She didn’t reply. Walked to the big tent and someone poured her a cup of chamomile. She was outside again, blowing on it, when she saw that Tench had been joined by someone with a handheld tape machine. She recognized the journalist, used to be pals with Rebus…Mairie Henderson, that was the name. Siobhan moved closer and heard Tench talking about the area.
“G8’s all fine and well, but the executive should be looking a damn sight closer to home. Kids here, they can’t see any sort of a future. Investment, infrastructure, industry-what we need here is the rebuilding of a shattered community. Blight’s destroyed this place, but blight is reversible. An injection of aid, and these kids will have something to be proud of, something to keep them busy and productive. Like the slogan says, it’s fine and dandy to think global…but we shouldn’t forget to act local. Thank you very much.”
And he was moving again, shaking another hand, rubbing another child’s head. The reporter had spotted Siobhan and came bounding over to her, holding out the tape machine.
“Care to add a police perspective, DS Clarke?”
“No.”
“I hear that’s two nights running you’ve been here. What’s the attraction?”
“I’m not in the mood, Mairie.” Siobhan paused. “You’re really going to write a story about this?”
“Eyes of the world are on us.” She shut off the machine. “Tell John I hope he got the package.”
“What package?”
“The stuff about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster. Still not sure what he thinks he can make of it.”
“He’ll come up with something.”
Mairie nodded. “Just hope he remembers me when he does.” She was studying Siobhan’s cup. “Is that tea? I’m gasping.”
“From the tent,” Siobhan said, nodding in that direction. “It’s a bit weak though. Tell them you want it strong.”
“Thanks,” the reporter said, moving away.
“Don’t mention it,” Siobhan said quietly, pouring the contents of her cup onto the ground.
The Live 8 concert was on the late-night news. Not just London, but Philadelphia and the Eden Project and elsewhere. Viewing figures in the hundreds of millions, and worries that with the concert running over, the crowds would be forced to sleep outside for a night.
“Tut-tut,” Rebus said, draining the dregs from a last can of beer. The Make Poverty History march was on the screen now, a noisy celeb stating that he just felt the need to be “here on this day, making history by helping make poverty a thing of the past.” Rebus flipped to Channel 5-Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. He didn’t understand the title: wasn’t every victim special? But then he thought of Cyril Colliar and realized the answer was no.
Cyril Colliar, muscle for Big Ger Cafferty. Looking like a targeted hit at first, but now almost certainly not. Wrong place, wrong time.
Trevor Guest…so far only a piece of plastic, but all those coded numbers would yield an identity. Rebus had been through the phone book for Guests, found almost twenty. Called half of those, with only four answering-and none of them knew a Trevor.
Keogh’s Garage…There were a dozen Keoghs in the Edinburgh phone book, but by then Rebus had given up on the notion that all three victims would be from the city. Draw a wide enough circumference around Auchterarder and you would take in Dundee and Stirling as easily as Edinburgh – Glasgow and Aberdeen, too, at a push. The victims could have come from anywhere. Nothing to be done about it till Monday.
Nothing except sit and brood, drinking beers and making a sortie to the corner shop for an oven-ready dinner of Lincolnshire sausage with onion gravy and Parmesan mash. Plus four more beers. The people lining up at the register had smiled at him. They were still dressed in their white T-shirts. They were talking about the “whole amazing afternoon.”
Rebus had nodded his agreement.
One autopsy on a member of parliament. Three victims of some anonymous killer.
Somehow, amazing didn’t quite do it justice.
SIDE TWO. Dance with the Devil
Sunday, July 3, 2005
6
So how was The Who?” Siobhan asked. It was late morning on Sunday, and she’d invited Rebus over for brunch. His contribution: a packet of sausages and four floury rolls. She’d put them to one side and made scrambled eggs instead, topping each helping with slices of smoked salmon and a few capers.
“The Who was good,” Rebus said, using his fork to maneuver the capers to the side of his plate.
“You should try one,” she admonished him. He wrinkled his nose and ignored the advice.
“Floyd was good, too,” he told her. “No major fallings-out.” They were facing each other across the small foldaway table in her living room. She lived in a tenement just off Broughton Street, five minutes’ walk from Gayfield Square. “What about you?” he asked, looking around the room. “No signs of Saturday-night debauchery.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Her smile grew thoughtful, and she told him about Niddrie.
“Lucky to get out in one piece,” Rebus commented.
“Your friend Mairie was there, writing a piece on Councilman Tench. She said something about some notes she’d sent you…”
“Richard Pennen and Ben Webster,” he confirmed.
“So are you getting anywhere?”
“Onward and upward, Shiv. I also tried phoning a few Guests and Keoghs-with nothing to show for it. Might as well have been chasing a few hoods around the houses.” He’d cleared his plate-capers aside-and was leaning back in his chair. Wanted a cigarette but knew he should wait till she’d finished eating. “Oh, and I had an interesting encounter myself, as it happens.”
So he told her about Cafferty, and by the time he was done her plate was empty.
“He’s the last thing we need,” she said, rising to her feet. Rebus made the beginnings of an offer to clear the table, but she nodded toward the window instead. Smiling, he made his way over and eased it open. Cool air wafted in and he crouched down, lighting up. Made sure to direct the smoke through the gap; held the cigarette out of the window between puffs.
Siobhan’s rules.
“More coffee?” she called.
“Keep it coming,” he answered.
She came in from the kitchen carrying a fresh pot. “There’s another march later on,” she said. “Stop the War Coalition.”
“Bit late for all that, I’d have thought.”
“And the G8 Alternatives…George Galloway’s going to be speaking.”
Rebus gave a snort, stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. Siobhan had wiped clean the table, lifted one of the boxes onto it. The boxes she’d asked Rebus to bring.
The Cyril Colliar case.
The offer of double pay-sanctioned by James Corbyn-had persuaded the Scene of Crime Unit to put a team together. They were on their way to the Clootie Well. Siobhan had warned them to keep a low profile: “Don’t want local CID getting sniffy.” Advised that SOCOs from Stirling had covered the same area two days before, one of the Edinburgh team had given a chuckle.
“Time we let the grown-ups try it then” was all he’d said.
