Lawnmarket, you climbed a gentle slope to its entrance, with little hint of its enormous presence.
The drive from Gayfield Square had almost stymied Rebus. Uniformed cops hadn’t wanted to let him use Waverley Bridge. A great grinding and clanking of metal as the barriers were dragged into position for tomorrow’s march. He’d sounded his horn, ignoring gestures that he should find another route. When one officer had approached, Rebus had rolled down the window and shown his ID.
“This route’s closed,” the man stated. English accent, maybe Lancashire.
“I’m CID,” Rebus told him. “And behind me there’s going to be maybe an ambulance, a pathologist, and a Scene of Crime van. Want to tell them the same story?”
“What’s happened?”
“Someone’s just landed in the gardens.” Rebus nodded toward the castle.
“Bloody protesters…one got stuck on the rocks earlier. Fire brigade had to winch him down.”
“Well, much as I’d like nothing better than a chat…”
The officer scowled but moved the barrier aside.
Now another barrier had placed itself in front of Rebus: Commander David Steelforth.
“This is a dangerous game, Inspector. Better left to those of us specializing in intelligence.”
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “You calling me thick?”
A short, barked laugh. “Not at all.”
“Good.” Rebus moved past him again. He saw where he was supposed to go. Military guards peering over the edge of the battlements. A cluster of elderly and distinguished-looking men, dressed for dinner, lurked nearby, smoking cigars.
“This where he fell?” Rebus asked the guards. He had his ID open but had decided not to identify himself as civilian police.
“Must be about the spot,” someone answered.
“Anyone see it?”
There were shakes of the head. “There was an incident earlier,” the same soldier said. “Some idiot got stuck. We were warned more of them might try.”
“And?”
“And Private Andrews thought he saw something round the other side.”
“I said I wasn’t sure,” Andrews said, defending himself.
“So you all skedaddled to the other side of the castle?” Rebus made a show of sucking in breath. “That used to be called deserting your post.”
“Detective Inspector Rebus has no jurisdiction here,” Steelforth was telling the group.
“And that would have counted as treason,” Rebus warned him.
“Do we know who’s unaccounted for?” one of the older men was asking.
Rebus heard another car making for the portcullis. Headlights threw wild shadows across the wall ahead. “Hard to say, with everyone running off,” he said quietly.
“No one’s running off,” Steelforth snapped.
“Just a bunch of prior engagements?” Rebus guessed.
“These are hellish busy people, Inspector. Decisions are being made that may change the world.”
“Won’t change whatever happened to the poor guy down there.” Rebus nodded toward the wall, then turned to face Steelforth. “So what was going on here tonight, Commander?”
“Discussions over dinner. Moves toward ratification.”
“Good news for all rats. What about the guests?”
“G8 representatives-foreign ministers, security personnel, senior civil servants.”
“Probably rules out pizza and a case or two of beer.”
“A lot gets done at these get-togethers.”
Rebus was peering over the edge. He’d never much liked heights and didn’t linger. “Can’t see a damned thing,” he said.
“We heard him,” one of the soldiers said.
“Heard what exactly?” Rebus asked.
“The scream as he fell.” He looked around at his comrades for support. One of them nodded.
“Seemed to scream all the way down,” he added with a shiver.
“Wonder if that rules out suicide,” Rebus speculated. “What do you think, Commander?”
“I think there’s nothing for you to learn here, Inspector. I also think it odd that you seem to pop up like this whenever there’s bad news to find.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” Rebus said, eyes boring into Steelforth’s, “about you…”
The search party had comprised yellow-jacketed officers from barricade duty. Outfitted with flashlights, they hadn’t taken long. Paramedics declared the man dead, though anyone could have done the job. Neck twisted at an unnatural angle; one leg folded in half from the impact; blood seeping from the skull. He had lost a shoe on the way down and his shirt had been ripped open, probably by an overhang. Police HQ had spared a single SOCO, who was photographing the body.
“Want to place a small wager on cause of death?” the SOCO asked Rebus.
“Not a chance, Tam.” Tam the SOCO had not lost a bet like that in fifty or sixty cases.
“Did he jump or was he pushed, that’s what you’re asking yourself.”
“You’re a mind reader, Tam. Do you do palms as well?”
“No, but I take photos of them.” And to prove his point, he got close up to one of the victim’s hands. “Nicks and scratches can be very useful, John. Know why?”
“Impress me.”
“If he’s been pushed, he’ll have scrabbled for purchase, clawed at the sides of the rock.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The SOCO let off another flash. “His name’s Ben Webster.” He turned to gauge Rebus’s reaction, seemed satisfied with the result. “I recognize his face-what’s left of it anyway.”
“You know him?”
“I know who he is. Member of parliament from up Dundee way.”
“The Scottish parliament?”
Tam shook his head. “The one in London. He’s something to do with international development-leastways, he was last time I looked.”
“Tam…” Rebus sounded exasperated. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Got to keep up with politics, John. It’s what makes the wheels turn. And besides, our young friend here shares a name with my favorite tenor saxophone player.”
Rebus was already tottering back down the grassy slope. The body had come to rest against a shelf of rock fifteen feet above one of the narrow paths that snaked around the base of the ancient volcanic plug. Steelforth was on the path itself, taking a call on his cell. He flipped the phone shut as Rebus neared.
“Remember,” Rebus reminded him, “how we saw the foreign secretary leaving in his chauffeured car? Funny that he’d go without one of his men.”
“Ben Webster,” Steelforth stated. “That was the castle on the phone; seems he’s the only one missing.”
“International development.”
“You’re well informed, Inspector.” Steelforth made a show of looking Rebus up and down. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you. But international development is a separate department from the F.O. Webster was PPS- parliamentary private secretary.”
“Meaning what?”
“The minister’s right-hand man.”
“Excuse my ignorance.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m still impressed.”
“Is this where you make an offer to keep me off your back?”
Steelforth smiled. “That’s usually not necessary.”
“Might be in my case.”
But Steelforth was shaking his head. “I doubt you can be bought in that particular way. Nevertheless, we both know this will be wrenched from your hands in the next few hours, so why waste energy? Battlers like yourself
