Archie braked suddenly, tipping her forward so she could see over his shoulder the scene unfolding ahead.
Riot shields, dog handlers, mounted police.
A twin-engined Chinook helicopter scything the air overhead.
Flames licking from an American flag.
A sit-down protest stretching the full width of the roadway. As officers started breaking it up, Archie gunned the bike toward the gap and squeezed through. If Siobhan’s knuckles hadn’t been rigid and numb with cold, she might have eased her grip on him long enough to offer a pat on the back. The earpiece was telling her that Stirling railway station might reopen shortly, but anarchists could be using the line as a shortcut to Gleneagles. She remembered that the hotel boasted its own railway station; doubted anyone would be using it today. There was better news from Edinburgh, where torrential rain had dampened the demonstrators’ spirits.
Archie turned his head toward her. “Scottish weather!” he yelled. “What would we do without it?”
The Forth Road Bridge was operating with minimal disruption, and early road blocks on Quality Street and Corstorphine Road had been cleared. Archie slowed to negotiate another blockade, Siobhan taking the opportunity to wipe drizzle from her visor with the sleeve of her jacket. As they signaled to turn off the highway, another, smaller helicopter seemed to be following their progress. Archie brought his bike to a stop.
“End of the line,” he said. They hadn’t quite reached the town’s boundary, but she could see he was right. Ahead of them, past a police cordon, flew a sea of flags and banners. Chants, whistles, and jeers.
Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today? Same chant she’d heard at the naming of the dead.
George Bush, we know you, your daddy was a killer, too. Okay, so that was a new one.
Siobhan eased herself from the pillion, handed over the helmet, and thanked Archie. He grinned at her.
“Won’t get too many days as exciting as this,” he said, turning the bike around. Speeding off, he gave her a wave. Siobhan waved back, some of the feeling returning to her fingers. A red-faced cop bounded up to her. She already had her ID open.
“Which only makes you more of a bloody idiot,” he barked. You look like one of them.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the stalled demonstration. “They see you behind our lines, they’ll think that’s where they belong, too. So either make yourself scarce or get suited up.”
“You’re forgetting,” she told him, “there is a third way.” And with a smile she walked up to the police line, squeezed between two of the black-clad figures, and ducked under their riot shields. She was now in the front line of demonstrators. The red-faced officer looked aghast.
“Show your badges!” a protester was calling out to the police rank. Siobhan stared at the cop immediately in front of her. The thing he was wearing looked almost like coveralls. The letters ZH were painted in white on his helmet above the visor. She tried to remember if any of the squad from Princes Street Gardens boasted the same insignia. All she could remember was XS.
Police excess.
Sweat was running down both sides of the officer’s face, but he seemed composed. Orders and encouragement were being called down the police line:
“Keep it tight!”
“Easy, lads.”
“Move it back!”
There was an element of agreed orchestration to the pushing on both sides. One of the demonstrators seemed to be in control, calling out that the march was official and the police were now in breach of all agreements. He could not, he said, be responsible for the consequences. Throughout, he held a cell phone to his ear, while news photographers stood on tiptoe, cameras held aloft, to capture some of the drama.
Siobhan started backpedaling, then shuffled sideways until she was on the edge of the proceedings. From this vantage point, she started scanning the crowd for any sign of Santal. There was a teenager next to her, with bad teeth and a shaved head. When he started yelling abuse, the accent sounded local. His jacket flapped open at one point, and Siobhan caught a glimpse of something tucked into his waistband.
Something not unlike a knife.
He had his cell phone out, using it to capture snippets of video, sending them to his buddies. Siobhan looked around. No way she could alert the police officers. If they waded in to arrest him, all hell would break loose. Instead, she squeezed in behind him, waiting for the right moment. When a chant broke out and hands rose into the air, she seized her chance. Grabbed his arm and wrenched it around his back, pressing forward so he was sent down onto his knees. Her free hand went to his waist, removed the knife, then pushed him hard so he fell on all fours. She moved backward briskly through the crowd, tossing the knife over a low wall into shrubbery. Melted into the crowd and raised her own arms into the air, clapping along. His face was purple with anger as he elbowed his way through the throng in front of her, seeking out his attacker.
He wasn’t going to find her.
Siobhan almost allowed herself a smile, but knew her own search might well prove every bit as fruitless as his. And meantime she was in the middle of a demonstration, one that could at any moment turn into a riot.
I’d kill for a Starbucks latte, she thought.
Wrong place, and very definitely the wrong time.
Mairie was in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel. The elevator door opened and she saw the man in the blue silk suit appear. She got up from her chair, and he walked toward her, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Kamweze?” she asked.
He gave a bow of confirmation, and she returned his handshake.
“Good of you to see me on short notice,” Mairie said, trying not to sound too gushing. Her phone call had been just that: the cub reporter, overawed to be talking to such a senior figure in African politics...and could he possibly spare five minutes to help with a profile she was doing?
The pose was no longer necessary; he was right there in front of her. All the same, she didn’t want him bolting just yet.
“Tea?” he suggested, leading the way to the Palm Court.
“I love your suit,” she said as he drew out her chair for her. She smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat. Joseph Kamweze seemed to enjoy the view.
“Thank you,” he said, sliding onto the banquette opposite her.
“Is it designer?”
“Purchased in Singapore, on my way back from a delegation to Canberra. Really rather inexpensive...” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But let’s keep that to ourselves.” He gave a huge grin, showing one gold tooth at the back of his mouth.
“Well, I want to thank you again for seeing me.” Mairie was reaching into her bag for notebook and pen. She also had a little digital recorder, and she asked him if he would mind.
“That will be dependent on your questions,” he said with another grin. The waitress arrived and he ordered Lapsang souchong for both of them. Mairie hated the stuff but kept her mouth shut.
“You must let me pay,” she told him. He waved the offer aside.
“It is of no consequence.”
Mairie raised an eyebrow. She was still busying herself with the tools of her trade when she asked her next question.
“Your trip’s being funded by Pennen Industries?”
The grin disappeared; the eyes hardened. “I beg your pardon?”
She tried for a look of unsullied naïveté. “Just wondered who was paying for your stay here.”
“What is it you want?” The voice was chilled. His hands brushed the edge of the table, the fingertips running along it.
Mairie made a show of consulting her notes. “You are part of the Kenyan trade delegation, Mr. Kamweze. What exactly is it that you’re looking for from the G8?” She checked that the recorder was running and placed it on the table between them. Joseph Kamweze seemed thrown by the sheer ordinariness of the question.
“Debt relief is crucial to Africa’s rebirth,” he recited. “Chancellor Brown has indicated that some of Kenya’s ne
ighbors—” He broke off, unable to keep going. “Why are you here? Is Henderson even your real name? I’m a fool for not asking to see your identification.”
“I’ve got it right here.” Mairie began to rummage through her bag.
“Why did you mention Richard Pennen?” Kamweze interrupted.
She blinked at him. “I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
“I did mention Pennen Industries, but that’s a company, not an individual.”
“You were with the policeman at Prestonfield House.” It sounded like a statement, though he could have been guessing. Either way, she didn’t deny it.
“I think you should go now,” he stated.
“Are you sure about that?” Her own voice had hardened, and she returned his stare. “Because if you walk away from here, I’m going to splash a photo of you across the whole front page of my newspaper.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“It’s a bit grainy, and we’ll need to blow it up, meaning it might be on the fuzzy side, too. But it will show a pole dancer cavorting in front of you, Mr. Kamweze. You’ll have your hands on your knees and a big smile on your face as you stare at her naked chest. Her name’s Molly and she works at the Nook on Bread Street. I took possession of the security-camera tape this morning.” Lies, all lies, but she loved the effect they were having on him. His fingernails were digging into the tabletop. His close-cropped hair glistened with sweat.
“You were then questioned at a police station, Mr. Kamweze. I daresay there’s footage of that little expedition, too.”
“What is it you want from me?” he hissed. But he had to compose himself as the tea tray arrived, and with it some shortbread biscuits. Mairie bit into one: no breakfast this morning. The tea smelled like oven-baked seaweed, and she pushed her cup aside after the waitress had poured. The Kenyan did the same with his.
“Not thirsty?” she asked, and couldn’t help smiling.
“The detective told you,” Kamweze realized. “He, too, threatened me like this.”
“Thing is, he can’t prosecute. Me, on the other hand...well, unless you give me a good reason to dump a front-page exclusive...” She could see he hadn’t yet taken the bait. “A front page that will be seen around the world...How long till the press in your own country picks up the story and runs with it? How long till your government masters get to hear of it? Your neighbors, friends—”
“Enough,” he growled. His eyes were focused on the table. It was highly polished, throwing his own reflection back at him.
“Enough,” he repeated, and his tone told her he was beaten. She bit into another of the biscuits. “What do you want?”
“Not much, really,” she assured him. “Just everything you can tell me about Mr. Richard Pennen.”
“Am I to be your Deep Throat, Miss Henderson?”
“If the thought excites you,” she offered.
Thinking to herself: But really, you’re just another dupe who got caught...another flawed civil servant.
Another informer...
His second funeral in a week.
He’d crawled out of the city—domino effect from earlier. At the Forth Bridge, Fife constabulary were pulling over trucks and vans, checking their potential as barricades. Once over the bridge, however, traffic was fine. He was early as a result. Drove into the center of Dundee, parked by the waterfront, and smoked a cigarette with the radio tuned to news. Funny, the English stations were on about London’s Olympic bid; hardly a mention of Edinburgh. Tony Blair was jetting back from Singapore. Rebus pondered whether he got frequent-flier miles.
The Scottish news had picked up on Mairie’s story: everyone was calling him the G8 Killer. Chief Constable James Corbyn was making no public statements on the subject; SO12 was stressing that there was no danger to the leaders gathering at Gleneagles.
Two funerals inside a week. He wondered if one reason that he was working so hard was so he wouldn’t have time to think too much about Mickey. He’d brought a CD of Quadrophenia with him, played some of it on the drive north, Daltrey rasping the insistent question: Can you see the real me? He had the photos on the passenger seat: Edinburgh Castle, dinner jackets and bow ties. Ben Webster with about two hours to live, looking no different from anyone else. But then suicides didn’t wear signs around their necks. Neither did serial killers, gangsters, bent politicians. Beneath all the official portraits was Mungo’s close-up of Santal and her camera. Rebus studied it for a moment before placing it on top. Then he started the car and headed for the funeral home.
Place was packed. Family and friends, plus representatives from all the political parties. Labor MSPs, too. The media kept their distance, huddled at the gates. Probably the office juniors, sour-faced with the knowledge that their elders and betters were busy at the G8, capturing Thursday’s headlines and front pages. Rebus hung back as the real guests were ushered indoors. Some of them had looked at him quizzically, thinking it unlikely he’d been a man with any connection to the MP, taking him for some kind of vulture, preying on the grief of strangers.
Maybe they were right at that.
A hotel in Broughty Ferry was providing refreshments afterward. “The family,” the reverend was telling the assembly, “have asked me to say that you’ll all be most welcome.” But his eyes told another story: close family and bosom friends only, please. Quite right, too: Rebus doubted any hotel in the Ferry could cope with a crowd this size.
He was seated in the back row. The reverend had asked one of Ben Webster’s colleagues to step up and say a few words. Sounded much like the eulogy at Mickey’s funeral: a good man...much missed by those who knew him, and many did...devoted to his family...well liked in the community. Rebus reckoned he’d given it long enough. There was no sign of Stacey. He hadn’t really thought much about her since that meeting outside the morgue. He guessed she’d gone back to London, or else was clearing out her brother’s home, dealing with the banks and insurers and such.
But to miss the funeral...
There had been more than a week between Mickey’s death and his cremation. And Ben Webster? Not even five full days. Could the haste be classed as indecent? Stacey Webster’s decision, or someone else’s? Outside in the parking lot, he lit another cigarette and gave it five more minutes. Then he unlocked the driver’s side and got in.
Can you see the real me...
“Oh, yes,” he said quietly, turning the ignition.
Mayhem in Auchterarder.
The rumor had gone around that Bush’s helicopter was on its way. Siobhan had checked her watch, knowing he wasn’t due to arrive at Prestwick till midafternoon. Every chopper that came over, the crowd booed and bayed. They’d streamed down lanes and through fields, clambered over walls into people’s gardens. One aim in mind: get to the cordon. Get past the cordon. That would be the real victory; no matter if they were still half a mile from the actual hotel. They would be on the Gleneagles estate. They would have beaten the police. She saw a few members of the Clown Army, and two protesters dressed in plus fours and carrying golf bags: the People’s Golfing Association, whose mission was to play a hole on the hallowed championship course. She had heard American accents, Spanish voices, Germans. She had watched a huddle of black-clad, face-muffled anarchists planning their next move. An airship droning overhead, gathering surveillance...
But no Santal.
Back on Auchterarder’s main street, news had arrived that the Edinburgh contingent was being prevented from leaving the city.
“So they’re marching there instead,” someone explained gleefully. “Bullyboys are going to be stretched to breaking.”
Siobhan doubted it. All the same, she tried her parents’ cell. Her father answered, said they’d been sitting on the bus for hours and were still there.
“Promise me you won’t join any march,” Siobhan implored.
“Promise,” her father said. Then he put his wife on so Siobhan could hear the same pledge from her. As she ended the call, Siobhan su
ddenly felt like an utter idiot. What was she doing here when she could be with her parents? Another march meant more riot cops; could be her mother would recognize her attacker, or something might nudge a nugget of remembrance to the surface.
She cursed herself quietly, then turned and was face to face with her quarry.
“Santal,” she said. The young woman lowered her camera.
“What are you doing here?” Santal asked.
“Surprised?”
“Just a little, yes. Are your parents...?”
“They’re stranded in Edinburgh. I see your lisp’s improved.”
“What?”
“Monday in the gardens,” Siobhan went on, “you were busy with your little camera. Only thing is, you weren’t zeroing in on the cops. Why is that?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.” But Santal glanced to the left and right, as if afraid they would be overheard.
“Reason you didn’t want to show me any of your photos is that they would tell me something.”
“Like what?” She sounded neither scared nor wary, but genuinely curious.
“They’d tell me you were interested in your fellow rabble-rousers rather than the forces of law and order.”
“So?”
“So I got to wondering why that might be. It should have come to me earlier. Everyone said so, after all—at the Niddrie camp and then again in Stirling.” Siobhan had taken a step closer, the two women nose to nose. She leaned in toward Santal’s ear. “You’re undercover,” she whispered. Then she stood back, as if admiring the young woman’s getup. “The earrings and piercings...mostly fake?” she guessed. “Temporary tattoos, and”—staring at the coils of hair—“a nicely made wig. Why you bothered with the lisp, I’ve no idea—maybe to help you retain a sense of your own identity.” She paused. “How am I doing?”