When she’d told them, their looks had almost made her recant. But that would have been weak. They’d been supportive, of course, while hinting that police work might not be the most fulfilling use of her skills. That was enough to make her dig in her heels.
So she’d become a cop. Not in London, where her parents lived, but in Scotland, which she hadn’t really known at all until attending college there. One final heartfelt plea from her mum and dad: “Anywhere but Glasgow.”
Glasgow, with its hard-man image and knife culture, its sectarian divide. Yet, as Siobhan had found, a great place to shop. A place she sometimes went with friends-all-girl parties which led to them staying the night at some boutique hotel or other, sampling the nightlife, steering clear of any bars with bouncers at the door-a point of drinking protocol on which she and John Rebus agreed. While Edinburgh, meantime, had proved more deadly than her parents could ever have imagined.
Not that she would ever tell them that. During Sunday phone calls she tended to brush off her mum’s inquiries, asking her own questions instead. She’d offered to meet them at the bus, but they’d said they would need time to get the tent ready. Stopped at traffic lights, she pictured this, and the image made her smile. Nearly sixty, the pair of them, and messing around with a tent. They’d taken early retirement the previous year from their teaching jobs. Owned a fair-sized house in Forest Hill, the mortgage paid off. Always asking her if she needed money…
“I’ll pay for a hotel room,” she’d told them on the phone, but they’d remained resolute. Pulling away from the lights, she wondered if it might be some form of dementia.
She parked on the Wisp, ignoring the orange traffic cones, and stuck a POLICE BUSINESS notice on her windshield. At the sound of her idling engine, a yellow-jacketed security guard had come for a look. He shook his head and pointed at the notice. Then he drew a hand across his throat and nodded toward the nearest housing development. Siobhan removed the sign but left the car where it was.
“Local gangs,” the guard was saying. “Sign like that’s a red rag to a bull.” He slid his hands into his pockets, puffing up his already substantial chest. “So what brings you here, Officer?”
His head was shaved, but he sported a full, dark beard and a tangle of eyebrows.
“Social call, actually,” Siobhan said, showing him her ID. “A couple by the name of Clarke. Need a word with them.”
“In you come then.” He led her to a gate in the perimeter fence. In miniature, it was a bit like the Gleneagles security. There was even a sort of watchtower. Every ten yards or so along the fence stood another guard. “Here, put this on,” her new friend was saying, handing her a wristband. “Makes you less conspicuous. It’s how we keep tabs on our band of happy campers.”
“Quite literally,” she said, taking it from him. “How’s everything going so far?”
“Local youth don’t like it much. They’ve tried coming in, but that’s about it.” He shrugged. They were walking along a metal walkway, stepping off it for a moment as a young girl roller-skated past, her mother watching cross- legged from the ground next to her tent.
“How many are here?” Siobhan found it hard to judge.
“Maybe a thousand. There’ll be more tomorrow.”
“You’re not keeping count?”
“Not taking names either-so I’m not sure where you’re going to find your friends. Only thing we’re allowed to take from them is the fee for their site.”
Siobhan looked around. The summer had been dry, and the earth underfoot was solid. Beyond the skyline of apartment buildings and houses she could make out other, more ancient shapes: Holyrood Park and Arthur’s Seat. She could hear some low chanting and a few guitars and pennywhistles. Children’s laughter and a baby ready for its next feeding. Hand claps and chatter. Silenced suddenly by a megaphone, carried by a man with his hair crammed into an outsize woolly hat. Patchwork trousers lopped off at the knees and flip-flops on his feet.
“Big white tent, people-that’s where it’s happening. Vegetable curry at four quid, thanks to the local mosque. Only four quid…”
“Maybe that’s where you’ll find them,” Siobhan’s guide said. She thanked him and he headed back to his post. The “big white tent” seemed to serve as a general meeting place. Someone else was calling out that a group would be heading into town for a drink. Meet in five minutes by the red flag. Siobhan had passed a row of portable toilets and some standpipes and showers. All that was left for her to explore now were tents. The line for curry was orderly. Someone tried to hand her a plastic spoon, and she shook her head before remembering that it was a while since she’d eaten. Her Styrofoam plate heaped high, she decided to take a slow walk through the camp. People were cooking their own food on camp stoves. One pointed at her.
“Remember me from Glastonbury?” he called. Siobhan just shook her head. And then she saw her parents and broke into a smile. They were doing the camping thing with style: a big red tent with windows and a covered porch, foldaway table and chairs, and an open bottle of wine with real glasses next to it. They got up when they saw her, exchanged hugs and kisses, apologized that they’d only brought two chairs.
“I can sit on the grass,” Siobhan assured them. There was another young woman already doing just that. She hadn’t moved at Siobhan’s approach.
“We were just telling Santal about you,” Siobhan’s mum said. Eve Clarke looked young for her years, only the laugh lines giving the game away. The same could not be said for Siobhan’s dad, Teddy. He’d grown paunchy, and the skin drooped from his face. His hairline had receded, the ponytail sparser and grayer than ever. He refilled the wineglasses with gusto, his gaze never leaving the bottle.
“I’m sure Santal’s been riveted,” Siobhan said, accepting the glass.
The young woman gave the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was neck length and dirty blond, gelled or mistreated so that it emerged in clumps and braids from her scalp. No makeup, but multiple piercings to her ears and one to the side of her nose. Her dark green sleeveless T-shirt showed Celtic tattoos on either shoulder, and her bare midriff showed another piercing to her navel. Plenty of jewelry strung around her neck, and hanging lower still what looked like a digital video camera.
“You’re Siobhan,” she said with a trace of a lisp.
“Afraid so.” Siobhan toasted the company with her glass. Another had been produced from a picnic basket, along with another bottle of wine.
“Steady on, Teddy,” Eve Clarke said.
“Santal needs a refill,” he explained, though Siobhan couldn’t help noticing that Santal’s glass was actually almost as full as her own.
“Did the three of you travel up together?” she asked.
“Santal hitched from Aylesbury,” Teddy Clarke said. “After the bus ride we’ve just endured, I think next time I’d do the same.” He rolled his eyes and fidgeted in his seat, then unscrewed the wine bottle. “Screw-top wine, Santal. Don’t say the modern world doesn’t have its pluses.”
In fact, she didn’t reply at all. Siobhan couldn’t say why she’d taken such an immediate dislike to this stranger, except that Santal was just that: a stranger. Siobhan had wanted some time with her mum and dad. Just the three of them.
“Santal’s got the campsite next to us,” Eve was explaining. “We needed a bit of help with the tent…”
Her husband laughed suddenly and loudly, filling his own glass. “Been a while since we camped,” he said.
“Tent looks new,” Siobhan commented.
“Borrowed from neighbors,” her mother said quietly.
Santal was rising to her feet. “I should go.”
“Not on our account,” Teddy Clarke protested.
“There’s a bunch of us heading to a pub.”
“I like your camera,” Siobhan said.
Santal looked down at it. “Any of the cops take my picture, I want theirs in return. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?” Her unblinking look demanded agreement.
Siobhan turned toward her father. “You’ve told her what I do,” she stated quietly.
“Not ashamed, are you?” Santal all but spat the words out.
“Just the opposite, to be honest.” Siobhan’s eyes shifted from father to mother. Suddenly both her parents seemed intent on the wine in front of them. When she looked back at Santal, she saw that the young woman was pointing the camera at her.
“One for the family album,” Santal said. “I’ll send you a JPEG.”
“Thanks,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Odd name, isn’t it, Santal?”
