“Tasty,” he said, eyeing her from top to toe.
“Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble?” she asked.
“What trouble’s that then?”
“It was my car you got at last night.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d taken a step closer. Two shapes behind him to the left and right.
“Your best bet right now’s to start walking,” she warned them. The response: low laughter.
“I’m CID,” she said, hoping her voice would hold up. “Anything happens here, we’re talking a lifetime’s payback.”
“So how come you’re quaking in your boots?”
Siobhan hadn’t moved, hadn’t retreated an inch. He was nose to nose with her now. Knee-in-the-groin close. She felt some of her confidence return.
“Walk away,” she said quietly.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Then again,” came a deep, booming voice, “maybe you do.”
Siobhan looked behind her. It was Councilman Tench. He had his hands clasped in front of him, legs slightly apart. He seemed to fill Siobhan’s vision.
“Nothing to do with you,” the gang leader complained, stabbing a finger in Tench’s direction.
“Everything around here’s got something to do with me. Those that know me know that. Now scamper back to your rabbit holes and we’ll say no more.”
“Thinks he’s the big man,” one of the gang sneered.
“Only one big man in my universe, son, and He’s up there.” Tench gestured skyward.
“Dream on, preacher,” the leader said. But he turned and walked into the encroaching darkness, his men following.
Tench unclasped his hands and let his shoulders relax. “Could have turned nasty,” he said.
“Could have,” Siobhan agreed. She introduced herself, and he nodded.
“Thought to myself last night-that lassie looks like a copper.”
“Seems you’re on regular peacekeeping duties,” she told him.
He made a face, as if to play down his role. “Quiet around here most nights. You just picked a bad week for a visit.” His ears picked out a single siren, growing closer. “Your idea of the cavalry?” Tench offered, leading the way back to the camp.
The car-her loaner from St. Leonard ’s-had been sprayed with the letters NYT.
“Beyond a damned joke,” Siobhan told herself through gritted teeth. She asked Tench if he had names for her.
“No names,” he stated.
“But you know who they are.”
“What difference does that make?”
She turned instead to the uniforms from Craigmillar, gave them her description of the leader’s build, clothes, eyes. They shook their heads slowly.
“Camp’s in one piece,” one of them said. “That’s what matters.” His tone said it all-she was the one who’d summoned them here, and there was nothing for them to see or do. Some name-calling and a few (alleged) thrown punches. None of the security men had any injuries to report. They looked exhilarated, brothers in arms. No real threat against the camp, and no damage to report-other than Siobhan’s car.
In other words: a wild-goose chase.
Tench was moving among the tents, introducing himself all over again and shaking hands, rubbing the kids’ heads and accepting a cup of herbal tea. Bobby Greig was nursing bruised knuckles, though all he’d connected with, according to one of his team, was a wall.
“Livens things up, eh?” he said to Siobhan.
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.