Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“I’m sorry.”

He lifted the glass to his mouth. “He was in his fifties. Doctors say it was a stroke.”

“You were close?”

“Phone calls mostly.” He paused again. “I put him in jail once for dealing drugs.” Looked at her to gauge her reaction.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asked.

“What?”

“That you never told him…” She struggled to get the words out, face twisting as the tears started falling. “Never told him you were sorry.” She got up from the table, fled to the restroom-one hundred percent Stacey Webster now. He thought maybe he should follow her, or at least send the barmaid in after her. But he just sat there instead, swilling the glass until fresh foam appeared on the surface of the beer, thinking about families. Ellen Wylie and her sister, the Jensens and their daughter Vicky, Stacey Webster and her brother…

“Mickey,” he said in a whisper. Naming the dead so they’d know they weren’t forgotten.

Ben Webster.

Cyril Colliar.

Edward Isley.

Trevor Guest.

“Michael Rebus,” he said out loud, making a little toast with his glass. Then he got up and bought refills-IPA, vodka and tonic. Stood by the bar as he waited for his change. Two regulars were discussing Team Britain’s chances at the 2012 Olympics.

“How come London always gets everything?” one of them complained.

“Funny they didn’t want the G8,” his companion added.

“Knew what was bloody coming.”

Rebus had to think for a moment. Wednesday today…it all wrapped up on Friday. Just one more full day and then the city could start getting back to normal. Steelforth and Pennen and all the other intruders would head south.

There wasn’t much love lost…

She’d meant between her brother and Richard Pennen, the MP trying to stymie Pennen’s expansion plans. Rebus had had Ben Webster all wrong, seeing him as a lackey. And Steelforth not letting Rebus near the hotel room. Not because he didn’t want any fuss, didn’t want the various bigwigs bothered with questions and theories. But to protect Richard Pennen.

Wasn’t much love lost.

Making Richard Pennen a suspect, or at the very least giving him a motive. Any one of the guards at the castle could have heaved the MP over the ramparts. There would have been bodyguards mixing with the guests…secret service, too-at least one detail apiece to protect the foreign secretary and defense secretary. Steelforth was SO12, next best thing to the spooks at MI5 and MI6. But if you wanted to get rid of someone, why choose that method? It was too public, too showy. Rebus knew from experience: the successful murders were where there was no murder. Smothered during sleep, drugged and then left in a moving vehicle, or simply made to disappear.

“Christ, John,” he scolded himself. “It’ll be little green men next.” Blame the circumstances: easy to imagine any manner of conspiracy happening around you in G8 week. He set the drinks down at the table, a little concerned now that Stacey had yet to emerge from the restroom. It struck him that his back had been turned while he’d waited at the bar. Gave it five more minutes, then asked the barmaid to check. She came out of the ladies’ shaking her head.

“Three quid wasted,” she told him, gesturing toward Stacey’s drink. “And too young for you anyway, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Back at Gayfield Square, she’d taken her suitcase but left him a note.

Good luck, but remember-Ben was my brother, not yours. Make sure you do your own grieving, too.

Hours yet until the sleeper car left. He could head to Waverley, but decided against it; wasn’t sure there was much more left to be said. Maybe she even had a point. By investigating Ben’s death, he was keeping Mickey’s memory close. Suddenly, there was a question he wished he’d asked her:

What do you think happened to your brother?

Well, he had her business card somewhere, the one she’d given him outside the morgue. He’d call her tomorrow maybe, see if she’d been able to sleep on the train to London. He’d told her he was still investigating the death, and all she’d said was “I know.” No questions; no theories of her own. Warned off by Steelforth? A good soldier always obeyed orders. But she must have been thinking about it, weighing the options.

A fall.

A leap.

A push.

“Tomorrow,” he told himself, heading back to the CID room, a long night of clandestine photocopying ahead.

Thursday, July 7, 2005

The buzzer woke him.

He stumbled through to the hall and pushed the button on the intercom.

“What?” he rasped.

“I thought I worked here.” Tinny and distorted but still recognizable: Siobhan’s voice.

“What time is it?” Rebus coughed.

“Eight.”

“Eight?”

“The start of another working day.”

“We’re suspended, remember?”

“Are you still in your jam-jams?”

“I don’t wear them.”

“Meaning I need to wait out here?”

“I’ll leave the door open.” He buzzed her in, collected his clothes from the chair by the bed, and locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear her tapping on the door, pushing it open.

“Two minutes!” he called out, stepping into the bath and under the nozzle of the shower.

By the time he emerged, she had seated herself at the dining table and was sorting through last night’s photocopies.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. He was halfway through knotting his tie. Remembering that he wouldn’t be going into work, he tugged it free instead and threw it toward the sofa. “We need supplies,” he told her.

“And I need a favor.”

“Such as?”

“A couple of hours at lunchtime-I want to take my parents out.”

He nodded his agreement. “How’s your mum doing?”

“She seems okay. They’ve decided to give Gleneagles a miss, even though climate change is on today’s agenda.”

“They’re heading home tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“How was the show last night?” She didn’t answer straightaway. “I caught the last bit on TV-thought I might have seen you bopping down front.”

“I’d left by then.”

“Oh?”

She just shrugged. “So what are these provisions?”

“Breakfast.”

“I’ve had mine.”

“Then you can watch me while I demolish a bacon roll. There’s a café on Marchmont Road. And while I’m tucking in, you can call Councilman Tench, fix up a powwow.”

“He was at the show last night.”

Rebus looked at her. “Gets about a bit, doesn’t he?”

She’d wandered over to the stereo. There were LPs on a shelf, and she picked one up.

“That was made before you were born,” Rebus told her. Leonard Cohen, Songs of Love and Hate.

“Listen to this,” she said, reading the back of the sleeve. “‘They locked up a man who wanted to rule the world. The fools, they locked up the wrong man.’ Wonder what that means?”

“Case of mistaken identity?” Rebus offered.

“I think it’s to do with ambition,” she countered. “Gareth Tench said he saw you…”

“He did.”

“With Cafferty.”

Rebus nodded. “Big Ger says the councilman’s got plans to put him out of the game.”

She put the record back and turned to face him. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Depends what we get instead. Cafferty’s view is that Tench himself would take over.”

“You believe him?”

Rebus seemed to be considering the question. “Know what I need before I answer that?”

“Proof?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “Coffee.”

Eight forty-five.

Rebus was on his second mug. All that was left of his roll was a side plate spotted with grease. The café had a good selection of papers, Siobhan reading about the Final Push, Rebus showing her photos from yesterday’s shenanigans at Gleneagles.