Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Not yet,” she conceded. Rebus noticed that some of his ash had landed on the Rover’s gleaming hood.

“I get the feeling you’re holding something back.”

“Nothing to do with your deceased MP.”

“Going to share with Uncle John?”

“Might not come to anything.” She paused. “I can still make a story though. I’m the first print journalist the producer’s told the whole story to.”

“Good for you.”

“You could try that again with a bit more enthusiasm.”

“Sorry, Mairie…mind’s on other things. If you can tighten the screws on Pennen, so much the better.”

“But it doesn’t necessarily help you?”

“You’ve been doing me a lot of favors-only right you get something out of it.”

“My feelings exactly.” She paused again. “Any progress your end? I’m betting you visited the day center where Trevor Guest worked?”

“Didn’t get much.”

“Anything worth sharing?”

“Not yet.”

“That sounds like evasion.”

Rebus moved aside as some people started to emerge from the building-a liveried driver, followed by another man in uniform carrying a small case. And behind them, the lord provost. She seemed to notice the flecks of ash on her vehicle, gave Rebus a scowl, and disappeared into the back of the car. The two men got into the front, Rebus guessing that the case held her chain of office.

“Thanks for letting me know about Pennen,” he told Mairie. “Keep in touch.”

“It’s your turn to phone me,” she reminded him. “Now we’re back on speaking terms, I don’t want one-way traffic.”

He ended the call, stubbed out his cigarette, and headed back indoors, where his receptionist had joined in the debate about trash bins.

“It’s environmental health you need to speak to,” she was stressing.

“Nae good, hen, that lot never listen.”

“Summat’s got to be done!” his wife shouted. “Folk are fed up being treated like numbers!”

“All right,” the first receptionist said, caving in with a sigh. “I’ll see if someone’s available to talk to you. Take a ticket from over there.” She nodded toward the dispenser. The old man pulled a sliver of paper from it and stared at what he’d been given.

A number.

Rebus’s receptionist beckoned him over, leaned forward to whisper that the councilman was on his way down. She glanced toward the couple, letting him know she didn’t want them to share in the information.

“I’m assuming it’s official business?” she asked, fishing for some inside info. Rebus leaned even closer to her ear, smelling perfume rising from her nape.

“I’m wanting my drains cleaned,” he confided. She looked shocked for a moment, then gave a lopsided grin, hoping he was joking.

Moments later, Tench himself emerged grimly into the reception area. He was clasping a briefcase to his chest as though it could afford some useful protection.

“This is a bollock hair away from serious harassment,” he hissed. Rebus nodded as if in agreement, then stretched out an arm in the direction of the waiting couple.

“This is Councilman Tench,” he informed them. “He’s the helpful sort.” They were already on their feet and shuffling toward the glowering Tench.

“I’ll be waiting outside when you’re done,” Rebus told him.

He’d smoked another cigarette by the time Tench emerged. Through the window, Rebus could see that the couple had taken their seats again, looking satisfied for the moment, as though some further meeting had been arranged.

“You’re a bastard, Rebus,” Tench growled. “Give me one of those cigs.”

“I didn’t know you indulged.”

Tench lifted a cigarette from the pack. “Only when I’m stressed…but this smoking ban’s on the horizon so I figure I should claim my share while I can.” With the cigarette lit, he inhaled deeply, letting the smoke pour down his nostrils. “Only real pleasure some people have, you know. Remember John Reid talking about single mums in the projects?”

Rebus remembered it well. But Reid, the defense secretary, had given up the smokes so wasn’t much of an apologist for the habit.

“Sorry I did that,” Rebus offered, nodding in the direction of the window.

“They’ve got a point,” Tench conceded. “Someone’s coming to talk to them…wasn’t too happy about me calling him, mind. I think his tee shot had just clipped the ninth green. Chip and run for a birdie.”

He smiled, and Rebus smiled with him. They smoked in silence for a moment. The atmosphere could almost have been called companionable. But then Tench had to spoil it.

“Why do you side with Cafferty? He’s a badder bugger than I could ever be.”

“I’m not disputing it.”

“Well then?”

“I don’t side with him,” Rebus stated.

“Not what it looks like.”

“Then you’re refusing to see the whole picture.”

“I’m good at what I do, Rebus. If you don’t believe me, talk to the people I represent.”

“I’m sure you’re terrific at what you do, Mr. Tench. And sitting on the regeneration committee must tip a load of cash into your district, making your constituents cheerful, healthy, and well behaved…”

“Slums have been replaced by new housing, local industry offered incentives to stay put-”

“Nursing homes given upgrades?” Rebus added.

“Absolutely.”

“And staffed by your own recommendations. Trevor Guest being a case in point.”

“Who?”

“While back you placed him in a day center. He was from Newcastle originally.”

Tench was nodding slowly. “He’d had a few problems with drink and drugs. Happens to some of us, doesn’t it, Inspector?” Tench gave Rebus a meaningful look. “I was looking to integrate him into the community.”

“Didn’t work. He headed back south to be murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“One of the three whose effects we found in Auchterarder. Another was Cyril Colliar. Funnily enough, he used to work for Big Ger Cafferty.”

“You’re at it again-trying to pin something on me!” Tench made jabbing motions with the cigarette.

“Just want to ask about the victim. How you met him, why you felt the need to help.”

“It’s what I do-I keep telling you that!”

“Cafferty thinks you’re muscling in.”

Tench rolled his eyes. “We’ve been through all this. All I want is for him to be consigned to the scrap heap.”

“And if we won’t do it, you will?”

“I’ll do my damnedest-I’ve already said as much.” He rubbed his palms across his face, as though washing. “Has the penny not dropped yet, Rebus? Always supposing you’re not in his pocket, hasn’t it occurred to you that he might be using you to get to me? Big drug problem in my ward-something I’ve vowed to control. With me out of the way, Cafferty has free rein.”

“You’re in charge of the gangs down there-”

“I’m not!”

“I’ve seen the way it works. Your little runt of a hood runs amok, gives you the chance to state your case for more cash from the authorities. You’ve turned havoc into a nice little earner.”

Tench stared at him, then gave a loud exhalation. He looked to the left and right. “Between us?” But Rebus wasn’t about to comply. “All right, maybe there’s an element of truth in what you say. Money for regeneration: that’s the bottom line. I’m happy to show you the books-you’ll see that every last cent and penny is accounted for.”

“What’s Carberry listed under on the balance sheet?”

“You don’t control someone like Keith Carberry. A bit of channeling sometimes…” Tench offered a shrug. “What happened in Princes Street had nothing to do with me.”