Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“You’ll be put on suspension, of course.”

“We don’t work for you.”

“This week, everyone works for me.” He turned his attention to Siobhan. “And you won’t be seeing DS Webster again.”

“She has evidence-”

“Evidence of what? That your mother got hit by a baton during a riot? It’s up to her if she wants to make a complaint-have you even asked her?”

“I…” Siobhan hesitated.

“No, you just tore off on this little crusade. DS Webster’s being sent back home-your fault, not mine.”

“Speaking of evidence,” Rebus said, “whatever happened to those security-camera tapes?”

Steelforth frowned. “Tapes?” he echoed.

“The operations room at Edinburgh Castle…cameras trained on the ramparts…”

“We’ve been through this a dozen times,” Steelforth growled. “Nobody saw anything.”

“So it’s okay for me to watch the tapes?”

“If you can find any, be my guest.”

“They’ve been wiped?” Rebus guessed. Steelforth didn’t bother replying. “This suspension of ours,” Rebus went on, “you forgot to add ‘pending an inquiry.’ I’m guessing that’s because there won’t be one.”

Steelforth shrugged. “Up to the pair of you.”

“Dependent on our conduct? Like not pushing for the tapes to be made available?”

Steelforth shrugged again. “You can survive this-but just barely. I can make you look like heroes or villains-” The radio clipped to Steelforth’s belt crackled to life. Report from one of the watchtowers: security fence breached. Steelforth held the radio to his mouth and ordered a Chinook’s worth of reinforcements, then strode back toward the Land Rover. One of the chauffeurs intercepted him.

“Wanted to introduce myself, Commander. Name’s Steve and I’ll be driving you to the Open-”

Steelforth snarled some sort of oath, stopping Steve dead. The other drivers started joking that he wouldn’t be getting much of a tip this weekend. Steelforth’s Land Rover, meantime, was already revving its engine.

“Not even a farewell kiss?” Rebus called out, offering a wave of his hand. Siobhan stared at him.

“You’ve got retirement to look forward to-some of us were hoping for a career.”

“You see what he’s like, Shiv: moment this is all over, we’ll have fallen off his radar.” Rebus kept waving as the vehicle roared away. The soldier was standing in front of them, holding out their badges.

“Off you go now,” he snapped.

“Where exactly?” Siobhan asked.

“Or, more to the point, how?” Rebus added.

One of the drivers cleared his throat and stretched out an arm, drawing attention to the array of luxury cars. “I just got a text-one of the suits has to get back to Glasgow. I could drop you off somewhere.”

Siobhan and Rebus shared a look. Siobhan then smiled at the driver and nodded toward the cars.

“Do we get to choose?” she asked.

They ended up sitting in the back of a six-liter Audi A8, four hundred miles on its clock, most of them added since first thing that morning. Pungent aroma of new leather and the bright gleam of chrome. Siobhan asked if the TV was working. Rebus gave her a look.

“Just wondering if London got the Olympics,” she explained.

Their IDs were scrutinized at three separate checkpoints between the field and the hotel grounds.

“We don’t go near the hotel itself,” the driver said. “I’ll pick up the suit from the meet ’n’ greet next to the media center.” Both were situated near the hotel’s main car lot. Rebus saw that no one was playing the golf course. Pitch-and-putt and croquet lawns-both empty, except for dapper, slow-paced security men.

“Hard to believe there’s anything happening,” Siobhan commented. Her voice was just above a whisper; something about the place…Rebus felt it, too. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself.

“Just be a sec,” the driver said, stopping the car. He pulled on his chauffeur’s peaked cap as he exited. Rebus decided to get out, too. He couldn’t see any rooftop marksmen, but figured they were probably there nevertheless. They had parked to one side of the main baronial building, near a vast conservatory that Rebus guessed was probably the restaurant.

“Weekend here would do me grand,” he confided to Siobhan as she emerged from the backseat.

“Cost you a grand, too, no doubt,” she countered. Inside the media center-a tented structure with solid sides-reporters could be glimpsed hammering copy into their laptops. Rebus had lit a cigarette. He heard a sound and turned to see a bicycle round the corner of the hotel. Its rider was bent low, aiming for speed, another bike tucked in directly behind. The leading cyclist passed within thirty feet, caught sight of them, and offered a wave. Rebus gave a flick of his cigarette in acknowledgment. But lifting his fingers from the handlebars had unbalanced the rider. His front wheel wobbled, slewing across the gravel. The other cyclist tried to avoid him, but ended up going over his own handlebars. Men in dark suits arrived as if from nowhere, making a rapid huddle around the two sprawled figures.

“Did we just do that?” Siobhan asked quietly. Rebus said nothing, just dumped the cigarette and eased himself back into the car. Siobhan followed his example, and they watched through the windshield as the first cyclist was helped to his feet, rubbing his grazed knuckles. The other rider was still on the ground, but no one seemed to be paying him much heed. A question of protocol, Rebus guessed.

The needs of President George W. Bush must always come first.

“Did we just do that?” Siobhan repeated, her voice trembling a little. The Audi driver had emerged from the meet ’n’ greet, followed by a man in a gray suit. The man carried two bulging briefcases. Like the driver, he paused for a moment to watch the commotion. The chauffeur held open the passenger-side door and the civil servant got in without so much as a nod of greeting in the direction of the backseat. The chauffeur got behind the steering wheel, his cap grazing the Audi’s roof, and asked them what was going on.

“Wheels within wheels,” Rebus offered. At last, the civil servant decided to acknowledge that he was-possibly to his chagrin-not the only passenger.

“I’m Dobbs,” he said. “F.C.O.”

Meaning foreign and commonwealth office. Rebus reached out a hand.

“Call me John,” he invited. “I’m a friend of Richard Pennen’s.”

Siobhan looked to be taking none of this in. Her attention, as the car drew away, was on the scene unfolding behind them. Two men in green paramedics’ uniforms were being prevented from reaching the U.S. president by his insistent security detail. Hotel staff had emerged to watch, as had a couple of the reporters from the media center.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” Siobhan sang huskily.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dobbs was telling Rebus.

“Richard been here yet?” Rebus asked casually.

The civil servant frowned. “Not sure he’s on the list.” He seemed worried that he might have been kept out of the loop.

“Told me he was,” Rebus lied blithely. “Thought the foreign sec had a role for him.”

“Quite possibly,” Dobbs stated, trying to sound more confident than he looked.

“George Bush just fell off his bike,” Siobhan commented. It was as if the words needed to be spoken before they could become fact.

“Oh, yes?” Dobbs said, not really listening. He was opening one of the briefcases, ready to immerse himself in some reading. Rebus realized the man had suffered enough small talk, his mind geared to higher things: statistics and budgets and trade figures. He decided on one last try.

“Were you at the castle?”