“About twenty so far. Some of them have been farmed out to other courts.”
“Any quotes I should be looking out for tomorrow?”
“How about ‘Smash the system’?” She glanced at her notes. “Or ‘Show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker’?”
“Seems like a fair swap.”
“It’s Malcolm X, apparently.” She flipped her notebook shut. “They’re all being issued restraining orders. Can’t go anywhere near Gleneagles, Auchterarder, Stirling, central Edinburgh—” She paused. “Nice touch though: one guy said he had a ticket for T in the Park this weekend, so the judge said he could go to Kinross.”
“Siobhan’s going to that,” Rebus said. “Be nice to have the Colliar inquiry wrapped up in time.”
“In which case this may not be good news.”
“What is it, Mairie?”
“The Clootie Well. I got a friend at the paper to do some background.”
“And?”
“And there are others.”
“How many?”
“At least one in Scotland. It’s on the Black Isle.”
“North of Inverness?”
She nodded. “Follow me,” she said, turning and heading for the museum’s main door. Inside she took a right, into the Museum of Scotland. The place was busy with families—school holidays, kids with too much energy. The smaller ones were squealing and bouncing on their toes.
“What are we doing here?” Rebus asked. But Mairie was already at the elevators. They got off and climbed some stairs. Through the windows, Rebus had a great view down onto the sheriff court. But Mairie was leading him into the farthest corner of the building. “I’ve been here before,” Rebus told her.
“The section on death and belief,” she explained.
“There are some wee coffins with dolls inside...”
This was the very display she stopped at, and Rebus realized there was an old black-and-white photograph behind the glass.
A photo of the Black Isle’s Clootie Well.
“Locals have been hanging bits of cloth there for centuries. I’ve got my friend widening the search to England and Wales, on the off-chance. Think it’s worth a look?”
“Black Isle’s got to be a two-hour drive,” Rebus mused, eyes still on the photo. The scraps of material looked almost batlike, clinging to thin, bare branches. Next to the photo sat witches’ casting sticks, bits of bone protruding from hollowed pebbles. Death and belief...
“More like three, this time of year,” Mairie was telling him. “All those RVs to get past.”
Rebus nodded. The A9 north of Perth was notoriously slow. “Might just get the locals to take a look. Thanks, Mairie.”
“I got these from the Net.” She handed over a few sheets, detailing the history of the Clootie Well near Fortrose. There were grainy photographs—including a copy of the one on display—which showed it to be almost identical to its namesake in Auchterarder.
“Thanks again.” He rolled the sheets up and put them in his jacket pocket. “Did your editor take the bait?” They started retracing their steps to the elevator.
“Depends. A riot tonight might see us relegated to page five.”
“A gamble worth taking.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me, John?”
“I’ve given you a scoop—what else do you want?”
“I want to know you’re not just using me.” She pushed the elevator button.
“Would I do a thing like that?”
“Of course you bloody well would.” They were quiet all the way back out to the steps. Mairie watched the action across the street. Another protester, another clenched-fist salute. “You’ve kept the lid on this since Friday. Aren’t you scared the killer will go deep cover once he sees it in the paper?”
“Can’t get any deeper than he is right now.” He looked at her. “Besides, all we had on Friday was Cyril Colliar. It was Cafferty gave us the rest.”
Her face hardened. “Cafferty?”
“You told him the patch from Colliar’s jacket had turned up. He paid me a visit. Went away with the other two names and came back with the news they were dead.”
“You’ve been using Cafferty?” She sounded incredulous.
“Without him telling you, Mairie—that’s what I’m getting at. Try trading with him, you’ll find it’s all one-way traffic. Everything I’ve given you on the killings, he had it first. But he wasn’t going to tell you.”
“You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension that the two of us are close.”
“Close enough for you to go straight to him with the news about Colliar.”
“That was a promise of long standing—any new developments, he wanted to know. Don’t think I’m about to apologize.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed across the street. “What’s Gareth Tench doing here?”
“The councilman, you mean?” Rebus followed the path of her finger. “Preaching to the heathen, maybe,” he offered, watching as Tench shuffled along crablike behind the line of photographers. “Maybe he wants you to do another interview.”
“How did you know about...? I suppose Siobhan told you.”
“No secrets between Siobhan and me.” Rebus gave a wink.
“So where is she now?”
“She’s down at the Scotsman.”
“My eyes must be deceiving me then.” Mairie was pointing again. Sure enough, it was Siobhan, and Tench had stopped right in front of her, the two of them exchanging a handshake. “No secrets between you two, eh?”
But Rebus was already on his way. This end of the street had been closed to traffic, easy enough to cross.
“Hiya,” he said. “Sudden change of mind?”
Siobhan gave a little smile and introduced him to Tench.
“Inspector,” the councilman said with a bow of his head.
“You’re a fan of street theater, Councilman Tench?”
“I don’t mind it at festival time,” Tench said with a chuckle.
“Used to do a bit yourself, didn’t you?”
Tench turned to Siobhan. “The inspector means my little Sunday-morning sermons at the foot of the Mound. Doubtless he paused a moment on his way to Communion.”
“Don’t seem to see you there anymore,” Rebus added. “Did you lose your faith?”
“Far from it, Inspector. But there are ways of getting a point across besides preaching.” His face composed itself into a more serious professionalism. “I’m here because a couple of my constituents got caught up in all that trouble yesterday.”
“Innocent bystanders, I don’t doubt,” Rebus commented.
Tench’s eyes flitted to him, then back to Siobhan. “The inspector must be a joy to work with.”
“Nonstop laughs,” Siobhan agreed.
“Ah! And the Fourth Estate, too!” Tench exclaimed, holding out a hand toward Mairie, who’d finally decided to join them. “When is our article running? I’ll assume you know these two guardians of truth.” He gestured toward Rebus and Siobhan. “You did promise me a wee peek at the contents before publishing,” he reminded Mairie.
“Did I?” She was trying to look surprised. Tench wasn’t falling for it. He turned to the two detectives.
“I think I need to have a word in private...”
“Don’t mind us,” Rebus told him. “Siobhan and I need a minute too.”
“We do?” But Rebus had already turned away, leaving her little option but to follow.
“Sandy Bell’s will be open,” he told her, once they were out of earshot. But she was checking the crowd.
“Someone I need to see,” she explained. “Photographer I know...apparently he’s here somewhere.” She stood on tiptoe. “Ahh...” Pushed her way into the scrum of journalists. The photographers were checking the backs of each other’s cameras, examining the digital screens to see what they’d got. Rebus waited impatiently while Siobhan talked to a wiry figure with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. At least he had an explanation now: she??
?d gone to the Scotsman only to be told that the person she needed to see was right here. The photographer took a bit of persuading, but eventually followed her back to where Rebus was standing with arms folded.
“This is Mungo,” Siobhan said.
“Would Mungo like a drink?” Rebus asked.
“I’d like that very much,” the photographer decided, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The gray in his hair was premature—probably wasn’t much older than Siobhan herself. He had a chiseled, weather-beaten face and an accent to match.
“Western Isles?” Rebus guessed.
“Lewis,” Mungo confirmed, as Rebus led the way to Sandy Bell’s. There was another cheer from behind them, and they turned to see a young man exiting the gates of the sheriff court.
“I think I know him,” Siobhan said quietly. “He’s the one who’s been tormenting the campsite.”
“Bit of respite last night then,” Rebus stated. “He’ll have been in the cells.” As he spoke, he realized he was rubbing his left hand with his right. When the young man gave a salute to the spectators, it was returned by several of the crowd.
Including, as a bemused Mairie Henderson watched, Councilman Gareth Tench.
12
Sandy Bell’s had only been open ten minutes, but a couple of regulars had already settled themselves at the bar.
“Just a half of Best,” Mungo said when asked what he was drinking. Siobhan wanted orange juice. Rebus decided he could tackle a pint. They sat around a table. The bar’s narrow and shadowy interior smelled of brass polish and bleach. Siobhan explained to Mungo what she wanted, and he opened his camera bag, lifting out a small white box.
“An iPod?” Siobhan guessed.
“Useful for storing pictures,” Mungo explained. He showed her how to work it, and then apologized that he hadn’t captured the whole day.
“So how many photos are on there?” Rebus asked as Siobhan demonstrated the small color screen to him, using the flywheel to flip to and fro among stills.
“A couple of hundred,” Mungo said. “I’ve weeded out the no-hopers.”
“Is it all right if I look at them now?” Siobhan asked. Mungo just shrugged. Rebus offered him the pack of cigarettes.
“Actually, I’m allergic,” the photographer warned. So Rebus took his addiction to the other end of the bar, next to the window. As he stood there, staring out onto Forrest Road, he saw Councilman Tench walking toward the Meadows, busy talking with the young man from the court. Tench was giving his constituent’s back a pat of reassurance; no sign of Mairie. Rebus finished his cigarette and returned to the table. Siobhan turned the iPod around so he could see its screen.
“My mum,” she said. Rebus took the device from her and peered at it.
“Second row back?” he said. Siobhan nodded excitedly. “Looks like she’s trying to get out.”
“Exactly.”
“Before she was hit?” Rebus was studying the faces behind the riot shields, cops with their visors down, teeth bared.
“It seems I failed to capture that particular moment,” Mungo admitted.
“She’s definitely trying to push her way back through the crowd,” Siobhan stressed. “She wanted to get away.”
“So why give her a whack across the face?” Rebus asked.
“The way it worked,” Mungo offered, enunciating each syllable, “the leaders would lash out at the police line, then retreat. Chances are, anyone left at the front would suffer the consequences. Picture desks then have to choose what to publish.”
“And it’s usually the riot cops retaliating?” Rebus guessed. He held the screen a little farther from his face. “Can’t really identify any of the police.”
“No ID on their epaulets either,” Siobhan pointed out. “All nice and anonymous. Can’t even tell which force they’re from. Some of them have letters stenciled above their visors—XS, for example. Could that be a code?”
Rebus shrugged. He was remembering Jacko and his pals...no insignia on display there either. Siobhan seemed to remember something and gave her watch a quick check. “I need to call the hospital.” She rose from her seat and headed outdoors.
“Another?” Rebus asked, pointing at Mungo’s glass. The photographer shook his head. “Tell me, what else are 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?”