Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Pint of heavy.” No way he could ask for a half in a place like this. He already had his cigarettes out. “Ever see Duncan these days?” he asked the barman.

“Who?”

“Duncan Barclay.”

“Don’t seem to know the name. In trouble, is he?”

“Not especially.” One question in and already he’d been exposed. “I’m a detective inspector,” he declared.

“You don’t say?”

“Couple of questions I need to ask Duncan.”

“Doesn’t live here.”

“Moved to Kelso, right?” The barman just shrugged. “So which boozer does he now call home?” The barman had yet to make eye contact. “Look at me,” Rebus persisted, “and tell me I’m in the mood for this shit. Go on, do it!”

The sound of chairs scraping against floor as the old-timers got to their feet. Rebus half turned toward them.

“Still game, eh?” he said with a grin. “But I’m looking into three murders.” The grin vanished as he held up three fingers. “Any of you want to become part of that investigation, just keep standing.” He paused long enough for them to lower themselves back into their seats. “Clever boys,” he said. Then, to the barman: “Whereabouts in Kelso will I find him?”

“You could ask Debbie,” the barman muttered. “She always had a wee crush on him.”

“And where would I find Debbie?”

“Saturdays, she works in the grocery.”

Rebus pretended this was fine. He took out the creased and print-smeared photograph of Trevor Guest.

“Years back,” the barman admitted. “Buggered off back south, I heard.”

“You heard wrong-he headed for Edinburgh. Got a name for him?”

“Wanted to be called Clever Trevor-never quite saw why.”

Probably after the Ian Dury song, Rebus mused. “He drank in here?”

“Not for long-barred him for taking a swing.”

“He lived in the town though?”

The barman shook his head slowly. “Kelso, I think,” he said. Then he started nodding. “Definitely Kelso.”

Meaning Guest had lied to the cops in Newcastle. Rebus was starting to get a bad feeling. He left the pub without bothering to pay. Thought he’d played it just about right. Took him a few minutes outside to let the tension ebb. Tracked back to the grocer’s, and the Saturday girl-Debbie. She could see straightaway that he knew. Opened her mouth and began another version, but he waved a hand in front of her and she stuttered to a halt. Then he leaned across the counter, knuckles pressed down on it.

“So what can you tell me about Duncan Barclay?” he asked. “We can either do it here, or in a cop-shop in Edinburgh-your decision.”

She had the good grace to start blushing. In fact, her color became so heightened, he thought maybe she would burst like a balloon.

“He lives in a cottage down Carlingnose Lane.”

“In Kelso?”

She managed a slow nod. Put a hand to her forehead as though she felt dizzy. “But as long as there’s still light in the sky, he’s usually out in the woods.”

“The woods?”

“Behind the cottage.”

Woods. What had the psychologist said? Woods might be important.

“How long have you known him, Debbie?”

“Three…maybe four years.”

“He’s older than you?”

“Twenty-two,” she confirmed.

“And you’re…what? Sixteen, seventeen?”

“Nineteen next birthday.”

“The two of you are an item?”

Bad choice of question: her color deepened further. Rebus had known paler blackberries. “We’re just friends…I don’t even see him that much these days.”

“What does he do?”

“Wood carvings-bowls and stuff. Sells them in the galleries in Edinburgh.”

“Artistic type, eh? Good with his hands?”

“He’s brilliant.”

“Nice sharp tools?”

She started to answer, but then stopped. “He hasn’t done anything!” she cried.

“Have I said he has?” Rebus tried to sound peeved. “What makes you think that?”

“He doesn’t trust you!”

“Me?” Now Rebus sounded confused.

“All of you!”

“Been in trouble before, has he?”

She shook her head slowly. “You don’t understand,” she said quietly. Her eyes were growing moist. “He said you wouldn’t…”

“Debbie?”

She burst out crying, and pulled open the hatch, emerging from behind the counter. She had her arms stretched out, and he did the same.

But she darted beneath them. And by the time he’d turned, she was at the door, hauling it open so its chimes rattled a complaint.

“Debbie!” he called. But when he got to the pavement, she was halfway down the street. He cursed under his breath, and realized that a woman toting an empty wicker basket was standing next to him. He reached back behind the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. “Half-day on Saturday,” he told her.

“Since when?” she spluttered in outraged tones.

“Okay,” he conceded, “then let’s say it’s self-serve…just leave your money on the counter.” He pushed past her and headed for his car.

Siobhan felt like the specter at the feast: the crowd jostling her as it bounced on its toes. Off-key sing-alongs. Flags of all nations obscuring her view. Sweary, sweaty neds and nedettes dancing reels with college Henrys and Henriettas, cheap beer and cider spuming from shared cans. Pizza crusts slippery underfoot. And the bands performing on a stage a quarter mile away. Constant lines for the toilets. She allowed herself a small smile as she remembered her backstage pass at the Final Push. She’d dutifully texted her two friends, but so far without reply. Everybody looked so happy and boisterous, and she could feel none of it. All she could think about were:

Cafferty

Gareth Tench

Keith Carberry

Cyril Colliar

Trevor Guest

Edward Isley

She’d been entrusted by her own chief constable with a major case. A result would have been a big step toward promotion. But she’d been sideswiped by the assault on her mother. Finding the attacker had become all-consuming, throwing her too close to Cafferty. She knew she had to focus, had to get involved again. Monday morning, the investigation proper would be up and running-probably under DCI Macrae and DI Derek Starr-a team organized, as much manpower as was necessary.

And she’d been suspended. Only thing she could do was track down Corbyn and apologize…persuade him to let her back in. He would want her to swear she wouldn’t let Rebus anywhere near, all ties severed. The thought gave her pause. Sixty-forty chance she’d agree if asked. A new band had taken the main stage, and someone had turned the volume up. She checked her phone for texts.

One missed call.

She studied the caller’s number: Eric Bain.

“Last bloody thing I need,” she told herself. He’d left a message, but she wasn’t about to listen to it. Stuck the phone back in her pocket and pulled a fresh bottle of water from her bag. Sweet smell of dope wafting over her, but no sign of the dealer from Camp Horizon. The young men on the stage were working hard, but there was too much treble to their sound. Siobhan moved farther away. Couples were lying on the ground, snogging or staring up at the sky with dreamy smiles on their faces. She realized she was still walking-lacked the will to stop herself-heading for the field where she’d parked her car. New Order was hours away, and she knew she wouldn’t be coming back for them. What was waiting for her in Edinburgh? Maybe she would phone Rebus and tell him she was starting to forgive. Maybe she’d just find herself a wine bar and a chilled bottle of chardonnay, sit there with notebook and pen, rehearsing the speech she’d give the chief constable on Monday morning.

If I let you back on the team, there’s no room for your partner in crime-understood, DS Clarke?