“Nice to know that when I come to you with confidential information, you’ll feed it to the city’s biggest villain.”
“Just that once, John.”
“Once too often.”
“The Colliar killing has been gnawing away at him.”
“Just the way I like it.”
She gave a tired smile. “Just the once,” she repeated. “And please bear in mind the huge favor I’m currently doing you.”
Rebus decided not to answer, walked back out into the hall instead. The reception desk was at the far end, past the restaurant. It had changed a bit in the years since Rebus had spent half his paycheck on that meal. The drapes were heavy, the furniture exotic, tassels everywhere. A dark-skinned man in a blue silk suit tried to pass Rebus, giving a little bow.
“Morning,” Rebus said.
“Good morning,” he said crisply, coming to a stop. “Is the meeting already closing?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The man bowed his head again. “My apologies. I thought perhaps...” But he left the sentence unfinished and walked the rest of the way to the door, tapping once before disappearing inside. Mairie had come out for a look.
“Not much of a secret knock,” Rebus informed her.
“It’s not the Masons.”
Rebus wasn’t so sure about that. What was the G8, after all, if not a very private club?
The door was opening again, two more men stepping out. They made for the driveway, stopping to light their cigarettes.
“Breaking up for lunch?” Rebus guessed. He followed Mairie back to the doorway of their own little room and watched the men filter out. Maybe twenty of them. Some looked African, others Asian and Middle Eastern. A few wore what Rebus took to be their national dress.
“Maybe Kenya, Sierra Leone, Niger...” Mairie was whispering.
“Meaning that really you’ve got no idea whatsoever?” Rebus whispered back.
“Geography was never my strong point—” She broke off and clutched his arm. A tall imposing figure was now mingling with the others, shaking hands and exchanging some words. Rebus recognized him from Mairie’s press pack. His elongated face was tanned and lined, and some brown had been added to his hair. Pinstripe suit with an inch of crisp, white shirt cuff. He had a smile for everyone, seemed to know them personally. Mairie had retreated a few steps farther into the room, but Rebus stayed in the doorway. Richard Pennen took a good photograph. In the flesh, the face was slightly scrawnier, the eyes heavy-lidded. But he did look disgustingly healthy, as though he had spent the previous weekend on a tropical beach. Assistants stood on either side of him, whispering information into his ear, making sure this part of the day, like those before and after, was without a hitch of any kind.
Suddenly, a member of the staff was blocking Rebus’s view. He bore a tray with the tea and coffee. As Rebus moved to let him pass, he saw that he’d come to Pennen’s notice.
“Your treat, I believe,” Mairie was saying. Rebus turned into the room and paid for the drinks.
“Would it be Detective Inspector Rebus?” The deep voice came from Richard Pennen. He was standing just a few feet away, still flanked by his assistants.
Mairie took a couple of steps toward him and held out her hand.
“Mairie Henderson, Mr. Pennen. Terrible tragedy at the castle the other night.”
“Terrible,” Pennen agreed.
“I believe you were there.”
“I was.”
“She’s a journalist, sir,” one of the assistants said.
“I’d never have guessed,” Pennen answered with a smile.
“Just wondering,” Mairie plowed on, “why you were paying for Mr. Webster’s hotel room.”
“I wasn’t—my company was.”
“What’s your interest in debt relief, sir?”
But Pennen’s focus was on Rebus. “I was told I might be seeing you.”
“Nice to have Commander Steelforth on your team...”
Pennen looked Rebus up and down. “His description didn’t do you justice, Inspector.”
“Still, it’s nice that he took the trouble.” Rebus could have added because it means I’ve got him rattled.
“You’re aware, of course, of how much flak you might get if I were to report this intrusion?”
“We’re just enjoying a cup of tea, sir,” Rebus said. “Far as I’m aware, you’re the one doing the intruding.”
Pennen smiled again. “Nicely put.” He turned to Mairie. “Ben Webster was a fine MP and PPS, Miss Henderson, and scrupulous with it. As you know, any gifts in kind received from my company would be listed in members’ interests.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
Pennen’s jawline twitched. He took a deep breath. “Pennen Industries does most of its business overseas—get your economics editor to fill you in. You’ll see what a major exporter we’ve become.”
“Of arms,” Mairie stated.
“Of technology,” Pennen countered. “What’s more, we put money back into some of the poorest nations. That’s why Ben Webster was involved.” He turned his gaze back to Rebus. “No cover-up, Inspector. Just David Steelforth doing his job. A lot of contracts could get signed during these next few days...huge projects green-lighted. Contacts made, and jobs saved as a result. Not the sort of feel-good story our media seem to be interested in. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” He turned away, and Rebus was gratified to see that there was a blob of something on the heel of one black leather brogue. No expert, Rebus would still have bet heavily on it being peacock shit.
Mairie slumped onto a sofa, which creaked beneath her, as if unused to such mistreatment.
“Bloody hell,” she said, pouring out some tea. Rebus could smell the peppermint. He poured himself some coffee from the small carafe.
“Remind me,” he said, “how much is this whole thing costing?”
“The G8?” She waited till he’d nodded, puffed out her cheeks as she tried to remember. “A hundred and fifty?”
“As in millions?”
“As in millions.”
“And all so businessmen like Mr. Pennen can keep plying their trade.”
“There might be a bit more to it than that.” Mairie was smiling. “But you’re right in a sense: the decisions have already been made.”
“So what’s Gleneagles all about but a few nice dinners and some handshakes for the cameras.”
“Putting Scotland on the map?” she offered.
“Aye, right.” Rebus finished his coffee. “Maybe we should stay for lunch, see if we can rile Pennen more than we already have.”
“Sure you can afford it?”
Rebus looked around him. “Which reminds me, that flunky’s not come back with my change.”
“Change?” Mairie gave a laugh. Rebus caught her meaning and decided he was going to drain the carafe to its last drop.
According to the TV news, central Edinburgh was a war zone.
Half past two on a Monday afternoon. Normally, there would have been shoppers in Princes Street, laden with purchases; people in the adjacent gardens, enjoying a promenade or resting on one of the commemorative benches.
But not today.
The newsroom cut to protests at the Faslane Naval Base, home to Britain’s four Trident-class submarines. The place was under siege from about two thousand demonstrators. Police in Fife had been handed control of the Forth Road Bridge for the first time in its history. Cars heading north were being stopped and searched. Roads out of the capital had been blocked by sit-down protests. There had been scuffles near the Peace Camp in Stirling.
And a riot was kicking off in Princes Street. Baton-wielding police making their presence felt. They carried circular shields of a kind Siobhan hadn’t seen before. The area around Canning Street was still causing trouble, marchers still bringing traffic to a halt on the Western Approach. The studio cut back to Princes Street. The protesters seemed to be outnumbered not only by police but by cameras, too. A lot of
pushing on both sides.
“They’re trying to start a fight,” Eric Bain said. He’d come to Gayfield to show her what little he’d been able to find so far.
“It could have waited till after you’d seen Mrs. Jensen,” she’d told him, to which all he’d done was shrug.
They were alone in the CID office. “See what they’re doing?” Bain asked, pointing at the screen. “A rioter wades in, then backs off. The nearest cop raises his billy club, and the papers get a photo of him striking out at some poor guy who’s first in line. Meantime, the real troublemaker is tucked away somewhere behind, ready to do the same thing again.”
Siobhan nodded. “Makes it look like we’re being heavy-handed.”
“Which is what the rioters want.” He folded his arms. “They’ve learned a few tricks since Genoa.”
“But so have we,” Siobhan said. “Containment, for one thing. That’s four hours now the group in Canning Street have been corralled.”
Back in the studio, one of the presenters had a live feed to Midge Ure. He was telling the troublemakers to go home.
“Shame none of them are watching,” Bain commented.
“Are you going to speak with Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan hinted.
“Yes, boss. How hard should I push her?”
“I’ve already warned we could set her for obstruction. Remind her of that.” Siobhan wrote the Jensens’ address on a sheet of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over. Bain’s attention was back on the TV screen. More live pictures from Princes Street. Some protesters had climbed onto the Scott Monument. Others scrambled over the railings into the gardens. Kicks were aimed at shields. Divots of earth were being thrown. Benches and trash cans were next.
“This is getting bad,” Bain muttered. The screen flickered. A new location: Torphichen Street, site of the city’s West End police station. Sticks and bottles were being hurled. “Glad we’re not stuck there” was all Bain said.
“No, we’re stuck here instead.”
He looked at her. “You’d rather be in the thick of things?”
She shrugged, stared at the screen. Someone was calling into the studio by cell phone, a shopper, trapped like so many others in the branch of British Home Stores on Princes Street.
“We’re just bystanders,” the woman was shrieking. “All we want to do is get out, but the police are treating us all the same, mothers with babies, old folk...”
“You’re saying the police are overreacting?” the journalist in the studio asked. Siobhan used the remote to change channels: Columbo on one side, Diagnosis: Murder on another, and a film on Channel 4.
“That’s Kidnapped,” Bain said. “Brilliant.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, finding another of the news channels. Same riots; different angles. The same protester she’d seen in Canning Street was still on top of his wall. He sat swinging his feet, only his eyes showing through the gap in his ski mask. He was holding a cell phone to his ear.
“That reminds me,” Bain said, “I had Rebus on the phone, asking how an out-of-service number could still be active.”
Siobhan looked at him. “Did he say why?” Bain shook his head. “So what did you tell him?”
“You can clone the SIM card, or specify outgoing calls only.” He gave a shrug. “All kinds of ways to do it.”
Siobhan nodded, eyes back on the TV screen. Bain ran a hand across the back of his neck.
“So what did you think of Molly?” he asked.
“You’re a lucky man, Eric.”
He gave a huge grin. “Pretty much my thinking.”
“But tell me,” Siobhan asked, hating herself for being led down this route, “does she always twitch so much?”
Bain’s grin melted away.
“Sorry, Eric, that was out of order.”
“She said she likes you,” he confided. “She’s not got a bad bone in her body.”
“She’s great,” Siobhan agreed. Even to her own ears, the sentiment sounded hollow. “So how did you two meet?”
Bain froze for a moment. “A club,” he said, recovering.
“Never took you for a dancer, Eric.” Siobhan glanced in his direction.
“Molly’s a great dancer.”
“She’s got the body for it...” Relief washed over her as her own cell sounded. She hoped to hell it would offer the excuse to be anywhere but here. It was her parents’ number.
“Hello?”
At first she mistook the noise on the line for static, then she realized: yells and catcalls and whistles. Same noises she’d just been hearing on the report from Princes Street.
“Mum?” she said. “Dad?”
And now a voice, her father’s. “Siobhan? Can you hear me?”
“Dad? What the hell are you doing down there?”
“Your mum...”
“What? Dad, put her on, will you?”
“Your mum’s...”
“Has something—”
“She was bleeding...ambulance...”
“Dad, you’re breaking up! Where are you exactly?”
“Kiosk...gardens.”
The line went dead. She looked at its small rectangular screen. Connection lost.
“Connection lost,” she echoed.
“What’s going on?” Bain asked.
“My mum and dad...that’s where they are.” She nodded toward the TV. “Can you give me a lift?”
“Where?”
“There.” She stabbed a finger at the screen.
“There?”
“There.”
9
They didn’t get any farther than George Street. Siobhan got out of the car and told Bain not to forget the Jensens. He was telling her to be careful as she slammed shut the door.
There were protesters here, too, spilling down Frederick Street. Staff watched in fascinated horror from behind the doors and windows of their shops. Bystanders pressed themselves to walls in the hope of blending in. There was debris underfoot. The protesters were being pushed back down into Princes Street. Nobody tried to stop Siobhan crossing the police line in that direction. Easy enough to get in; getting out was the problem.
There was only one kiosk she knew of—just down from the Scott Monument. The gates to the gardens had been closed, so she made for the fence. The skirmishes had moved from the street into the gardens themselves. Trash flew through the air, along with stones and other missiles. A hand grabbed at her jacket.
“No, you don’t.”
She turned to face a policeman. Just above his visor were the letters XS. For a brief moment she read it as excess—just perfect. She had her ID ready.
“I’m CID,” she yelled.
“Then you must be crazy.” He released his grip.
“It has been said,” she told him, clambering over the spikes. Looking around, she saw that the rioters had been reinforced by what looked like local hooligans: any excuse for a fight. Wasn’t every day they could lash out at the cops and have a good chance of getting away with it. They were disguising their identities with scarves around their mouths, jackets zipped all the way to the chin. At least these days they all wore sneakers rather than Doc Martens boots.
The kiosk: it sold ice cream and cold drinks. Shards of glass lay strewn around it, and it was closed. She circled it in a crouch: no sign of her father. Spots of blood on the ground, and she followed them with her eyes. They stopped short of the gates. Circled the kiosk again. Banged on the serving hatch. Tried again. Heard a muffled voice from inside.
“Siobhan?”
“Dad? You in there?”
The door to the side was yanked open. Her father was standing inside, and next to him the kiosk’s terrified owner.
“Where’s Mum?” Siobhan asked, voice shaking.
“They took her in the ambulance. I couldn’t...they wouldn’t let me past the cordon.”
Siobhan couldn’t remember ever seeing her father in tears, but he was crying now. Crying, and obviously in shock.
“
We need to get you out.”
“Not me,” his companion said with a shake of her head. “I’m guarding the fort. But I saw what happened...bloody police. She was only standing there.”
“It was one of their sticks,” Siobhan’s father added. “Right across her head.”
“Blood was gushing out...”
Siobhan silenced the woman with a look. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Frances...Frances Neagley.”
“Well, Frances Neagley, my advice is to get out.” Then, to her shivering father: “Come on, let’s get going.”
“What?”
“We need to go see Mum.”
“But what about...?”
“It’ll be all right. Now come on.” She tugged at his arm, felt she would have hauled him out of there bodily if need be. Frances Neagley closed the door on them and locked it.
Another divot flew past. Siobhan knew that tomorrow, this being Edinburgh, the major complaint would be of destruction to the famed flower beds. The gates had been forced open by the demonstrators from Frederick Street. A man dressed as a Pictish warrior was being dragged by his arms behind the police lines. Directly in front of the cordon, a young mother was calmly changing the diaper on her pink-clad baby. A placard was being waved: NO GODS, NO MASTERS. The letters X and S...the baby in pink...the message on the placard...they all seemed incredibly vivid to her, snapshots bright with a significance she couldn’t quite determine.
There’s a pattern here, some meaning of sorts...
Something to ask Dad later...
Fifteen years ago, he’d tried explaining semiotics to her, supposedly helping with a school essay, but just getting her more confused. Then, in class, she’d called it semenotics, and her teacher laughed out loud.
Siobhan sought out faces she might know. She saw none. But one officer’s vest bore the words POLICE MEDIC. She pulled her father toward him, ID held open in front of her.
“CID,” she explained. “This man’s wife’s been taken to hospital. I need to get him there.”
The officer nodded and guided them through the police line.
“Which hospital?” the medic asked.
“What’s your guess?”
He looked at her. “Dunno,” he admitted. “I’m down here from Aberdeen.”