Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Where’s the fire, Keith?”

“Get lost, Jim-Bob.”

“What about your light saber?”

Carberry pausing just long enough to replace the cue in its case.

“I think,” Cafferty had said quietly, “we can safely say we’ve got him.”

“For what it’s worth,” Siobhan had added.

“Got to be patient,” Cafferty advised. “A lesson well worth the learning, DS Clarke.”

Now, in her car, she pondered her options. The simplest would be to hand the evidence over to the public prosecutor, get Keith Carberry in court again on the more serious charge. That way, Tench would go untouched, but so what? Even supposing the councilman had set up those attacks on the Niddrie campsite, he really had come to her rescue in the gardens behind the flats-Carberry hadn’t been toying with her. His blood was up, adrenaline pumping…

The threat had been for real.

He’d wanted to taste her fear, see her panic.

Not always controllable. Tench just managing to rescue the situation.

She owed him that much…

On the other hand, Carberry in exchange for her mother didn’t sound like a fair deal. Didn’t taste like justice. She wanted more. Beyond an apology or a show of remorse, beyond a custodial sentence of weeks or months.

When her phone rang she had to ease her fingers from around the steering wheel. The screen said it was Eric Bain. She whispered an oath before answering.

“What can I do for you, Eric?” she asked, just a little too brightly.

“How’s it all going, Siobhan?”

“Slowly,” she admitted with a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. No hysterics, girl, she warned herself.

“Well, I’m not sure about this, but I might have someone you should talk to.”

“Oh, yes?”

“She works at the university. I helped her out months back with a computer simulation.”

“Good for you.”

There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Eric. How’s everything with you? How’s Molly?”

“Molly’s great…I, uh, was telling you about this lecturer?”

“Of course you were. You think I should go see her.”

“Well, maybe just call her up first. I mean, it might turn out to be a dead end.”

“It usually does, Eric.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

Siobhan closed her eyes and sighed loudly into the phone. “Sorry, Eric, sorry. Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“Taking what out on me?”

“A week’s worth of crap.”

He laughed. “Apology accepted. I’ll call again later, when you’ve had a chance to-”

“Just hang on a sec, will you?” She reached across to the passenger seat, extracting her notebook from her bag. “Give me her number and I’ll talk to her.”

He recited the number and she jotted it down, adding the name as best she could, neither of them being totally sure how it was spelled.

“So what is it you think she might have for me?” Siobhan asked.

“A few crackpot theories.”

“Sounds great.”

“Can’t do any harm to listen,” Bain advised.

But by now, Siobhan knew differently. Knew that listening could have repercussions.

Bad ones at that…

Rebus hadn’t been to the city chambers in a while. The building was situated on the High Street, opposite St. Giles Cathedral. Cars were supposedly banned from the road between the two, but like most locals Rebus ignored the signs and parked curbside. He seemed to remember hearing that the council’s HQ had been built as some sort of merchants’ meeting place, but the local traders had shunned it and carried on as before. Rather than concede defeat, the politicians had moved in and made it their own. Soon, however, they’d be on the move-a parking lot next to Waverley Station had been earmarked for development. No way of telling as yet how far over budget it would run. If it turned out anything like the parliament, the bars of Edinburgh would soon have a fresh topic to inflame the drinkers’ indignation.

The city chambers had been built on top of a plague street called Mary King’s Close. Years back, Rebus had investigated a murder in the dank underground labyrinth-Cafferty’s own son the victim. The place had been tidied up now and was a tourist haunt in the summer. One of the staff was busy on the pavement, handing out flyers. She wore a housemaid’s cap and layered petticoats and tried to offer Rebus a discount coupon. He shook his head. The papers said local attractions were feeling the bite of the G8week tourists had been steering clear of the city.

“Hi-ho, silver lining,” Rebus muttered, starting to whistle the song’s first verse. The receptionist at the front desk asked him if it was Madonna, then smiled to let him know she was teasing.

“Gareth Tench, please,” Rebus said.

“I doubt he’ll be here,” she warned. “Friday, you know…A lot of our councilmen do district business on a Friday.”

“Giving them an excuse to knock off early?” Rebus guessed.

“I don’t know what you’re implying.” But her smile was back, meaning she knew damned well. Rebus liked her. Checked for a wedding ring and found one. Changed his whistling to “Another One Bites the Dust.”

She was looking down a list on the clipboard in front of her. “Seems you’re in luck,” she announced. “Urban regeneration committee subgroup…” She glanced at the clock behind her. “Meeting’s due to break up in five minutes. I’ll tell the secretary you’re here, Mr…?”

“Detective Inspector Rebus.” He offered a smile of his own. “John, if you prefer.”

“Take a seat, John.”

He gave a little bow of his head in thanks. The other receptionist was having a lot less luck, trying to fend off an elderly couple who wanted to talk to someone about the trash bins in their street.

“Through wi’ they lazy bastards.”

“We’ve got the car numbers an’ ev’thing, but naebody’s been near…”

Rebus took a seat, and decided against any of the reading material: council propaganda disguised as newsletters. They appeared regularly in Rebus’s mailbox, helping him contribute to the recycling effort. His cell sounded, and he flipped it open. Mairie Henderson’s number.

“What can I do for you, Mairie?” he asked.

“I forgot to tell you this morning…I’m getting somewhere with Richard Pennen.”

“Tell me more.” He moved outside into the quadrangle again. The lord provost’s Rover was parked by the glass-paneled doors. He stopped next to it and lit a cigarette.

“Business correspondent on one of the London broadsheets put me on to a freelancer who sells stuff to the likes of Private Eye. He in turn set me up with a TV producer who’s been keeping an eye on Pennen ever since the company split off from the MoD.”

“Okay, so you’ve earned your pennies this week.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just head to Harvey Nicks and start spending them…”

“All right, I’m shutting up now.”

“Pennen has links to an American company called TriMerino. They’ve got people on the ground in Iraq just now. During the war, a lot of equipment got trashed, including weaponry. TriMerino are in the business of re-arming the good guys-”

“Whoever they are-”

“Making sure the Iraqi police and any new armed forces can hold their own. They see it as-wait for this-a humanitarian mission.”

“Meaning they’re looking for aid money?”

“Billions are being poured into Iraq -quite a bit’s already gone missing, but that’s another story. The murky world of foreign aid: that’s the TV producer’s pitch.”

“And he’s lassoing Richard Pennen?”

“Hoping to.”

“And how does this tie in to my dead politician? Any sign that Ben Webster had control of Iraqi aid money?”