Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Government?” she guessed, giving a shrug. There was a tapping against the open door: one of the duty uniforms from the front desk.

“Someone to see you downstairs, sir.” He glanced pointedly in the direction of the nearest phone.

“We’ve not been picking up,” Rebus explained. “Who is it?”

“Woman called Webster…she was hoping for DS Clarke, but said you’d do in a pinch.”

Backstage at the Final Push.

Rumors that some sort of rocket had been fired from the railway tracks nearby, falling short of its target.

“Filled with purple dye,” Bobby Greig had told Siobhan. He was in civvies: faded jeans and a battered denim jacket. Looked damp but happy as the rain drizzled down. Siobhan had changed into black cords and a pale green T-shirt, topped off with a biker jacket bought secondhand from an Oxfam shop. Greig had smiled at her. “How come,” he’d said, “whatever you wear, you still look like CID?”

She hadn’t bothered replying. She kept fingering the laminated pass strung around her neck. It showed an outline of Africa and the legend Backstage Access. Sounded grand, but Greig soon explained her spot on the food chain. His own pass was Access All Areas, but beyond this were two further levels-VIP and VVIP. She’d already seen Midge Ure and Claudia Schiffer, both of them VVIPs. Greig had introduced her to the concert promoters, Steve Daws and Emma Diprose, the pair of them glamorous despite the weather.

“Amazing lineup,” Siobhan had told them.

“Thank you,” Daws had said. Then Diprose had asked if Siobhan had a favorite, but she’d shaken her head.

Throughout, Greig hadn’t bothered mentioning to them that she was a cop.

There had been ticketless fans outside Murrayfield, begging to buy, and a few scalpers whose prices were deterring all but the wealthiest and most desperate. With her pass, Siobhan had been able to wander around the base of the stage and onto the playing field itself, where she joined sixty thousand drenched fans. But the hungry looks they gave in the direction of her little plastic rectangle made her uncomfortable, and she soon retreated behind the security fence. Greig was stuffing his face with the free food, while holding a half-empty bottle of continental lager. The Proclaimers had opened the show with a sing-along of “ 500 Miles.” Word was, Eddie Izzard would be playing piano on Midge Ure’s version of “ Vienna.” Texas, Snow Patrol, and Travis were due up later, with Bono helping out the Corrs and a closing set by James Brown.

But the frenetic backstage activity was making her feel old. She didn’t know who half the performers were. They looked important, moving to and fro with their various entourages, but their faces didn’t mean anything to her. It struck her that her parents might be leaving on Friday, giving her just one more day with them. She’d called them earlier; they’d gone back to her place, buying provisions on the way, and might go out for dinner. Just the two of them, her dad had said, making it look like this was what he wanted.

Or maybe so she wouldn’t feel guilty at being elsewhere.

She was trying to relax, to get in the mood, but work kept intruding. Rebus, she knew, would still be hard at it. He wouldn’t rest till his demons had been quelled. Yet each victory was fleeting, and each fight drained him a little more. Now that the sun was setting, the stadium was dotted with the flashes from camera phones. Luminous glow sticks were being waved in the air. Greig found an umbrella from somewhere and handed it to her as the rain got heavier.

“Had any more trouble in Niddrie?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “They’ve made their point,” he said. “Besides which, they probably think there’s a better chance of a fight if they head into town.” He tossed his empty beer bottle into a recycling bin. “Did you see it today?”

“I was in Auchterarder,” she said.

He looked impressed. “Bits I saw on TV made it look like a war zone.”

“Wasn’t quite that bad. How about here?”

“Bit of a demonstration when the buses were stopped from going. Nothing like Monday though.” He nodded over her shoulder. “Annie Lennox,” he pointed out. And so it was, not ten feet away, giving them a smile as she headed to her changing room. “You played great at Hyde Park!” Greig called out to her. She just kept smiling, her mind on the performance ahead. Greig went to fetch more beers. Most of the people Siobhan saw were just hanging around, looking bored. Technical crews who wouldn’t be busy again until it was time to pack everything away and dismantle the stage. Personal assistants and record company staff-the latter wearing a uniform of black suits with matching V-neck sweaters, sunglasses on and phones clamped to their ears. Caterers and promoters and hangers-on. She knew she was one of the last group. No one had asked what role she was playing because no one thought she was a player.

The terraces, that’s where I belong, she thought.

Either there or the CID room.

She felt so very different from the teenager who’d hitched her way to Greenham Common, singing “We Shall Overcome” as she locked hands with the other women ringing the air base. Already, Saturday’s Make Poverty History march seemed like history itself. And yet…Bono and Geldof had managed to breach the G8 security, putting their case to the various leaders. They’d made damned sure those men knew what was at stake, and that millions expected great things of them. Tomorrow, decisions might be made. Tomorrow would be crucial.

Her cell was in her hand, and she was on the verge of calling Rebus. But she knew he would laugh, tell her to switch it off and enjoy herself. She suddenly doubted that, despite the ticket pinned by a magnet to the fridge in her kitchen, she would go to T in the Park. Doubted the killings would be solved by then, especially now she was officially off the case. Her case. Except now Rebus had brought in Ellen Wylie…it rankled that he hadn’t thought to ask. Rankled, too, that he’d been right: they needed help. But now it turned out Wylie knew Gareth Tench and Tench knew Wylie’s sister…

Bobby Greig had returned with her beer. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“I think they’re all remarkably small,” she commented. He nodded his agreement.

“Pop stars,” he explained, “must’ve been the school runts. This is how they get their revenge. You’ll notice their heads are big enough though.” He saw that he had lost her attention.

“What’s he doing here?” Siobhan asked.

Greig recognized the figure, gave a wave. Councilman Gareth Tench waved back. He was talking to Daws and Diprose, but broke off-a pat on the shoulder for the former; peck on either cheek for the latter-and came toward them.

“He’s the council’s culture convener,” Greig stated. He held out a hand for Tench to squeeze.

“How are you, lad?” Tench inquired.

“Just fine.”

“Keeping out of trouble?” This question was directed at Siobhan. She took the proffered hand and returned its firm grasp.

“Trying to.”

Tench turned back to Greig. “Remind me again, where do I know you from?”

“The campsite. Name’s Bobby Greig.”

Tench shook his head at his own incompetence. “Of course, of course. Well, isn’t this great?” He clapped his hands together and looked around. “Whole bloody world’s got its eyes on Edinburgh.”

“Or on the concert at any rate,” Siobhan couldn’t help qualifying.

Tench just rolled his eyes. “There’s no pleasing some folk. Tell me, did Bobby here sneak you in for free?”

Siobhan felt obliged to nod.

“And you’re still complaining?” He gave a chuckle. “Remember to give a donation before you leave, eh? Might look like a kickback otherwise.”