The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (30 page)

Needing to be armed.

Shiites and Sunnis and Kurds. Yes, water and electricity were necessities, but so were efficient guns and rocket launchers. For defense only, of course, because reconstruction could only come when people felt protected.

“I thought arms were being taken out of the equation,” Mairie had commented.

“Only to be put back in again as soon as nobody’s looking.”

“And you’re linking Pennen to all of this?” Mairie had eventually asked, scribbling notes to herself furiously, the phone clenched between cheek and shoulder.

“Just the tiniest portion. He’s a footnote, a little P.S. at the end of the missive. And it’s not even him per se really, is it? It’s the company he runs.”

“And the company he keeps,” she couldn’t help adding. “In Kenya, he’s been making sure his bread’s buttered on both sides.”

“Funding the government
and
the opposition? Yes, I’d heard about that. As far as I know, it’s no big deal.”

But the diplomat Kamweze had given her a little more. Cars for government ministers; road-building in districts run by opposition leaders; new houses for the most important tribal leaders. All of it described as “aid,” while arms powered by Pennen technology added to the national debt.

“In Iraq,” the London journalist went on, “Pennen Industries seems to fund rather a gray area of reconstruction—namely, private defense contractors. Armed and subsidized by Pennen. It may be the first war in history run largely by the private sector.”

“So what do these defense contractors do?”

“Act as bodyguards for people coming into the country to do business. Plus man the barricades, protect the Green Zone, ensure local dignitaries can turn their car key in the ignition without having to fear a
Godfather
moment...”

“I get the picture. They’re mercenaries, right?”

“Not at all—perfectly legit.”

“But sponsored by Pennen cash?”

“To a degree.”

Eventually she’d ended the call with promises on both sides to stay in touch, her London friend stressing that as long as she steered clear of the Iraq story, they might be able to help each other. Mairie had typed up her notes while they were fresh, then had bounced through to the living room where Allan was slumped in front of
Die Hard 3
—watching all his old favorites again now that he had his home cinema to play with. She’d given him a hug and poured them each a glass of wine.

“What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, pecking her on the cheek.

“Allan,” she said, “you’ve been to Iraq...tell me about it.”

Later that night, she’d slipped out of bed. Her phone was beeping, telling her she had a text. It was from the Westminster correspondent of the
Herald
newspaper. They’d sat next to each other at an awards dinner two years back, knocking back the Mouton Cadet and laughing at the short lists in every single category. Mairie had kept in touch with him, actually quite fancied him though he was married—happily married, as far as she knew. She sat on the carpeted stairs, dressed in just a T-shirt, chin on her knees, reading his text.

U SHD HV SAID U HAD INTEREST IN PENNEN. CALL ME 4 MORE!

She’d done more than call him. She’d driven to Glasgow in the middle of the night and made him meet her at a twenty-four-hour café. The place was full of studenty drunks, bleary rather than loud. Her friend was called Cameron Bruce—it was a joke with them, “the name that works just as well from both directions.” He arrived wearing a sweatshirt and jogging pants, his hair tousled.

“Morning,” he said, glancing meaningfully at his watch.

“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” she chided him. “You can’t go teasing a girl at close to midnight.”

“It has been known,” he replied. The twinkle in his eye told her she’d need to check the current status of that happy marriage. She thanked God she hadn’t arranged to meet him at a hotel.

“Spit it out then,” she said.

“Coffee’s not that bad actually,” he replied, lifting his mug.

“I didn’t drive halfway across Scotland for bad jokes, Cammy.”

“Then why did you?”

So she sat back and told him about her interest in Richard Pennen. She left bits out, of course—Cammy was the competition, after all, despite being a friend. He was wise enough to know there were gaps in her story—every time she paused or appeared to change her mind about something, he gave a little smile of recognition. At one point she had to break off while the staff dealt with an unruly new client. It was all done professionally and at speed, and the man found himself back on the pavement. Gave the door a few kicks and the window a few thumps, but then slouched away.

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.

SIDE FOUR

The Final Push

Friday, July 8, 2005

22

T
he 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.

“Fuckin’ shut it, Jimmy,” the teenager said. But Jimmy was just getting into his stride.

“Hey, sweetheart, ever see that film
The Accused
? If you feel a Jodie Foster moment coming on, we can make sure the door’s bolted.”

“Try anything,
you’ll
be the one doing the bolting,” Siobhan snapped back.

“Just ignore him,” the teenager advised her. “I’ll give you a game if you want.”

“It’s me she wants to take on,” Keith Carberry called out, stifling a burp as he crushed the empty can in his fist.

“Maybe after,” Siobhan told the teenager, making her way to Carberry’s table. She crouched to slot home the coin. “Rack them up,” she said. Carberry got busy with the triangle while she chose a cue. The tips were ragged, and there was no sign of chalk. Carberry had opened his case, screwed his two-piece cue together. Drew a fresh cube of blue from his pocket and got to work. The chalk went back into his pocket and he winked at her.

“Want some, you’ll have to reach in and get it. Going to toss me for break?”

There were guffaws at this, but Siobhan was already leaning down over the cue ball. The rust-colored baize was snagged in places, despite which she made pretty good contact, splitting open the pack, a stripe finding the middle pocket. Potted two more before she missed an angle.

“She’s better than you are, Keith,” one of the other players chipped in.

Carberry ignored him and potted three in a row. Tried doubling the fourth the length of the table. Missed by half an inch. Siobhan played safe, and he decided to get out of the snooker by coming off three cushions. Fouled it.

“Two shots,” Siobhan reminded him. She needed both to pot her next ball, then succeeded with a double of her own, bringing a whoop from one of the other tables. The games had paused so they could watch. The last two pots were straightforward, leaving only the black. She ran it along the bottom cushion, but it stopped in the jaws of the pocket. Carberry cleaned up.

“Want another tanning?” he asked with a smirk.

“Think I’ll get a drink first.” She walked over to the machine and got a Fanta. Carberry followed her. The other games were back in play; seemed to Siobhan she’d won some level of acceptance.

“You’ve not told them who I am,” she stated quietly. “Thanks for that.”

“What is it you’re after?”

“I’m after
you,
Keith.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. It was a printout of the photo from Princes Street Gardens. He took it from her and studied it, then tried handing it back.

“So?” he said.

“The woman you hit...take another look at her.” She swigged from her can. “Notice any family resemblance?”

He stared at her. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “You put my mother in the hospital, Keith. Didn’t matter to you who it was, or how badly they were injured. You went down there for a fight, and you were going to get one.”

“And I’ve been to court for it.”

“I looked at the notes, Keith. Prosecutor doesn’t know about this.” Siobhan tapped the photo. “All he’s got on you is witness testimony from the cop who pulled you out of the crowd. Saw you tossing the stick away. What do you think you’ll get? Fifty-pound fine?”

“Payable at a pound a week directly out of my account.”

“But if I give them this photo—and all the others I’ve got—suddenly it’s looking more like jail, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with confidence.

She nodded. “Because you’ve been inside more than once. But there’s time,” she paused, “and then there’s
time
.”

“Eh?”

“A word from me, and suddenly the screws aren’t so friendly. There are wings they can put you on where only the bad men go: sex offenders, psychopaths, lifers with nothing to lose. Your record says you’ve done juvenile time, open prisons with day release. See, the reason you say you can handle it is that you haven’t had to
try
.”

“All this because your mum got in the way of a swing?”

“All this,” she corrected him, “because I
can
. Tell you something though—your pal Tench knew about this last night, funny he didn’t think to warn you.”

The teenager in charge of the hall was getting a text message. He called across to them: “Hey, lovebirds—boss wants a word.”

Carberry tore his eyes away from Siobhan. “What?”

“Boss.” The teenager was pointing to a door marked
PRIVATE
. Above it, screwed to the wall, sat a surveillance camera.

“I think we better oblige,” Siobhan said, “don’t you?” She led him toward the door and tugged it open. Hallway behind it, and stairs leading up. The roof space had become an office: desk, chairs, filing cabinet. Broken cues and an empty water cooler. Light coming in through two dusty skylights.

And Big Ger Cafferty waiting for them.

“You must be Keith,” he said, holding out a hand. Carberry shook it, his eyes flitting between the gangster and Siobhan. “Maybe you know who I am?” Carberry hesitated, then nodded. “Of course you do.” Cafferty gestured for the young man to sit. Siobhan stayed on her feet.

“You own this place?” Carberry asked with the slightest of tremors.

“Have done for years.”

“What about Lonnie?”

“Dead before you were born, son.” Cafferty brushed a hand over one of his trouser legs, as if he’d found some chalk dust there. “Now, Keith...I hear good things about you—but seems to me you’ve been led astray. Got to get back on the strait and narrow before it’s too late. Mum worries about you...dad’s lost the plot now he can’t hit you without getting hit twice as hard back. Older brother already in Shotts for thieving cars.” Cafferty gave a slow shake of his head. “It’s like your life’s mapped out, nothing you can do but go along with it.” He paused. “But we can change that, Keith, if you’re willing to let us help.”

Carberry looked confused. “Am I getting a whipping or what?”

Cafferty shrugged. “We can arrange that, too, of course—nothing DS Clarke here would like better than to see you cry like a baby. Only fair, when you think what you did to her mum.” Another pause. “But then there’s the alternative.”

Siobhan shifted a little, part of her wanting to haul Carberry out of there, getting both of them away from Cafferty’s hypnotic voice. The gangster seemed to sense this and shifted his gaze to her for a moment, awaiting her decision.

“What alternative?” Keith Carberry was asking. Cafferty didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on Siobhan.

“Gareth Tench,” she explained to the young man. “We want him.”

“And you, Keith,” Cafferty added, “are going to deliver.”

“Deliver?”

Siobhan noticed that Carberry’s legs were all but refusing to hold him up. He was terrified of Cafferty; terrified of her, too, most probably.

You wanted this,
she told herself.

“Tench is using you, Keith,” Cafferty was saying, his voice as soft as a bedtime lullaby. “He’s not your friend, never has been.”

“Never said he was,” the youth felt compelled to argue.

“Good lad.” Cafferty was rising slowly to his feet, almost as wide as the desk he now stood behind. “Just keep telling yourself that,” he advised. “It’ll make everything so much easier when the time comes.”

“Time?” Carberry echoed.

“To turn him over to
us
.”

“Sorry about earlier,” Rebus told Stan Hackman.

“What was I interrupting?”

“A whipping from my chief constable.”

Hackman laughed. “You’re a man after my own heart, Johnny boy. But why did I have to become your sweetheart?” He held up a hand. “No, let me guess. You didn’t want him to know it was business...meaning you’re not supposed to
have
any business—am I right?”

“I’ve been suspended,” Rebus confirmed. Hackman clapped his hands together and laughed again. They were sitting in a pub called the Crags. It had just opened, and they were the only customers. It was the nearest watering hole to Pollock Halls and catered to students with its array of video and board games, a sound system, and cheap burgers.