“Close enough for you to go straight to him with the news about Colliar.”
“That was a promise of long standing-any new developments, he wanted to know. Don’t think I’m about to apologize.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed across the street. “What’s Gareth Tench doing here?”
“The councilman, you mean?” Rebus followed the path of her finger. “Preaching to the heathen, maybe,” he offered, watching as Tench shuffled along crablike behind the line of photographers. “Maybe he wants you to do another interview.”
“How did you know about…? I suppose Siobhan told you.”
“No secrets between Siobhan and me.” Rebus gave a wink.
“So where is she now?”
“She’s down at the Scotsman.”
“My eyes must be deceiving me then.” Mairie was pointing again. Sure enough, it was Siobhan, and Tench had stopped right in front of her, the two of them exchanging a handshake. “No secrets between you two, eh?”
But Rebus was already on his way. This end of the street had been closed to traffic, easy enough to cross.
“Hiya,” he said. “Sudden change of mind?”
Siobhan gave a little smile and introduced him to Tench.
“Inspector,” the councilman said with a bow of his head.
“You’re a fan of street theater, Councilman Tench?”
“I don’t mind it at festival time,” Tench said with a chuckle.
“Used to do a bit yourself, didn’t you?”
Tench turned to Siobhan. “The inspector means my little Sunday-morning sermons at the foot of the Mound. Doubtless he paused a moment on his way to Communion.”
“Don’t seem to see you there anymore,” Rebus added. “Did you lose your faith?”
“Far from it, Inspector. But there are ways of getting a point across besides preaching.” His face composed itself into a more serious professionalism. “I’m here because a couple of my constituents got caught up in all that trouble yesterday.”
“Innocent bystanders, I don’t doubt,” Rebus commented.
Tench’s eyes flitted to him, then back to Siobhan. “The inspector must be a joy to work with.”
“Nonstop laughs,” Siobhan agreed.
“Ah! And the Fourth Estate, too!” Tench exclaimed, holding out a hand toward Mairie, who’d finally decided to join them. “When is our article running? I’ll assume you know these two guardians of truth.” He gestured toward Rebus and Siobhan. “You did promise me a wee peek at the contents before publishing,” he reminded Mairie.
“Did I?” She was trying to look surprised. Tench wasn’t falling for it. He turned to the two detectives.
“I think I need to have a word in private…”
“Don’t mind us,” Rebus told him. “Siobhan and I need a minute too.”
“We do?” But Rebus had already turned away, leaving her little option but to follow.
“Sandy Bell’s will be open,” he told her, once they were out of earshot. But she was checking the crowd.
“Someone I need to see,” she explained. “Photographer I know…apparently he’s here somewhere.” She stood on tiptoe. “Ahh…” Pushed her way into the scrum of journalists. The photographers were checking the backs of each other’s cameras, examining the digital screens to see what they’d got. Rebus waited impatiently while Siobhan talked to a wiry figure with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. At least he had an explanation now: she’d gone to the Scotsman only to be told that the person she needed to see was right here. The photographer took a bit of persuading, but eventually followed her back to where Rebus was standing with arms folded.
“This is Mungo,” Siobhan said.
“Would Mungo like a drink?” Rebus asked.
“I’d like that very much,” the photographer decided, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The gray in his hair was premature-probably wasn’t much older than Siobhan herself. He had a chiseled, weather-beaten face and an accent to match.
“Western Isles?” Rebus guessed.
“Lewis,” Mungo confirmed, as Rebus led the way to Sandy Bell’s. There was another cheer from behind them, and they turned to see a young man exiting the gates of the sheriff court.
“I think I know him,” Siobhan said quietly. “He’s the one who’s been tormenting the campsite.”
“Bit of respite last night then,” Rebus stated. “He’ll have been in the cells.” As he spoke, he realized he was rubbing his left hand with his right. When the young man gave a salute to the spectators, it was returned by several of the crowd.
Including, as a bemused Mairie Henderson watched, Councilman Gareth Tench.
12
Sandy Bell’s had only been open ten minutes, but a couple of regulars had already settled themselves at the bar.
“Just a half of Best,” Mungo said when asked what he was drinking. Siobhan wanted orange juice. Rebus decided he could tackle a pint. They sat around a table. The bar’s narrow and shadowy interior smelled of brass polish and bleach. Siobhan explained to Mungo what she wanted, and he opened his camera bag, lifting out a small white box.
“An iPod?” Siobhan guessed.
“Useful for storing pictures,” Mungo explained. He showed her how to work it, and then apologized that he hadn’t captured the whole day.
“So how many photos are on there?” Rebus asked as Siobhan demonstrated the small color screen to him, using the flywheel to flip to and fro among stills.
“A couple of hundred,” Mungo said. “I’ve weeded out the no-hopers.”
“Is it all right if I look at them now?” Siobhan asked. Mungo just shrugged. Rebus offered him the pack of cigarettes.
“Actually, I’m allergic,” the photographer warned. So Rebus took his addiction to the other end of the bar, next to the window. As he stood there, staring out onto Forrest Road, he saw Councilman Tench walking toward the Meadows, busy talking with the young man from the court. Tench was giving his constituent’s back a pat of reassurance; no sign of Mairie. Rebus finished his cigarette and returned to the table. Siobhan turned the iPod around so he could see its screen.
“My mum,” she said. Rebus took the device from her and peered at it.
“Second row back?” he said. Siobhan nodded excitedly. “Looks like she’s trying to get out.”
“Exactly.”
“Before she was hit?” Rebus was studying the faces behind the riot shields, cops with their visors down, teeth bared.
“It seems I failed to capture that particular moment,” Mungo admitted.
“She’s definitely trying to push her way back through the crowd,” Siobhan stressed. “She wanted to get away.”
“So why give her a whack across the face?” Rebus asked.
“The way it worked,” Mungo offered, enunciating each syllable, “the leaders would lash out at the police line, then retreat. Chances are, anyone left at the front would suffer the consequences. Picture desks then have to choose what to publish.”
“And it’s usually the riot cops retaliating?” Rebus guessed. He held the screen a little farther from his face. “Can’t really identify any of the police.”
“No ID on their epaulets either,” Siobhan pointed out. “All nice and anonymous. Can’t even tell which force they’re from. Some of them have letters stenciled above their visors-XS, for example. Could that be a code?”
Rebus shrugged. He was remembering Jacko and his pals…no insignia on display there either. Siobhan seemed to remember something and gave her watch a quick check. “I need to call the hospital.” She rose from her seat and headed outdoors.
“Another?” Rebus asked, pointing at Mungo’s glass. The photographer shook his head. “Tell me, what else are
