“Did he rip someone off?”
“Could be. See...I’m wondering if there’s a connection you’re not getting.”
“And what connection might that be?”
“Small-time villains, maybe getting too big for their boots or ripping off those they shouldn’t.”
Rebus was thoughtful. “The Edinburgh victim worked for our local mobster.”
Hackman clapped his hands together. “There you are then.”
“I suppose Eddie Isley might have had—” But he broke off, unconvinced. The taxi was pulling to a stop, the driver telling them it would be a fiver. Rebus realized that they were directly outside the Nook, one of the city’s more respectable lap-dance bars. Hackman had jumped out and was paying the cabbie through the passenger-side window—a sure sign he was a visitor; locals paid up from the backseat. Rebus considered his options: stay in the cab, or get out and tell Hackman he was calling it a night.
The door was still open, the Englishman gesturing impatiently.
Rebus got out—just as the door of the Nook burst open, a man staggering from its darkened interior. The two doormen were right behind him.
“I’m telling you, I didn’t touch her!” the man was protesting. He was tall, well dressed, and dark-skinned. Rebus seemed to know the blue suit from somewhere...
“Bloody liar!” one of the doormen yelled, stabbing a finger at the customer.
“She robbed me,” the suit was protesting. “Her hand was trying to extract my wallet from my jacket. It was only when I stopped her that she started to complain.”
“Another bloody lie!” the same doorman spat.
Hackman had given Rebus a dig in the ribs. “You don’t half know some classy joints, John.” But he seemed happy enough. The other doorman was talking into his wrist microphone.
“She was attempting to take my wallet,” the suit kept arguing.
“So she didn’t rob you then?”
“Given the chance, she most certainly—”
“Did she rob you? You swore blind a minute ago that she did. And I’ve got witnesses to prove it.” The doorman’s head twitched toward Rebus and Hackman. The customer turned toward them and recognized Rebus straight off.
“My friend, do you see the situation I am in?”
“Sort of,” Rebus was forced to admit. The suit was shaking his hand.
“We met at the hotel, yes? At that delicious lunch hosted by my good friend Richard Pennen.”
“I wasn’t at lunch,” Rebus reminded him. “We chatted in the hallway.”
“You do get around, John.” Hackman chuckled, giving Rebus’s ribs another dig.
“This is a most unfortunate and serious situation,” the suit was saying. “I felt myself to be thirsty, and entered what I assumed would be a tavern of some description...”
Both doormen gave a snort. “Yeah,” the angrier of the two said, “after we’d told you the admission charge.”
Even Hackman had to laugh at that. But he was cut off by the door swinging open again. This time, it was a woman who emerged. One of the dancers, obviously, dressed in bra, G-string, and high heels. Her hair was piled atop her head and she was wearing too much makeup.
“Says I mugged him, does he?” she roared. Hackman looked as though he’d found the best ever ringside seat.
“We’re handling it,” the angry doorman said, staring daggers at his partner, who’d obviously passed the accusation along.
“He owes me fifty for the dances!” the woman shouted. She had a hand stretched out, ready to collect payment. “Then he starts pawing me! Right out of order...”
A marked patrol car cruised past, faces inside staring out. Rebus saw its brake lights come on, and knew it would be doing a U-turn.
“I am a diplomat,” the suit was declaring. “I have a right to protection from false allegations.”
“Swallowed a dictionary and all,” Hackman commented, laughing to himself.
“Legal immunity,” the suit went on, “as a member of the Kenyan delegation...”
The patrol car had stopped, two officers climbing out, fixing their caps to their heads.
“Seems to be the trouble here?” the driver asked.
“Just escorting this gentleman from the premises,” the no-longer-angry doorman said.
“I was forcibly removed!” the Kenyan protested. “And almost robbed of my wallet also!”
“Calm down, sir. Let’s get this sorted out.” The uniform had turned toward Rebus, aware of movement from the corner of his eye.
Rebus’s badge, shoved into his face.
“I want these two taken to the nearest cop-shop,” Rebus stated.
“No need for that,” the doorman began to argue.
“You want to go with them, pal?” Rebus demanded, shutting him up.
“Which cop-shop’s that then?” the uniform asked. Rebus stared at him.
“Where you from?”
“Hull.”
Rebus made an exasperated sound. “West End,” he said. “It’s on Torphichen Place.”
The uniform nodded. “Near Haymarket, yeah?”
“That’s the one,” Rebus confirmed.
“Diplomatic immunity,” the Kenyan was stressing. Rebus turned to him.
“There’s a necessary procedure,” he explained, trying to find words long enough to satisfy the man.
“You don’t want me,” the woman was saying, pointing to her ample breasts. Rebus didn’t dare look at Hackman, fearing he’d be salivating.
“Afraid I do,” Rebus told her, gesturing to the uniforms. Client and dancer were ushered toward the patrol car.
“One in the front, one in the back,” the driver told his partner. The dancer looked at Rebus as she clacked past him on her heels.
“Hang on,” he said, removing his jacket and slipping it over her shoulders. Then he turned to Hackman. “I need to see to this,” he explained.
“Like your chances, eh?” The Englishman leered.
“Don’t want a diplomatic incident,” Rebus corrected him. “Will you be okay?”
“Never better,” Hackman confirmed, slapping Rebus on the back. “I’m sure my friends here”—making sure the doormen could hear him—“will waive their entry fee for an officer of the law...”
“Just one thing, Stan,” Rebus cautioned.
“What’s that then?”
“Don’t let your hands wander.”
The CID suite was deserted, no sign of Rat-Ass Reynolds or Shug Davidson. Easy enough to secure two interview rooms. Easy to get a couple of uniforms on overtime to act as babysitters.
“Glad of the business,” one of them said.
First, the dancer. Rebus took her a plastic cup of tea. “I even remember how you like it,” he told her. Molly Clark sat with arms folded, still wearing his jacket and not much else. She was shuffling her feet, face twitching.
“Might have let me get changed,” she complained, giving a loud sniff.
“Afraid you’ll catch a cold? Don’t worry, a car will run you back in five minutes.”
She looked at him, eyes rimmed with kohl, cheeks rouged. “You’re not charging me?”
“What with? Our friend’s not going to want to pursue it, trust me.”
“It’s me should be pursuing him!”
“Whatever you say, Molly.” Rebus offered her a cigarette.
“There’s a No Smoking sign,” she reminded him.
“So there is,” he agreed, lighting up.
She hesitated another moment. “Go on then...” Took the cigarette from him, leaned across the table so he could light it for her. He knew her perfume would be clinging to his jacket for weeks. She inhaled and held the smoke deep within her.
“When we came to see you on Sunday,” Rebus began, “Eric was a bit shaky when it came to explaining how you met. I think I can guess now.”
“Bully for you.” She was examining the cigarette’s glowing tip. Her body rocked a little, and Rebus realized she was pumping one knee
up and down.
“So he knows what you do for a living?” Rebus asked.
“Is it any business of yours?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then...” Another drag on the cigarette, as if drawing nourishment from it. The smoke billowed into Rebus’s face. “No secrets between Eric and me.”
“Fair enough.”
She finally made eye contact. “He was touching me up. And as for that line about me grabbing his wallet...” She snorted. “Different culture, same shit.” She calmed a little. “That’s why Eric means something.”
Rebus nodded his understanding. “It’s our Kenyan friend who’s in trouble, not you,” he assured her.
“Really?” She gave him that wide smile again, same as on Sunday. The whole dreary room seemed to brighten for an instant.
“Eric’s a lucky man.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Rebus told the Kenyan. Interview room 2, ten minutes later. The Nook was sending a car for Molly—a car and some clothes. She’d promised to leave Rebus’s jacket at the station’s front desk.
“My name is Joseph Kamweze and I have diplomatic immunity.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me your passport, Joseph.” Rebus held out his hand. “If you’re a diplomat, it’ll say so.”
“I do not have it with me.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Balmoral.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Room paid for by Pennen Industries?”
“Mr. Richard Pennen is a good friend to my country.”
Rebus leaned back in his chair. “How’s that then?”
“In matters of trade and humanitarian assistance.”
“He sticks microchips into weapons.”
“I do not see the connection.”
“What are you doing in Edinburgh, Joseph?”
“I am part of my nation’s trade mission.”
“And what part of your job description took you into the Nook tonight?”
“I was thirsty, Inspector.”
“And maybe a wee bit horny...?”
“I am not sure what it is that you are trying to insinuate. I have already told you that I have immunity.”
“And I couldn’t be happier for you. Tell me, do you know a British politician called Ben Webster?”
Kamweze nodded. “I met him one time in Nairobi, at the high commission.”
“You’ve not seen him this trip?”
“I did not have a chance to talk with him the night his life ended.”
Rebus stared at him. “You were at the castle?”
“Indeed, yes.”
“You saw Mr. Webster there?”
The Kenyan nodded. “I thought it unnecessary to speak with him on that occasion, as he would be joining us for lunch at Prestonfield House.” Kamweze’s face fell. “But then this great tragedy unfolded before our eyes.”
Rebus tensed. “How do you mean?”
“Please do not misunderstand. I only say that his fall was a great loss to the international community.”
“You didn’t see what happened?”
“No one did. But perhaps the cameras were of some assistance.”
“Security cameras?” Rebus felt like slapping himself across the head. The castle was an army HQ—of course there’d be cameras.
“We were given a tour of the control room. It was impressively technical, but then terrorism is an everyday threat, is it not, Inspector?”
Rebus didn’t answer for a moment.
“What’s everyone saying about it?” he eventually asked.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Kamweze’s brow had furrowed.
“The other missions—that little League of Nations I saw you with at Prestonfield—any rumors about Mr. Webster?”
The Kenyan shook his head.
“Tell me, does everyone feel as warmly toward Richard Pennen as you seem to?”
“Again, Inspector, I do not think I—” Kamweze broke off and rose hurriedly to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “I would like to leave now.”
“Something to hide, Joseph?”
“I feel you have brought me here under false pretenses.”
“We could go back to the real ones—start discussing your little one-man delegation and its fact-finding tour of Edinburgh’s lap-dancing bars.” Rebus leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “These places have cameras, too, Joseph. They’ll have you on tape.”
“Immunity...”
“I’m not talking about charging you with anything, Joseph. I’m talking about the folks back home. I’m assuming you’ve got family in Nairobi...mum and dad, maybe a wife and kids?”
“I want to leave now!” Kamweze slammed a fist down on the table.
“Easy there,” Rebus said, holding up his hands. “Thought we were having a nice wee chat here.”
“Do you wish a diplomatic incident, Inspector?”
“I’m not sure.” Rebus seemed to ponder the notion. “Do you?”
“I am outraged!” Another thump on the table and the Kenyan headed for the door. Rebus did nothing to stop him. Instead, he lit a cigarette and lifted his legs onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. Stretched back and stared at the ceiling. Naturally, Steelforth hadn’t said anything about cameras, and Rebus knew he’d have a hell of a time persuading anyone to hand over the footage. It was owned by the military and sited within the military—strictly out of Rebus’s jurisdiction.
Which wouldn’t stop him raising the issue...
A minute passed before there was a knock at the door and a constable appeared from behind it.
“Our African friend says he wants a car back to the Balmoral.”
“Tell him the walk will do him good,” Rebus ordered. “And warn him about getting thirsty again.”
“Sir?” The constable thought he must have misheard.
“Just tell him.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing...”
“What?”
“No smoking in here.”
Rebus turned his head and stared the young officer out. When the door had closed, he reached into his trouser pocket for his cell. Pushed the buttons and waited to be connected.
“Mairie?” he said. “Got some information you might be able to find a use for.”
SIDE THREE
No Gods, No Masters
Wednesday, July 6, 2005
16
Most of the G8 leaders touched down at Prestwick Airport, southwest of Glasgow. In all, nearly one hundred and fifty aircraft would land in the course of the day. The leaders, their spouses, and their closest personnel would then be transferred to Gleneagles by helicopter, while fleets of chauffeured cars conveyed other members of the various delegations to their eventual destinations. George Bush’s sniffer dog had its own car. Today was Bush’s fifty-ninth birthday. Jack McConnell, first minister of the Scottish parliament, was on the tarmac to greet the world leaders. There were no visible protests or disruptions.
Not at Prestwick.
But in Stirling, morning TV news showed masked protesters hitting out at cars and vans, smashing the windows of a Burger King, blocking the A9, attacking gas stations. In Edinburgh, demonstrators halted all traffic on Queensferry Road. Lothian Road was lined with police vans, a chain of uniformed officers protecting the Sheraton Hotel and its several hundred delegates. Police horses paraded down streets usually busy with the morning rush hour, but today devoid of traffic. Buses lined the length of Waterloo Place, ready to convey marchers north to Auchterarder. But there were mixed signals, no one very sure that the official route had been sanctioned. The march was off, then on, then off again. Police ordered the bus drivers not to move their vehicles until the situation could be verified one way or the other.
And it was raining; looked like the Final Push concert that evening might be a washout. The musicians and celebrities were at Murrayfield Stadium, busy with sound checks and rehearsals. Bob Geldof was at the Balmoral Hotel, but preparing to v
isit Gleneagles with his friend Bono, always supposing the various protests would let them through. The queen was on her way north, too, and would host a dinner for the delegates.
The news journalists sounded breathless, wired on doses of caffeine. Siobhan, having spent a night in her car, was getting by on watery coffee from a local baker’s. The other customers had been more interested in the events unfolding on the wall-mounted TV set behind the counter.
“That’s Bannockburn,” one of them had said. “And there’s Springkerse. They’re everywhere!”
“Circle the wagons,” her friend had advised, to a few smiles. The protesters had left Camp Horizon as early as two in the morning, literally catching the police napping.
“Can’t understand how those bloody politicians can tell us this is good for Scotland,” a man in painter’s overalls had muttered, waiting for his bacon roll to arrive. “I’ve got jobs in Dunblane and Crieff today. Christ knows how I’m supposed to get there.”
Back in her car, Siobhan was soon warmed by the heater, though her spine remained creaky, her neck tight. She’d stayed in Stirling because going home would have meant coming back this morning, with the same security rigmarole—maybe even worse. She washed down two aspirin and headed for the A9. She hadn’t made much progress along the two-lane highway when the flashers on a car ahead told her both lanes were at a dead stop. Drivers had emerged from their vehicles to shout at the men and women in clown costumes who were lying in the road, some chained to the central median’s crash barriers. Police were chasing other garish figures through the adjoining fields. Siobhan parked on the hard shoulder and walked to the head of the line, where she showed her ID to the officer in charge.
“I’m supposed to be in Auchterarder,” she told him. He waved his short black baton in the direction of a police motorcycle.
“If Archie’s got a spare helmet, he can have you there in two shakes.”
Archie produced the necessary helmet. “You’re going to be bloody cold on the back, mind,” he warned.
“I’ll just have to snuggle up then, won’t I?”
But as he accelerated away, the word snuggle suddenly didn’t fit. Siobhan was clinging to him for dear life. There was an earpiece inside her helmet, allowing her to listen in on messages from Operation Sorbus. Around five thousand demonstrators were descending on Auchterarder, preparing to march past the gates of the hotel. Futile, Siobhan knew: they’d still be hundreds of yards from the main building, their slogans evaporating on the wind. Inside Gleneagles, the dignitaries would have no scent of any march, any large-scale dissent. Protesters were heading across country from all directions, but the officers on the other side of the security cordon were prepared. Leaving Stirling, Siobhan had noticed fresh graffiti on a fast-food outlet: 10,000 Pharaohs, Six Billion Slaves. She was still trying to work out who was meant to be who...