Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“No,” Dobbs drawled. “Were you?”

“I was, as a matter of fact. Hellish about Ben Webster, wasn’t it?”

“Ghastly. Best PPS we had.”

Siobhan seemed suddenly to realize what was going on. Rebus offered her a wink.

“Richard’s not too sure he jumped,” Rebus commented.

“Accident, you mean?” Dobbs replied.

“Pushed,” Rebus stated. The civil servant lowered his sheaf of papers, turned his head toward the backseat.

“Pushed?” He watched Rebus slowly nod. “Who the hell would do that?”

Rebus offered a shrug. “Maybe he made enemies. Some politicians do.”

“Almost as many as your chum Pennen,” Dobbs countered.

“How do you mean?” Rebus tried to sound slighted on his friend’s behalf.

“That company of his used to belong to the taxpayer. Now he’s making a packet out of R and D we paid for.”

“Serves us right for selling it to him,” Siobhan chipped in.

“Maybe the government was badly advised,” Rebus teased the civil servant.

“Government knew bloody well what it was doing.”

“Then why sell to Pennen?” Siobhan asked, genuinely curious now. Dobbs was shuffling through his papers again. The driver was on the phone to someone, asking which routes were open to them.

“R and D departments are costly,” Dobbs was saying. “When the MoD needs to make cuts, it always looks bad if it’s regiments taking the brunt. Ditch a few techs, the media doesn’t so much as blink.”

“I’m still not sure I get it,” Siobhan admitted.

“Thing about a private company,” Dobbs went on, “is that they can sell to pretty much anyone they like-fewer constraints than the MoD, F.C.O., or department of industry. Result? Faster profits.”

“Profits made,” Rebus added, “from selling to suspect dictators and spit-poor nations already up to their eyes in debt.”

“I thought he was your…?” Dobbs flinched as he realized he was not necessarily among friends. “Who did you say you were again?”

“John,” Rebus reminded him. “And this is my colleague.”

“But you don’t work for Pennen Industries?”

“Never implied that we did,” Rebus insisted. “We’re Lothian and Borders Police, Mr. Dobbs. And I want to thank you for your frank answers to our questions.” Rebus stared over the seat toward the civil servant’s lap. “You seem to be crushing all your lovely papers. Is that to save on a shredder…?”

Ellen Wylie was busy manning the phones when they got back to Gayfield Square. Siobhan had called her parents, discovering that they’d given up on the trip to Auchterarder and had kept clear of the angry protest in Princes Street. There had been trouble stretching from the Mound to the Old Town -disgruntled protesters, prevented from leaving the city, clashing with riot police. As Rebus and Siobhan walked into the CID suite, Wylie gave them a look. Rebus thought she was on the verge of a protest herselfalone all day in the station. But then a figure emerged from Derek Starr’s private office-not Starr himself, but Chief Constable James Corbyn. His hands were clasped behind his back, showing impatience. Rebus stared at Wylie, who shrugged a response, indicating that Corbyn had stopped her from texting a warning.

“Pair of you, in here,” Corbyn snapped, retreating back into Starr’s airless domain. “Close the door after you,” he added. He was seating himself; no other chairs in the room, so Rebus and Siobhan stayed standing.

“I’m glad you could make time, sir,” Rebus stated, getting his retaliation in first. “I wanted to ask you about the night Ben Webster died.”

Corbyn was caught off guard. “What about it?”

“You were at the dinner, sir…something you should probably have declared from the start.”

“We’re not here to talk about me, DI Rebus. We’re here so that I can formally suspend the pair of you from active duty with immediate effect.”

Rebus nodded slowly, as if this were a given. “All the same, sir, now you are here, best if we get your statement. Looks like we’re hiding something otherwise. Papers are flocking around like vultures. Hardly in the interests of public relations for the chief constable to be-”

Corbyn rose to his feet. “Maybe you weren’t listening, Inspector. You’re no longer taking part in any inquiry. I want the pair of you off the premises in the next five minutes. You’ll go home and sit by the phone, waiting for news of my investigation into your conduct. Is that clear?”

“I need a few minutes to update my notes, sir. Need to make our conversation a matter of record.”

Corbyn stabbed a finger toward Rebus. “I’ve heard all about you, Rebus.” His gaze shifted to Siobhan. “Might explain why you were so reluctant to give me your colleague’s name when I put you in charge.”

“You never actually asked, sir, if you don’t mind me saying,” Siobhan retorted.

“But you knew damned well trouble couldn’t be far off.” His attention was firmly back on Rebus. “Not with Rebus here in the vicinity.”

“With respect, sir-” Siobhan started to argue.

Corbyn slammed his fist against the desk. “I told you to put the whole thing on ice! Instead of which, it makes the front pages, and then you proceed to end up at Gleneagles! When I tell you you’re off the case, that’s all you need to know. End of game. Sayonara. Finito.”

“Picked up a few words at the dinner, eh, sir?” Rebus responded with a wink. Corbyn’s eyes bulged from his head. Just their luck if he were to collapse with an aneurysm. But instead he stalked from the room, almost sending Siobhan and a bookcase toppling as he passed them. Rebus exhaled noisily, ran a hand through his hair, and scratched his nose.

“So what do you want to do now?” he asked.

Siobhan just looked at him. “Pack my things?” she guessed.

“Packing certainly comes into it,” Rebus replied. “We pack all the case files off to my place, set up camp there.”

“John…”

“You’re right,” he said, choosing to misinterpret her tone. “They’ll be noticed if they go missing. So we need to copy them instead.”

This time he got a smile.

“I’ll do it if you want,” he added. “I know you’ve got a hot date.”

“In the pouring rain.”

“Only excuse Travis needs to play that bloody song of theirs.” He emerged from Starr’s office. “Did you catch any of that, Ellen?”

She was putting the phone down. “I couldn’t warn you,” she began.

“Don’t apologize. I suppose Corbyn knows who you are now?” He perched on the corner of her desk.

“Didn’t seem that interested. He got my name and rank, never bothered to ask if I was a regular here.”

“Perfect,” Rebus told her. “Means you can keep being our ears and eyes.”

“Hang on a second,” Siobhan interrupted. “That’s not your call to make.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Siobhan ignored him, focusing on Ellen Wylie. “This is my show, Ellen. Understood?”

“Don’t worry, Siobhan, I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“I’m not saying you’re not wanted, but I need to know you’re on our side.”

Wylie prickled visibly. “As opposed to whose?”

“Ladies, ladies,” Rebus said, stepping between them like an old-fashioned wrestling referee. His eyes were on Siobhan. “An extra pair of hands wouldn’t go amiss, boss, you have to admit that.”

She smiled eventually-boss had done the trick. But her gaze stayed fixed on Wylie. “Even so,” she said, “we can’t ask you to spy for us. It’s one thing for John and me to get into trouble, another to land you in the mire.”

“I don’t mind,” Wylie said. “Nice overalls, by the way.”