Gates turned toward him, hands cradling a pile of glistening innards. “What’s the matter, John? Lost the stomach…?”
There was no one in the waiting area. An empty mug, decorated with the logo of a soccer team, the Glasgow Rangers, sat on the floor beside a chair. Rebus touched it: still warm. He walked toward the main door. Members of the public entered the building from an alley off the Cowgate. Rebus looked up and down the road but saw no one. Walked around the corner into Cowgate itself and saw the figure seated on the low wall that fronted the morgue. She was staring at the children’s nursery across the street. Rebus stopped in front of her.
“Got a cigarette?” she asked.
“You want one?”
“Seems as good a time as any.”
“Meaning you don’t smoke.”
“So?”
“So I’m not about to corrupt you.”
She looked at him for the first time. She had short fair hair and a round face with prominent chin. Her skirt was knee length, an inch of leg showing above brown boots with fur edging. On the wall next to her sat an oversize bag, probably everything shepacked-hurriedly, haphazardly-before rushing north.
“I’m DI Rebus,” he told her. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the nursery school. “Is that working?” she asked, gesturing in its direction.
“As far as I know. It’s not open today, of course…”
“But it is a nursery.” She turned to examine the building behind her. “And right across the road from this. Short journey, isn’t it, DI Rebus?”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you ID’d the body.”
“Why? Did you know Ben?”
“No…I just thought…how come nobody’s with you?”
“Such as?”
“From his constituency…the party.”
“Think Labor gives two hoots about him now?” She gave a short laugh. “They’ll all be lining up at the head of that bloody march, ready for the photo op. Ben kept saying how close he was getting to what he called ‘the power.’ Little good it did him.”
“Careful there,” Rebus warned her, “you sound like you’d fit right in with the marchers.” She gave a snort, but didn’t say anything. “Any idea why he would-?” Rebus broke off. “You know I need to ask?”
“I’m a cop, same as you.” She watched him bring out the packet. “Just one,” she begged. How could he refuse? He lit both their cigarettes and leaned against the wall next to her.
“No cars,” she stated.
“Town’s locked down,” he explained. “You’ll have trouble getting a taxi, but my car’s parked-”
“I can walk,” she told him. “He didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you wanted to know. Seemed fine last night, very relaxed, etcetera. Colleagues can’t explain…no problems at work.” She paused, raising her eyes skyward. “Except he always had problems at work.”
“Sounds like the two of you were close.”
“He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month-actually, probably more like two-but there were texts, e-mails…” She took a drag on the cigarette.
“He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.
“Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”
“Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.
She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power-a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”
“He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.
“Oh, yes.”
“And the futility?”
She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder bag, handed Rebus a business card. Nothing on it but her name-Stacey Webster-and a cell number.
“How long have you been in the police, Stacey?”
“Eight years. The last three at Scotland Yard.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’ll have questions for me: did Ben have any enemies? Money problems? Relationships gone bad? Maybe later, eh? A day or so, give me a call.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing in the…?” She had trouble getting the next word out; sucked in some air and tried again. “Nothing to suggest he didn’t just fall?”
“He’d had a glass or two of wine-might’ve made him woozy.”
“Nobody saw anything?”
Rebus offered a shrug. “Sure I can’t give you a lift?”
She shook her head. “I need to walk.”
“Word of advice: steer clear of the parade route. Maybe I’ll see you again…and I really am sorry about Ben.”
Her eyes bored into his. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”
He almost opened up to her-I left my own brother in a box only yesterday-but gave a twitch of the mouth instead. She might have started asking questions: Were you close? Are you okay? Questions he didn’t really know the answers to. He watched her start her long and lonely walk along Cowgate, then went back inside for the autopsy’s closing act.
4
By the time Siobhan arrived at the Meadows, the line of waiting marchers stretched all the way down the side of the old infirmary and across the playing fields to where the rows of buses sat. Someone with a megaphone was warning that it might be two hours before those at the back of the line actually started moving.
“It’s the pigs,” someone explained. “Only letting us go in batches of forty or fifty.”
Siobhan had been about to defend the tactic but knew it would give her away. She moved down the patient line, wondering how she was expected to meet her parents. There had to be a hundred thousand people here, maybe even double that. She’d never known a crowd like it; T in the Park only got sixty thousand. The local soccer derby might attract eighteen on a good day. New Year’s Eve in and around Princes Street, you could get close to a hundred.
This was bigger.
And everyone was smiling.
Hardly a uniform to be seen; not many security guys either. Families streaming down from Morningside and Tollcross and Newington. She’d bumped into half a dozen acquaintances and neighbors. The lord provost was leading the procession. Some said Gordon Brown was there, too. Later, he’d be addressing a rally, the police protection squad in attendance, though Operation Sorbus had graded him low risk due to his active pronouncements on aid and fair trade. She’d been shown a list of celebrities who were expected to hit the city: Geldof and Bono, of course; maybe Ewan McGregor (who was due at an event in Dunblane anyway); Julie Christie; Claudia Schiffer; George Clooney; Susan Sarandon…Having worked her way down the line, Siobhan headed for the main stage. A band was playing, a few people were dancing enthusiastically. Most just sat on the grass and watched. The small tented village nearby offered activities for children, first aid, petitions, and exhibits. Crafts were being sold, flyers handed out. One of the tabloids seemed to have been distributing MAKE POVERTY HISTORY placards. Recipients were now tearing off the top section of each placard, removing the tabloid’s masthead. Helium-filled balloons rose into the sky. A makeshift brass band was circumnavigating the field, followed by an African steel band. More dancing; more smiles. She knew then, knew that it was going to be all right. There’d be no riots today, not on this march.
She looked at her cell. No messages. She’d tried her parents twice, but they weren’t answering. So she commenced another tour of the site. A smaller stage had been erected in front of a stationary open-topped bus. There were TV cameras here, and people were being interviewed. She recognized Pete Postlethwaite and Billy Boyd; caught a glimpse of Billy Bragg. The actor she really wanted to see was Gael García Bernal, just in case he really did look as good in the flesh…