Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

They ordered more coffees and some buttered toast. And then Cameron Bruce told her what he knew.

Or, rather, what he suspected-all of it based on stories doing the rounds. “And therefore to be taken with the usual shaker of salt.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Party funding,” he stated. Mairie’s reaction: feigned sudden sleep. Bruce laughed and told her it was actually quite interesting.

“You don’t say?”

Richard Pennen, it transpired, was a major personal donor to the Labor Party. Nothing wrong with that, not even when his own company stood to benefit from government contracts.

“Happens with Capita,” Bruce commented, “and plenty of others.”

“You’re saying you dragged me all the way here to tell me Pennen’s doing something completely legal and aboveboard?” Mairie sounded less than overwhelmed.

“I’m not so sure about that. See, Mr. Pennen is playing on both sides of the net.”

“Giving money to the Tories as well as Labor?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Pennen Industries has sponsored several Tory shindigs and bigwigs.”

“But that’s the company rather than Pennen himself? So he’s probably not breaking any laws.”

Bruce just smiled. “Mairie, you don’t have to break the law to get into trouble in politics.”

She glared at him. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Might be,” he said, biting into another half slice of toast.

Friday, July 8, 2005

The front pages were carnage. Large color photos of the red London double-decker. Survivors speckled with blood and soot, eyes vacant. One woman with a huge white compress held to her face. Edinburgh had a post-traumatic feel to it. The bus on Princes Street, the one with the suspect package, had been towed away, once a controlled explosion had been carried out. Same procedure with a shopping bag left in one of the nearby stores. Some shards of glass on the road, and a few flower beds still ruptured by the Wednesday riot. But it all seemed such a long time ago. People were back at work, boards removed from windows, barriers lifted onto flatbed trucks. The protesters were melting away from Gleneagles, too. Tony Blair had flown back from London in time for the closing ceremony. There would be speeches and signings, but people seemed unsure how to feel about any of it. The London bombs had given the perfect excuse for trade talks to be curtailed. There would be extra aid for Africa, but not as much as the campaigners had wanted. Before poverty could be tackled, the politicians had a more immediate war to wage.

Rebus folded the newspaper closed and tossed it onto the small table next to his chair. He was in a corridor on the top floor of Lothian and Borders Police HQ, Fettes Avenue. The summons had come just as Rebus was stirring from bed. The chief constable’s secretary had been insistent when Rebus had tried querying the time frame.

“At once,” she’d stipulated. Which was why Rebus had stopped off just long enough for a coffee, bun, and paper. He still had the last chunk of dough ring in his hand when James Corbyn’s door opened. Rebus stood, thinking he would be going inside, but Corbyn seemed content that their conversation would take place right there in the corridor.

“I thought you’d been given fair warning, DI Rebus-you were off the case.”

“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed.

“Well then?”

“Well, sir, I knew I wasn’t allowed to work the Auchterarder case, but thought I’d tie up a few loose ends regarding Ben Webster.”

“You were suspended from duty.”

Rebus looked dumbfounded. “Not just the one case?”

“You know damned well what a suspension means.”

“Sorry, sir-age creeping up…”

“It is indeed,” Corbyn purred. “You’re already on the maximum pension. Makes me wonder why you stick around.”

“Nothing better to do, sir.” Rebus paused. “Incidentally, sir, is it a crime for a constituent to ask his MP a question?”

“He’s minister for trade, Rebus. That means he has the PM’s ear. The G8 finishes today, and we don’t want a black mark against us at this stage.”

“Well, I’ve no reason to bother the minister again.”

“Bloody right you haven’t-or anyone else, for that matter. This is your last chance. At the moment, you might escape with an official reprimand, but if your name comes sailing onto my desk one more time…” Corbyn held up a finger for effect.

“Message received, sir.” Rebus’s phone started ringing. He lifted it from his pocket and checked the number: no one he knew. Put the little silver box to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Rebus? It’s Stan Hackman. Meant to call you yesterday, but with everything that happened…”

Rebus could feel Corbyn’s eyes on him. “Sweetheart,” he crooned into the phone, “I’m going to call you back, promise.” He made a kissing sound and killed the call. “Girlfriend,” he explained to Corbyn.

“She’s a brave woman,” the chief constable said, opening the door to his office.

Meeting over.

“Keith?”

Siobhan was seated in her car, window down. Keith Carberry was walking toward the door of the pool hall. The place opened at eight, and Siobhan had been there since quarter to, just to be on the safe side, watching sluggish workers trudging to the bus stop. She motioned him toward the car with her hand. He looked to left and right, fearing some sort of ambush. There was a thin black carrying case under his arm-his personal cue. Siobhan reckoned it would come in handy as a weapon should occasion demand.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Remember me?”

“I can smell the bacon from here.” The hood of his navy top had been pulled over his pale baseball cap. Same outfit he’d been wearing in the photos. “Knew I’d be seeing you again-you were gagging for it that night.” He reinforced the message by adjusting his crotch with a cupped hand.

“How was your day in court?”

“Lovely.”

“Charged with breach of the peace,” she recited. “Bailed on condition you steer clear of Princes Street and sign in daily at Craigmillar police station.”

“You stalking me? I’ve heard of women who get obsessed like that.” He laughed and straightened up. “We done here?”

“Just getting started.”

“Fine.” He turned away. “See you inside then.” She called out his name again but he ignored her. Yanked open the door and went into the pool hall. Siobhan wound her window up, got out, and locked the car. Followed him into Lonnie’s Pool Academy -Best Tables in Restalrig.

It was dimly lit and fuggy, as though never quite cleaned properly at the end of each day. There were already two tables in play. Carberry was sticking coins into a drinks machine, pulling out a can of cola. Siobhan couldn’t see any staff, which meant they were probably playing. Balls clattered and dropped into pockets. Swearing seemed to be mandatory between shots.

“Lucky bastard.”

“Fuck off. Six in the top corner, watch this, ya moron…”

“Fanny alert.”

Four pairs of eyes looked up at Siobhan. Only Carberry ignored her, drinking his drink. There was a radio playing in the background, its signal distorted.

“Help you, sweetheart?” one of the players asked.

“Looking to play a few games,” she said, handing him a five-pound note. “Any chance of some change?”

He was still in his teens, but obviously ran the early shift. Took the note from her and keyed open the register behind the food counter, counted out ten fifty-pence pieces.

“Cheap tables,” she told him.

“Crap tables,” one of the players corrected her.