…

His second funeral in a week.

He’d crawled out of the city-domino effect from earlier. At the Forth Bridge, Fife constabulary were pulling over trucks and vans, checking their potential as barricades. Once over the bridge, however, traffic was fine. He was early as a result. Drove into the center of Dundee, parked by the waterfront, and smoked a cigarette with the radio tuned to news. Funny, the English stations were on about London ’s Olympic bid; hardly a mention of Edinburgh. Tony Blair was jetting back from Singapore. Rebus pondered whether he got frequent-flier miles.

The Scottish news had picked up on Mairie’s story: everyone was calling him the G8 Killer. Chief Constable James Corbyn was making no public statements on the subject; SO12 was stressing that there was no danger to the leaders gathering at Gleneagles.

Two funerals inside a week. He wondered if one reason that he was working so hard was so he wouldn’t have time to think too much about Mickey. He’d brought a CD of Quadrophenia with him, played some of it on the drive north, Daltrey rasping the insistent question: Can you see the real me? He had the photos on the passenger seat: Edinburgh Castle, dinner jackets and bow ties. Ben Webster with about two hours to live, looking no different from anyone else. But then suicides didn’t wear signs around their necks. Neither did serial killers, gangsters, bent politicians. Beneath all the official portraits was Mungo’s close-up of Santal and her camera. Rebus studied it for a moment before placing it on top. Then he started the car and headed for the funeral home.

Place was packed. Family and friends, plus representatives from all the political parties. Labor MSPs, too. The media kept their distance, huddled at the gates. Probably the office juniors, sour-faced with the knowledge that their elders and betters were busy at the G8, capturing Thursday’s headlines and front pages. Rebus hung back as the real guests were ushered indoors. Some of them had looked at him quizzically, thinking it unlikely he’d been a man with any connection to the MP, taking him for some kind of vulture, preying on the grief of strangers.

Maybe they were right at that.

A hotel in Broughty Ferry was providing refreshments afterward. “The family,” the reverend was telling the assembly, “have asked me to say that you’ll all be most welcome.” But his eyes told another story: close family and bosom friends only, please. Quite right, too: Rebus doubted any hotel in the Ferry could cope with a crowd this size.

He was seated in the back row. The reverend had asked one of Ben Webster’s colleagues to step up and say a few words. Sounded much like the eulogy at Mickey’s funeral: a good man…much missed by those who knew him, and many did…devoted to his family…well liked in the community. Rebus reckoned he’d given it long enough. There was no sign of Stacey. He hadn’t really thought much about her since that meeting outside the morgue. He guessed she’d gone back to London, or else was clearing out her brother’s home, dealing with the banks and insurers and such.

But to miss the funeral…

There had been more than a week between Mickey’s death and his cremation. And Ben Webster? Not even five full days. Could the haste be classed as indecent? Stacey Webster’s decision, or someone else’s? Outside in the parking lot, he lit another cigarette and gave it five more minutes. Then he unlocked the driver’s side and got in.

Can you see the real me…

“Oh, yes,” he said quietly, turning the ignition.

Mayhem in Auchterarder.

The rumor had gone around that Bush’s helicopter was on its way. Siobhan had checked her watch, knowing he wasn’t due to arrive at Prestwick till midafternoon. Every chopper that came over, the crowd booed and bayed. They’d streamed down lanes and through fields, clambered over walls into people’s gardens. One aim in mind: get to the cordon. Get past the cordon. That would be the real victory; no matter if they were still half a mile from the actual hotel. They would be on the Gleneagles estate. They would have beaten the police. She saw a few members of the Clown Army, and two protesters dressed in plus fours and carrying golf bags: the People’s Golfing Association, whose mission was to play a hole on the hallowed championship course. She had heard American accents, Spanish voices, Germans. She had watched a huddle of black-clad, face-muffled anarchists planning their next move. An airship droning overhead, gathering surveillance…

But no Santal.

Back on Auchterarder’s main street, news had arrived that the Edinburgh contingent was being prevented from leaving the city.

“So they’re marching there instead,” someone explained gleefully. “Bullyboys are going to be stretched to breaking.”

Siobhan doubted it. All the same, she tried her parents’ cell. Her father answered, said they’d been sitting on the bus for hours and were still there.

“Promise me you won’t join any march,” Siobhan implored.

“Promise,” her father said. Then he put his wife on so Siobhan could hear the same pledge from her. As she ended the call, Siobhan suddenly felt like an utter idiot. What was she doing here when she could be with her parents? Another march meant more riot cops; could be her mother would recognize her attacker, or something might nudge a nugget of remembrance to the surface.

She cursed herself quietly, then turned and was face to face with her quarry.

“Santal,” she said. The young woman lowered her camera.

“What are you doing here?” Santal asked.

“Surprised?”

“Just a little, yes. Are your parents…?”

“They’re stranded in Edinburgh. I see your lisp’s improved.”

“What?”

“Monday in the gardens,” Siobhan went on, “you were busy with your little camera. Only thing is, you weren’t zeroing in on the cops. Why is that?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.” But Santal glanced to the left and right, as if afraid they would be overheard.

“Reason you didn’t want to show me any of your photos is that they would tell me something.”

“Like what?” She sounded neither scared nor wary, but genuinely curious.

“They’d tell me you were interested in your fellow rabble-rousers rather than the forces of law and order.”

“So?”

“So I got to wondering why that might be. It should have come to me earlier. Everyone said so, after all-at the Niddrie camp and then again in Stirling.” Siobhan had taken a step closer, the two women nose to nose. She leaned in toward Santal’s ear. “You’re undercover,” she whispered. Then she stood back, as if admiring the young woman’s getup. “The earrings and piercings…mostly fake?” she guessed. “Temporary tattoos, and”-staring at the coils of hair-“a nicely made wig. Why you bothered with the lisp, I’ve no idea-maybe to help you retain a sense of your own identity.” She paused. “How am I doing?”