Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

Siobhan’s smile reappeared. “I suppose I should change before the show.”

Rebus exhaled noisily: flash point avoided. “So what’s been happening here?” he asked Wylie.

“Trying to alert all the offenders listed on BeastWatch. I’ve asked the various police authorities to tell them to be on their guard.”

“And did they sound enthusiastic?”

“Not exactly. Betweentimes, I’ve had several dozen reporters following up on the front page.” She had the newspaper beside her and tapped Mairie’s headline. “Amazed she gets the time,” she commented.

“How’s that?” Rebus wondered.

Wylie opened the paper at a double-page spread. Byline: Mairie Henderson. An interview with Councilman Gareth Tench. Big photo of him in the midst of the Niddrie campsite.

“I was there when they did that,” Siobhan said.

“I know him,” Wylie couldn’t help countering. Rebus gave her a look.

“Explain.”

She gave a shrug, wary of his sudden interest. “I just do.”

“Ellen,” he warned, drawing her name out.

She sighed. “He’s been seeing Denise.”

“Your sister Denise?” Siobhan asked.

Wylie nodded. “It was me who hooked them up, more or less.”

“They’re an item?” Rebus had wrapped his arms around himself like a straitjacket.

“They’ve been out a few times. He’s been…” She sought the right words. “He’s been good for her, brought her out of herself.”

“With the help of a drop of wine?” Rebus guessed. “But how did you come to meet him?”

“BeastWatch,” she said quietly, eyes refusing to connect with his.

“Say again?”

“He saw that piece I wrote. Sent me an e-mail full of praise.”

Rebus had jumped to his feet, unfolding his arms as he searched the desk for a sheet of paper-the list Bain had given of BeastWatch subscribers.

“Which one is he?” he demanded, handing her the names.

“That one,” she said.

“Ozyman?” Rebus checked, watching her nod. “Hell kind of name is that? He’s not from Down Under, is he?”

“Ozymandias, maybe,” Siobhan offered.

“Ozzy Osbourne’s more my line,” Rebus admitted. Siobhan leaned over a keyboard and stuck the name into a search engine. A couple of clicks and a biography appeared on the screen.

“King of kings,” Siobhan explained. “Put up a huge statue of himself.” Two more clicks and Rebus was looking at a poem by Shelley.

“‘Look on my works, ye Mighty,’” he recited, “‘and despair.’” He turned toward Wylie. “Not that he’s bigheaded or anything.”

“Can’t dispute it,” she conceded. “All I said was, he’s been good for Denise.”

“We need to talk to him,” Rebus said, his eyes running down the list of names, wondering how many more lived in Edinburgh. “And you, Ellen, should have said something before now.”

“I didn’t know you had a list,” she said, defensively.

“He got to you through the Web site-stands to reason we’d want to question him. Christ knows, we’ve few enough leads to go on.”

“Or too many,” Siobhan countered. “Victims in three different regions, clues left in another…It’s all so scattered.”

“I thought you were heading home to get ready?”

She nodded, looked around the office. “You’re really going to take it all with you?”

“Why not? I can copy the paperwork, Ellen here won’t mind staying late to make some floppies.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Will you, Ellen?”

“That’s my punishment, is it?”

“I can appreciate you’d want Denise kept out of it,” Rebus told her, “but you should still have given us Tench.”

“Just remember, John,” Siobhan interrupted, “the councilman saved me from a beating that night in Niddrie.”

Rebus nodded. Could have added that he’d witnessed another side to Gareth Tench, but didn’t bother.

“Enjoy your concert,” he said instead.

Siobhan’s attention was back on Ellen Wylie. “My team, Ellen. If I think you’re hiding anything else…”

“Message received.”

Siobhan started to nod slowly, then thought of something. “Did BeastWatch subscribers ever have get-togethers?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But they can contact each other?”

“Obviously.”

“Did you know who Gareth Tench was before you met him?”

“First e-mail he sent, he said he was based in Edinburgh, signed off with his real name.”

“And you told him you were CID?”

Wylie nodded.

“What’s your thinking?” Rebus asked Siobhan.

“I’m not sure yet.” Siobhan started to get her things together. Rebus and Wylie watched her. Finally, with a wave over her shoulder, she was gone. Ellen Wylie folded the newspaper and dumped it in a wastebasket. Rebus had filled the kettle and switched it on.

“I can tell you exactly what she’s thinking,” Wylie told him.

“Then you’re cleverer than me.”

“She knows that murderers don’t always work alone. She also knows sometimes they need validation.”

“Over my head, Ellen.”

“I don’t think so, John. If I know you, you’re thinking much the same. Somebody decides to start killing perverts, they might want to tell someone about it-either beforehand, almost asking permission, or afterward, to get it off their chest.”

“Okay,” Rebus said, busy with the mugs.

“Hard to work in a team if you’re one of the suspects.”

“I really do appreciate you helping out, Ellen,” he said, pausing before adding, “so long as that’s what you’re doing.”

She sprang from the chair, placing her hands on her hips, elbows jutting. Rebus had been told once why humans did that-to make them seem bigger, more threatening, less vulnerable.

“You think,” she was saying, “I’ve been here half the day just to protect Denise?”

“No…but I do think people will go a long way to protect family.”

“Like Siobhan and her mum, you mean?”

“Let’s not pretend we wouldn’t do the same.”

“John…I’m here because you asked me.”

“And I’ve said I’m grateful, but here’s the thing, Ellen-Siobhan and me have just been sent out of the game. We need someone to look out for us; someone we can trust.” He spooned coffee into the two chipped mugs. Sniffed the milk and decided it would do. He was giving her time to think.

“All right,” she said at last.

“No more secrets?” he asked. She shook her head. “Nothing I should know?” Shook it again. “You want to be there when I interview Tench?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “How do you plan to do that? You’re on suspension, remember?”

Rebus made a face and tapped his head. “Short-term memory loss,” he told her. “It comes with the territory.”

After the coffee, they got busy: Rebus filled the copier with a fresh ream of paper; Wylie asked what he wanted copied from the computer’s various databases. The phone rang half a dozen times, but they ignored it.

“Incidentally,” Wylie chimed in at one point, “did you hear? London got the Olympics.”

“Whoop-dee-doo.”

“It was great actually: everyone dancing around Trafalgar Square. Means Paris lost out.”

“Wonder how Chirac’s taking it.” Rebus checked his watch. “He’ll be sitting down to dinner with the queen right around now.”

“With TB doing his Cheshire cat impression, no doubt.”

Rebus smiled. Yes, and Gleneagles serving up the best of Caledonian fare for the French president…He thought back to that afternoon, standing a few hundred yards from all those powerful men. Bush toppling from his bike, a painful reminder that they were every bit as fallible as anyone else. “What does the G stand for?” he asked. Wylie just looked at him. “In G8,” he amplified.