The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (36 page)

Molly was standing next to Rebus. He hadn’t noticed her ending her routine. “Give me two minutes to throw a coat on, and I’ll see you outside.” He nodded distractedly.

“Penny for them,” she said, suddenly curious.

“Just thinking about how sex has changed over the years. We used to be such a shy wee nation.”

“And now?”

The dancer was gyrating her hips mere inches from her victim’s nose.

“Now,” Rebus mused, “it’s...well...”

“In your face?” she offered.

He nodded his agreement, and placed the empty glass back on the bar.

She offered him a cigarette from her own pack. She’d wrapped a long black woolen coat around her and was leaning against one of the Nook’s walls, just far enough from the doormen for eavesdropping to be a problem.

“You don’t smoke in the apartment,” Rebus commented.

“Eric’s allergic.”

“It was Eric I wanted to speak to you about, actually.” Rebus was making a show of examining his cigarette’s glowing tip.

“What about him?” She shuffled her feet and Rebus noticed she’d exchanged the stilettos for sneakers.

“When we talked before, you said he knows how you go about earning a wage. You even told me he’d been a customer at one point.”

“And?”

Rebus shrugged. “I don’t really want him getting hurt, which is why I think maybe you should leave him.”

“Leave him?”

“So I don’t have to tell him that you’ve been milking him for inside info, and passing everything he tells you back to your boss. See, I’ve just been talking to Cafferty, and it suddenly clicked. He’s known stuff he shouldn’t, stuff he’s been getting from the inside, and who knows more than someone like Brains?”

She snorted. “You call him Brains...why don’t you start crediting him with some?”

“How do you mean?”

“You think I’m the big bad hooker, wheedling stuff out of the poor sap.” She rubbed a finger across her top lip.

“I’d go a bit further actually—seems to me you’re only living with Eric because Cafferty tells you to—probably feeds that coke habit of yours to make it all worthwhile. First time we met, I thought it was just nerves.”

She didn’t bother denying it.

“Soon as Eric stops being useful,” Rebus went on, “you’ll drop him like a stone. My advice is to do that right now.”

“Like I said, Rebus, Eric’s no idiot. He’s known all along what the score is.”

Rebus narrowed his eyes. “In the apartment, you said you stopped him taking job offers—how will he feel when he finds out that was because he’d be no use to your boss in the private sector?”

“He tells me stuff because he
wants
to,” she went on, “and he knows damned fine where it’ll end up.”

“Classic honey trap,” Rebus muttered.

“Once you get a taste...” she said teasingly.

“You’re still going to walk away from him,” he demanded.

“Or what?” Her eyes burned into him. “You’ll go tell him something he already knows?”

“Sooner or later, Cafferty’s walking the plank—you really want to be there with him?”

“I’m a good swimmer.”

“It’s not water you’ll end up in, Molly—it’s jail. Time inside will play havoc with those looks, I guarantee it. See, slipping confidential info to a criminal is just about as serious as it gets.”

“You sell me out, Rebus, Eric gets sold out, too. So much for protecting him.”

“Price has to be paid.” Rebus flicked away the remains of the cigarette. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll be talking to him. Your bags had better be packed.”

“What if Mr. Cafferty doesn’t agree?”

“He will. Once your cover’s blown, CID could be feeding you any amount of manure dressed as caviar. Cafferty takes one bite, and we’ve got him.”

Her eyes were still fixed on his. “So why aren’t you doing that?”

“Sting operation means telling the brass...and that really would be the end of Eric’s career. You walk away now, I get Eric back. Too many lives shat on by your boss, Molly. I just want a few of them sluiced down.” He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, opened the pack, and offered her one. “So what do you say?”

“Time’s up,” one of the doormen called, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Clients three-deep in there.”

She looked at Rebus. “Time’s up,” she echoed, turning toward the backstage door. Rebus watched her go, lit himself another cigarette, and decided the walk home across the Meadows would do him good.

His phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He picked it up from the chair.

“Rebus,” he said.

“It’s me,” Ellen Wylie said. “What the hell’s been happening?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had Siobhan on the phone. I don’t know what you’ve been saying to her, but she’s in a hell of a state.”

“Gareth Tench is dead.”

“It was me who told you, remember?”

“She thinks she should take some of the blame.”

“I tried telling her she’s crazy.”

“That’ll have helped.” Rebus started turning on the lights. He wanted them all on—not just the living room, but the hall and the kitchen, the bathroom and his bedroom.

“She sounded pretty pissed off with you.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”

“I spent twenty minutes calming her down!” Wylie yelled. “Don’t you dare start accusing me of enjoying any of this!”

“Sorry, Ellen.” Rebus meant it, too. He sat on the edge of the bath, shoulders slumped, phone tucked in against his chin.

“We’re all tired, John, that’s the trouble.”

“I think my troubles go just that little bit deeper, Ellen.”

“So go beat yourself up about it—wouldn’t be the first time.”

He puffed air from his cheeks. “So what’s the bottom line with Siobhan?”

“Maybe give her a day to calm down. I told her she should drive up to T in the Park, let off some steam.”

“Not a bad idea.” Except that his own weekend plans included the Borders...looked like he’d be heading south unaccompanied. No way he could invite Ellen—didn’t want it getting back to Siobhan.

“At least we can rule Tench out as a suspect,” Wylie was saying.

“Maybe.”

“Siobhan said you’d be arresting some kid from Niddrie?”

“Probably already in custody.”

“So it has nothing to do with the Clootie Well or BeastWatch?”

“Coincidence, that’s all.”

“So what happens now?”

“Your notion of a weekend break sounds good. Everybody’s back to work on Monday...we can organize a proper murder inquiry.”

“You won’t be needing me then?”

“There’s a place for you if you want it, Ellen. You’ve got a whole forty-eight hours to think it over.”

“Thanks, John.”

“But do me a favor...give Siobhan a call tomorrow. Let her know I’m worried.”

“Worried
and
sorry?”

“I’ll leave the wording to you. Night, Ellen.” He ended the call and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He was surprised not to see scourge marks and raw flesh. Looked much the same as ever: sallow and needing a shave, hair unkempt, bags under his eyes. He gave his cheeks a few slaps and headed through to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee—black; the milk had decided it was sour—and ended up seated at the dining table in the living room. The same faces stared down at him from his walls:

Cyril Colliar.

Trevor Guest.

Edward Isley.

He knew that on TV the main topic would still be the London bombs. Experts would be debating What Could Have Been Done and What to Do Next. All other news would have been pushed aside. Yet he still had his three unsolved murders—which were actually
Siobhan’s
now that he thought of it. Chief constable had put
her
in charge. Then there was Ben Webster, receding into obscurity with each turn of the news cycle.

Nobody’d blame you for coasting
...

Nobody but the dead.

He rested his head on his folded arms. Saw the well-fed Cafferty descending that million-pound staircase. Saw Siobhan falling for his tricks. Saw Cyril Colliar doing his dirty work and Keith Carberry doing his dirty work and Molly and Eric Bain doing his dirty work. Cafferty coming downstairs, perfumed from the shower, smelling sweeter than any nosegay.

Cafferty the mobster knew Steelforth’s name.

Cafferty the author had met Richard Pennen.

Who else...?

Who else have you talked to...?

Cafferty with his tongue protruding...
Maybe Siobhan herself
...

No, not Siobhan. Rebus had seen the way she acted at the murder scene—she hadn’t known a thing.

Which didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Hadn’t wished it into existence by letting her eyes meet Cafferty’s for just that second too long. Rebus heard a plane climbing into the sky from the west. There weren’t many late flights out of Edinburgh. He wondered if maybe it was Tony Blair or some of his minions. Thank you, Scotland, and good night. The summit would have enjoyed the best the country had to offer—scenery, whiskey, ambience, food. The morsels turning to ash as that red London bus exploded. And meantime three bad men had died...and one good man—Ben Webster—and one Rebus wasn’t sure about even now. Gareth Tench might have been acting from the best of motives, but with his conscience hammered into submission by circumstance.

Or he could have been on the cusp of wrenching away Cafferty’s tarnished crown.

Rebus doubted he would ever know for sure. He stared at the phone lying in front of him on the dining table. Seven digits and he’d be connected to Siobhan’s apartment. Seven tiny points of pressure on the keypad. How could something be so difficult?

“What makes you think she’s not better off without you?” he found himself asking the silver lozenge. It replied with a bleep, and his head twitched upward. He snatched at it, but all it was trying to tell him was that its battery was low.

“No lower than mine,” he muttered, rising slowly to his feet to seek out the charger. He’d just plugged it in when it rang: Mairie Henderson.

“Evening, Mairie,” Rebus said.

“John? Where are you?”

“At home. What’s the problem?”

“Can I e-mail you something? It’s the story I’m writing on Richard Pennen.”

“You need my proofreading skills?”

“I just want—”

“What’s happened, Mairie?”

“I had a run-in with three of Pennen’s goons. They were wearing uniforms, but they were no more cops than I am.”

Rebus eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. “One of them called Jacko?”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve met them, too. What happened?”

She told him, adding her suspicion that they might have spent time in Iraq.

“And now you’re scared?” Rebus guessed. “That’s why you want to make sure there are copies of your piece?”

“I’m sending out a few...”

“But not to other journalists, right?”

“Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”

“No copyright on scandal,” Rebus agreed. “Do you want to take things any further?”

“How do you mean?”

“You were right the first time—impersonating a cop
is
a serious matter.”

“Once I’ve filed my copy, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, but thanks for asking.”

“If you need me, Mairie, you’ve got my number.”

“Thanks, John. Good night.”

She ended the call and left him staring at his phone. The charge symbol came on again, the battery taking its little sips of electricity. Rebus walked to the dining table and switched on his laptop. Plugged the cable into the phone socket and managed to get himself online. It never ceased to amaze him when it actually worked. Her e-mail was waiting for him. He clicked to download it and added her story to one of his folders, hoping he’d be able to find it again. There was another e-mail, this time from Stan Hackman.

Better late than never,
it read.
Here I am back in the Toon and about to hit a few nightspots. Just time to let you know about our Trev. Interview notes say he moved to Coldstream for a time—don’t say why or for how long. Hope this helps. Your pal, Stan.

Coldstream—same place as the man he’d had the fight with outside Swany’s on Ratcliffe Terrace...

“Clickety-click,” Rebus said to himself, deciding he was owed a drink.

Saturday, July 9, 2005

25

O
nly a week since Rebus had walked down to the Meadows and found all those people there, dressed in white.

A long time in politics, so the saying went. Every moment of every day, life moved on. The hordes of people making the pilgrimage north today would be headed for the outskirts of Kinross and T in the Park. Sports fans would venture farther west, to Loch Lomond and the final rounds of the Scottish Open golf championship. Rebus figured his own route south would take under two hours, but there were a couple of detours first—Slateford Road to start with. He sat in the idling car, staring up at the windows of the converted warehouse. Thought he could tell Eric Bain’s flat. The curtains were open. Rebus was playing the Elbow CD again, the singer comparing the leaders of the free world to kids chucking stones. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Bain himself shambling into view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in. He carried a carton of milk and wore a dazed expression. In most people, Rebus might have put it down to tiredness. He rolled down his window and sounded the horn. Bain took a second or two to recognize him and crossed the road toward the car.

“Thought that was you,” Rebus stated. Bain said nothing, just nodded, mind elsewhere. “She’s left you then?” This seemed to focus Bain’s thoughts.

“Left a message saying someone would come by to pick up her stuff.”

Rebus nodded. “Get in, Eric. We need to have a little chat.”

But Bain stood his ground. “How did you know?”

“Talk to anyone, Eric, they’ll tell you I’m the last one who should be giving relationship advice—” Rebus paused. “On the other hand, we can’t have you passing inside information to Big Ger Cafferty.”

Bain stared at him. “You...?”

“I had a word with Molly last night. If she’s scampered, that means she’d rather keep working at the Nook than stay shacked up with you.”

“I don’t...I’m not sure I...” Bain’s eyes widened as though lit by a jolt of caffeine. The milk carton fell from his grasp. His hands reached in through the window and found Rebus’s throat. His teeth were bared with the effort. Rebus pushed himself back toward the passenger seat, one hand scrabbling at Bain’s fingers, the other finding the window button. Up went the glass, trapping Bain. Rebus slid all the way over to the passenger side and exited the car. Walked around to where Bain was extracting his arms from the door frame. As Bain turned, Rebus kneed him in the crotch, sending him down onto his knees in the widening pool of milk. Rebus swung a punch at Bain’s chin and sent him onto his back. Straddled him, holding his shirt by its open collar.

“
Your
fault, Eric, not mine. One whiff of pussy and you start spilling your guts. And according to your ‘girlfriend’ you were delighted to oblige, even after you’d figured out it wasn’t just natural curiosity on her part. Made you feel important, did it? That’s the reason most informers start gabbing.”

Bain wasn’t putting up any sort of a struggle, apart from a jerking of his shoulders—and even this fell far short of resistance. In point of fact, he was sobbing, face spattered with droplets of milk, like a kid whose favorite plaything had just been lost. Rebus rose to his feet, straightening his own clothes.

“Get up,” he ordered. But Bain seemed content to lie there, so Rebus hauled him to his feet. “Look at me, Eric,” he said, drawing out a handkerchief and holding it out. “Here, wipe your face.”

Bain did as he was told. There was a bubble of snot swelling from one of his nostrils.

“Now listen,” Rebus ordered. “The deal I made with her was that if she left, we’d let it go at that. Meaning I don’t go telling Fettes about any of this—and you get to keep your job.” Rebus angled his face until Bain met his eyes. “Do you understand?”

“Plenty more jobs.”

“In IT? Sure, and they all love an employee who can’t keep secrets from strippers.”

“I loved her, Rebus.”

“Maybe so, but she was playing you like Clapton with a six-string...What’re you smiling at?”

“I’m named after him...my dad’s a fan.”

“Is that a fact?”

Bain looked up at the sky, his breathing slowing a little. “I really thought she—”

“Cafferty was using you, Eric—end of story. But here’s the thing...” Rebus made sure he had eye contact. “You can’t go near her, you don’t go to the Nook pining for her. She’s sending someone for her stuff because she knows that’s how it works.” Rebus emphasized his point by chopping the air karate-style with his hand.

“You saw her that day in the apartment, Rebus. She must’ve liked me at least a little bit.”

“Keep thinking that if you like...just don’t go asking her. If I hear you’re trying to contact her, don’t think I won’t tell Corbyn.”

Bain mumbled something Rebus didn’t catch. He asked him to repeat it. Bain’s eyes drilled into him.

“It wasn’t about Cafferty at the start.”

“Whatever you say, Eric. But it
was
about him eventually...trust me on that.”

Bain was silent for a few moments. He stared down at the pavement. “I need more milk.”

“Best get yourself cleaned up first. Look, I’m heading out of town. You’re going to spend all day turning this over—what if I give you a ring tomorrow, you can let me know the score?”

Bain nodded slowly, tried handing Rebus back his handkerchief.

“You can keep that,” he was advised. “Got a friend you can talk to?”

“On the Net,” Bain said.

“Whatever works.” Rebus patted his shoulder. “Are you okay now? I need to get going.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Good boy.” Rebus took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Eric...but I’m sorry you had to get hurt.”

Bain nodded again. “It’s me who should—”

But Rebus silenced him with a shake of the head. “All in the past now. Just got to pick yourself up and move on.”

“No use crying over spilled milk?” Bain offered with an attempt at a smile.

“Been trying my damnedest not to say it these past ten minutes,” Rebus admitted. “Go stick your head under the shower, wash it all away.”

“Might not be that easy,” Bain said quietly.

Rebus nodded agreement. “But all the same...it’s a start.”

Siobhan had spent a good forty minutes soaking in the bath. Normally, she only had time for a shower in the morning, but today she was determined to pamper herself. About a third of a bottle of Space NK bath foam, and a big glass of fresh orange juice. BBC 6 music on her digital radio and her cell phone switched off. The ticket to T in the Park was on the sofa in the living room, next to a list of things she would need—bottled water and snacks, her fleece, suntan lotion (well, you never could tell). Last night she’d been on the verge of calling Bobby Greig and offering him her ticket. But why should she? If she didn’t go, she’d just end up slouched on the sofa with the TV playing. Ellen Wylie had called first thing, told her she’d been talking to Rebus.

“He’s sorry,” Ellen had reported.

“Sorry for what?”

“For anything and everything.”

“Nice of him to tell you instead of me.”

“My fault,” Ellen had admitted. “I said he should leave you in peace for a day or so.”

“Thanks. How’s Denise?”

“Still in bed. So what’s the plan for today? Bopping yourself into a sweat at Kinross, or would you rather we go somewhere and drown all our sorrows?”

“I’ll bear that offer in mind. But I think you’re right—Kinross might be just what I need.”

Not that she’d be staying the night. Although her ticket was valid for both days, she’d had quite enough of the outdoors life. She wondered if the dope dealer from Stirling would be there, plying his trade. Maybe this time she would decide to indulge, break yet another rule. She knew plenty of officers who did a bit of pot; had heard rumors of some who even did coke at weekends. All kinds of ways to unwind. She considered the options, and decided she’d better pack a couple of condoms, just in case she
did
end up in someone’s tent. She knew two women PCs who were heading to the festival. They were hoping to rendezvous with her by text message. A wild pair they were, with a crush on the front men with the Killers and Keane. They were already in Kinross—wanted to be sure of a place front of stage.

“You better text us when you get there,” they’d warned Siobhan. “Leave it too long, we might be in a sorry state.”

Sorry...

For anything and everything
.

But what had he to feel sorry about? Had he sat in the Bentley GT and listened to Cafferty’s plan? Had he climbed those stairs with Keith Carberry and stood with him as Cafferty held court? She screwed shut her eyes and ducked her head beneath the surface of the bathwater.

I’m to blame,
she thought. The words kept bouncing around the inside of her skull. Gareth Tench...so vividly alive, voice booming...charismatic like all the best showmen—just “happening along” to chase Carberry and his pals away, proving to the outside world that he was the only man for the job. A bravura con trick, finessing grant aid for his constituents. Larger than life and seemingly indefatigable...and now lying cold and naked in one of the drawers at the city morgue, turned into a series of incisions and statistics.

Someone had told her once: an inch-long blade was all it took. A single slender inch of tempered steel could knock the whole world out of kilter.

She heaved herself up into daylight, spluttering and wiping the hair and suds from her face. She’d thought she could hear a phone ringing, but there was nothing, just a floorboard creaking in the apartment upstairs. Rebus had told her to stay away from Cafferty, and he was right. If she lost it in front of Cafferty,
she’d
be the loser.

But then she was already the loser, wasn’t she?

“And so much fun to be around,” she muttered to herself, rising to a crouch and stretching out a hand toward the nearest towel.

It didn’t take her long to pack—same bag she’d taken with her to Stirling. And even though she wouldn’t be staying the night, she dropped in her toothbrush and toothpaste anyway. Maybe once she was in the car, she’d just keep on driving. If she ran out of land, she could always take a ferry to Orkney. That was the thing about a car—it gave the illusion of freedom. The ads always played on that sense of adventure and discovery, but in her case ” would be more accurate.

“Not doing that,” she explained to the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. She’d said as much to Rebus, told him she could take her own medicine.

Not that Cafferty was medicine—more like poison.

She knew the route she
should
take: go see James Corbyn and tell him how badly she’d messed up, then end up back in uniform as a result.

“I’m a good copper,” she told the mirror, trying to imagine how she would explain it to her dad...her dad who’d become so proud of her. And to her mother, who’d told her it didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter who’d hit her.

And just why had it mattered so much to Siobhan? Not really because of the anger at thinking it might be another cop, but because she could use it to prove she
was
good at her job.

“A good cop,” she repeated quietly. And then, wiping steam from the mirror: “Despite all the evidence to the contrary.”

Second and final detour: Craigmillar police station. McManus was already at work.

“Conscientious,” Rebus said, walking into the CID office. There was no else about as yet. McManus was dressed casually—sports shirt and denims.

“What does that make you?” McManus asked, wetting a finger so he could turn the page of the report he was reading.

“Autopsy results?” Rebus guessed.

McManus nodded. “I’m just back.”

“Déjà vu all over again,” Rebus commented. “I was in your shoes last Saturday—Ben Webster.”

“No wonder Professor Gates looked miffed—two Saturdays in a row.”

By now Rebus was standing next to McManus’s desk. “Any conclusions?”

“Serrated knife, seven eighths of an inch in width. Gates figures you’d find them in most kitchens.”

“He’s right. Is Keith Carberry still on the premises?”

“You know the drill, Rebus: after six hours, we charge or throw out.”

“Meaning you’ve not charged him?”

McManus looked up from the report. “He denies any involvement. Even has an alibi—he was playing pool at the time, seven or eight witnesses.”

“All of them doubtless good friends of his.”

McManus just shrugged. “Plenty of knives in his mum’s kitchen, but no sign any of them’s missing. We’ve lifted the lot for analysis.”

“And Carberry’s clothes?”

“Went through those, too. No traces of blood.”

“Meaning they’ve been disposed of, same as the knife.”

McManus leaned back in his chair. “Whose investigation is this, Rebus?”

Rebus held up his hands in surrender. “Just thinking aloud. Who was it interviewed Carberry?”

“I did it myself.”

“You think he’s guilty?”

“He seemed genuinely shocked when we told him about Tench. But just behind those nasty blue eyes of his, I thought I could see something else.”

“What?”

“He was scared.”

“Because he’d been found out?”

McManus shook his head. “Scared to say anything.”

Rebus turned away, not wanting McManus to see anything behind
his
eyes. Say Carberry didn’t do it...was Cafferty himself suddenly in the frame again? The young man scared because that was his thinking, too...and if Cafferty had struck at Tench, would Keith himself be next?

“Did you ask him about tailing the councilman?”

“Admitted waiting for him. Said he wanted to thank him.”

“For what?” Rebus turned to face McManus again.

“Moral support after he was bailed for fighting.”

Rebus gave a snort. “You believe that?”

“Not necessarily, but it wasn’t grounds to hold him indefinitely.” McManus paused. “Thing is...when we told him he could go, he was reluctant—tried not to show it, but he was. Looked to left and right as he walked out of the door, as though expecting something. Fairly hared away, too.” McManus paused again. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Rebus?”