casual, unsure how many questions he’d get away with. “Was he paying by credit card, Sara?”
She studied her screen. “All charges to-” She broke off, aware that the concierge was approaching.
“All charges to…?” Rebus nudged.
“Inspector,” the concierge was calling, sensing something was going on.
Sara’s phone was ringing. She lifted the receiver. “Reception,” she trilled. “Oh, hello, Angela. There’s another policeman here…”
Another?
“Will you come down, or shall I send him up?”
The concierge was behind Rebus now. “I’ll take the inspector up,” he told Sara.
Another policeman…Up…Rebus was getting a bad feeling. When the elevator doors signaled that they were opening, he turned toward the sound. Watched David Steelforth step out. The Special Branch man gave the beginnings of a smile as he shook his head slowly. His meaning couldn’t have been clearer: Buddy, you’re not getting anywhere near room 214. Rebus turned round and grabbed the computer monitor, swiveling it toward him. The concierge locked on to his arm. Sara gave a little shriek into the telephone, probably deafening the manager. Steelforth bounded forward to join the fray.
“That’s definitely out of order,” the concierge hissed. His grip was vise-like. Rebus decided the man had seen some action in his time; decided not to make an issue of it. He lifted his hand from the monitor. Sara swung it back toward her.
“You can let go now,” Rebus said. The concierge released his grip. Sara was staring at him in shock, the phone still held in one hand. Rebus turned to Steelforth.
“You’re going to tell me I can’t see room two fourteen.”
“Not at all.” Steelforth’s smile broadened. “But the manager is. That’s her prerogative, after all.”
As if on command, Sara put the phone to her ear. “She’s on her way,” she said.
“I’ll bet she is.” Rebus’s eyes were still on Steelforth, but there was another figure a little way behind him: Siobhan. “Bar still open, is it?” Rebus asked the concierge. The man desperately wanted to say no, but the lie would have been blatant. He gave a little nod instead. “I won’t ask you to join me,” Rebus said to Steelforth. He brushed past both men and climbed the steps to the Palm Court. Stood at the bar and waited for Siobhan to catch up. He took a deep breath and reached into his jacket for a cigarette.
“Little problem with the management?” Siobhan asked.
“You saw our friend from SO12?”
“Nice perks they get in Special Branch.”
“I don’t know if he’s staying here, but a guy called Ben Webster was.”
“The Labor MP?”
“That’s the one.”
“I feel there’s a story behind this.” Her shoulders seemed to slump a little, and Rebus remembered that she, too, had had adventures this evening.
“You go first,” he insisted. The barman had placed bowls of nibbles in front of them. “ Highland Park for me,” Rebus told him. “Vodka tonic for the lady.” Siobhan nodded her agreement. As the barman turned away, Rebus reached for one of the paper napkins. Took a pen from his pocket and jotted something down. Siobhan angled her head to get a better look.
“Who or what is Pennen Industries?”
“Whoever they are, they’ve got deep pockets and a London postal code.” From the corner of his eye, Rebus could see Steelforth watching from the doorway. He made a show of waving the napkin at him before folding and pocketing it.
“So who was it that attacked your car-CND, Greenpeace, Stop the War?”
“Niddrie,” Siobhan stated. “More specifically, the Niddrie Young Team.”
“Think we can persuade the G8 to list them as a terror cell?”
“Few thousand marines would sort things nicely.”
“Sadly, however, Niddrie has yet to strike oil.” Rebus reached a hand out toward the tumbler of whiskey. Slightest of tremors, that was all. Toasted his drinking partner, the G8, and the marines…and would have toasted Steelforth, too.
Had the doorway not been empty.
Saturday, July 2, 2005
3
Rebus awoke to daylight and realized he hadn’t closed the curtains the previous night. The TV was showing early-morning news. Seemed mostly to be about the concert in Hyde Park. They were talking to the organizers. No mention of Edinburgh. He switched it off and went into the bedroom. Changed out of the previous day’s clothes and into a short-sleeved shirt and chinos. Splashed some water on his face, studied the results, and knew he needed something more. Grabbed his keys and phone-he’d left it charging overnight; couldn’t have been that drunk-and left his apartment. Down two flights of stairs to the tenement’s main door. His area of town, Marchmont, was a student enclave, the upside of which was that it was quiet during the summer. He’d watched them pour out at the end of June, loading cars belonging to them or their parents, stuffing duvets into the chinks of spare space. There had been parties to celebrate the end of exams, meaning Rebus had twice had to remove traffic cones from the roof of his car. He stood now on the pavement and sucked in what was left of the overnight chill, then headed for Marchmont Road, where the local market was just opening. A couple of single-decker buses trundled past. Rebus thought they must be lost, until he remembered. And now he could hear it: workmen’s hammers, a PA system being tested. He paid the shopkeeper and unscrewed the top from the Irn-Bru bottle. Downed it in one, which was fine; he’d added a backup of the soda to his purchases. Unpeeled and ate the banana as he walked-not straight back home, but down to the bottom of Marchmont Road, where it connected with the Meadows. The Meadows had been just that, several centuries back: meadowland on the outskirts of the city, Marchmont itself not much more than a farm with surrounding fields. Nowadays the Meadows was used for games of soccer and cricket, for jogging or picnics.
But not today.
Melville Drive had already been cordoned off, turning an important traffic artery into a bus lot. There were dozens of them, stretching to the curve of the road and beyond, three abreast in some places. They were from Derby and Macclesfield and Hull, Swansea and Ripon, Carlisle and Epping. People dressed in white were getting off. White: Rebus remembered that everyone had been asked to wear the same color. It meant that when they marched around the city, they would create a vast and visible ribbon. He checked his own clothes: the chinos were fawn, the shirt pale blue.
Thank Christ for that.
A lot of the bus people looked elderly, some quite frail. But they all sported their wristbands and their sloganed shirts. Some carried homemade banners. They looked delighted to be there. Farther along, marquees had been constructed. Vans were arriving, ready to sell fries and meat-free burgers to the hungry masses. Stages had been erected, and there was a display of huge wooden jigsaw pieces laid out next to a series of cranes. It took Rebus only a matter of seconds to spell out the words MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. There were uniformed cops in the vicinity, but nobody Rebus knew; probably not even local. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine, another three hours till kickoff. Hardly a cloud in the sky. A police van had decided that its quickest route would entail mounting the curb, forcing Rebus to backtrack onto the grass. He scowled at the driver, who returned the look. The side window opened.
“What’s your problem, granddad?”
Rebus made a rude gesture, willing the driver to stop. The pair of them could have a nice little chat. But the van had other ideas; it kept moving. Rebus finished his banana, thought about dropping the skin but figured he’d be pounced on by the Recycling Police. Headed over to a trash can instead.
“Here you go,” a young woman said, smiling and holding out a plastic bag. Rebus looked inside: a couple of
