you covering this week?”
Mungo puffed out his cheeks. “Bits and pieces.”
“The VIPs?”
“Given the chance.”
“Don’t suppose you were working Friday night?”
“As a matter of fact I was.”
“That big dinner at the castle?”
Mungo nodded. “Editor fancied a pic of the foreign secretary. The ones I got were pretty feeble-that’s what happens when you aim a flash at a windshield.”
“What about Ben Webster?”
Mungo shook his head. “Didn’t even know who he was, more’s the pity-it would have been the last-ever photo of him.”
“We took a few at the morgue, if that makes you feel any better,” Rebus said. Then, as Mungo smiled a soulful smile: “I wouldn’t mind a look at the ones you did get.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“They’re not on your little machine then?”
The photographer shook his head. “That lot are on my laptop. It’s mostly just cars whizzing up Castle Hill-we weren’t allowed as far as the Esplanade.” He had a thought. “You know, they’ll have taken an official portrait at the dinner itself. You could always ask to see that, if you’re really interested.”
“I doubt they’d just hand it over.”
Mungo gave a wink. “Leave it to me,” he said. Then, as he watched Rebus drain his glass: “Funny to think it’ll be back to old clothes and porridge next week.”
Rebus smiled and wiped his thumb across his mouth. “My dad used to say that when we came back from vacation.”
“Don’t suppose Edinburgh will ever see anything like this again.”
“Not in my lifetime,” Rebus conceded.
“Think any of it will make a difference?” Rebus just shook his head. “My girlfriend gave me this book, all about 1968-the Prague spring and the Paris riots.”
Think we dropped the baton, Rebus thought to himself. “I lived through 1968, son. Didn’t mean anything at the time.” He paused. “Or since, come to that.”
“You didn’t tune in and drop out?”
“I was in the army-short hair and an attitude.” Siobhan was returning to the table. “Any news?” he asked her.
“They’ve not found anything. She’s off to the eye pavilion for some tests, and that’s that.”
“Western’s discharged her?” Rebus watched Siobhan nod. She picked up the iPod again. “Something else I wanted to show you.” Rebus heard the wheel click. She turned the screen toward him. “See the woman at the far right? The one with the braids?”
Rebus saw. Mungo’s camera was focused on the line of riot shields, but at the top of the picture he’d caught some onlookers, most holding camera phones in front of their faces. The woman with the braids, however, was toting some sort of video.
“That’s Santal,” Siobhan stated.
“And who’s Santal when she’s at home?”
“Didn’t I tell you? She was camping next door to my mum and dad.”
“Funny sort of name…reckon she was born with it?”
“Means ‘sandalwood,’” Siobhan told him.
“Lovely-smelling soap,” Mungo added. Siobhan ignored him.
“See what she’s doing?” she asked Rebus, holding the iPod close to him.
“Same as everyone else.”
“Not exactly.” Siobhan turned the machine toward Mungo.
“They’re all pointing their phones toward the police,” he answered, nodding.
“All except Santal.” Siobhan angled the screen toward Rebus again, and rubbed the flywheel with her thumb, accessing the next photo. “See?”
Rebus saw but wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Mostly,” Mungo obliged, “they want photos of the police-useful propaganda.”
“But Santal’s photographing the protesters.”
“Meaning she might have caught your mum,” Rebus offered.
“I asked her at the campsite, she wouldn’t show me. What’s more, I saw her at that demonstration on Saturday-she was taking pictures then, too.”
“I’m not sure I get it,” Rebus admitted.
“Me neither, but it could mean a trip to Stirling.” She looked at Rebus.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because that’s where she was headed this morning.” She paused. “Think my absence will be noted?”
“Chief constable wants the Clootie Well put on ice anyway.” He reached into his pocket. “I meant to say…” Handing her the scrolled sheets. “We’ve another Clootie Well on the Black Isle.”
“It’s not really an island, you know,” Mungo piped up. “The Black Isle, I mean.”
“You’ll be telling us next it’s not black either,” Rebus scolded him.
“The soil’s supposed to be black,” Mungo conceded, “but not so you’d notice. I know the spot you’re talking about, though-we had a vacation up there last summer. Bits of rags hanging from the trees.” He screwed up his face in distaste. Siobhan had finished reading.
“You want to take a look?” she asked. Rebus shook his head.
“But someone should.”
“Even when the case is supposed to be on ice?”
“Not until tomorrow,” Rebus said. “That’s what the chief constable specified. But you’re the one he put in charge…up to you how we play it.” He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking in protest.
“Eye pavilion’s five minutes’ walk,” Siobhan mused. “I was thinking I might head over there.”
“And a wee drive to Stirling thereafter?”
“Think I’ll pass for a hippie chick?”
“Might be problematic,” Mungo chipped in.
“I’ve got a pair of combats in the wardrobe,” Siobhan argued. Her eyes fixed on Rebus. “Means I’m leaving you in charge, John. Any disturbance you cause, I’ll be the one with the bruises.”
“Understood, boss,” Rebus said. “Now, whose round is it?”
But Mungo had to get to his next job, and Siobhan was heading for the hospital, leaving Rebus alone in the pub.
“One for the road,” he muttered to himself. Standing at the bar, waiting for his drink to be poured, staring at the optics, he thought again of that photo…the woman with the braids…Siobhan called her Santal, but she reminded Rebus of someone. Screen had been too small for him really to get a good look. Should have asked Mungo for a print…
“Day off?” the barman asked as he placed the pint in front of Rebus.
“Man of leisure, that’s me,” Rebus confirmed, lifting the glass to his mouth.
“Thanks for coming back in,” Rebus said. “How was court?”
“I wasn’t needed.” Ellen Wylie placed her shoulder bag and attache case on the floor of the CID room.
“Can I fix you a coffee?”
“Got an espresso machine?”
“In here, we call it by its proper Italian name.”
“And what’s that?”
“A kettle.”
“That joke’s as weak as I suspect the coffee will be. How can I help you, John?” She eased her jacket off. Rebus was already in shirt sleeves. Summer, and the station’s heating was on. No apparent means of adjusting the radiators. Come October, they’d be lukewarm. Wylie was looking at the case notes spread across three desks.
