The Naming of the Dead Read online

  The good folk of Auchterarder, Rebus seemed to recall, had been vetted under the guise of providing them with ID badges. These would be necessary so they could cross the eventual barricades. Yet as Siobhan had pointed out, there was an eerie tranquillity to the place. Only a few shoppers and one carpenter who seemed to be measuring windows for protective boards. The cars were muddy 4x4s, which had probably spent more time on farm tracks than motorways. One woman driver was even wearing a head scarf, something Rebus hadn’t seen in a while. Within a couple of minutes, he was at the far end of town and heading toward the A9. He did a three-point turn and this time kept his eyes open for signposts. The one he wanted was next to a pub, pointing down a lane. He signaled, following the road past hedges and driveways, then a newer housing estate. The landscape opened before him, showing distant hills. In moments he was out of town again, flanked by neat hedgerows that would leave their mark on his car if he had to make way for a tractor or delivery van. There were some woods to his left, and another sign told him this was home to the Clootie Well. He knew the word from clootie dumpling, a sticky steamed dessert his mother had sometimes made. He remembered the taste and texture as being similar to Christmas pudding, dark and cloying and sugary. His stomach gave a small protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in hours. His stop at the hotel had been brief, a few quiet words with Chrissie. She’d hugged him, just as she had back at the house earlier that morning. All the years he’d known her, there hadn’t been many hugs. In the early days, he’d actually fancied her; awkward under the circumstances. She’d seemed to sense this. Then he’d been best man at the wedding, and, during one dance, she’d blown mischievously in his ear. Later, on the few occasions when she and Mickey had been separated, Rebus had taken his brother’s side. He supposed he could have called her, said something, but he hadn’t. And when Mickey had gotten into that spot of bother, ended up in jail, Rebus hadn’t visited Chrissie and the kids. Mind you, he hadn’t visited Mickey that often either, in jail or since.

  There was more history: when Rebus and his own wife had separated, Chrissie had blamed him entirely. She’d always gotten on well with Rhona; kept in touch with her after the divorce. That was family for you. Tactics, campaigning, and diplomacy: the politicians had it easy by comparison.

  Back at the hotel, Lesley had mimicked her mother, giving him a hug too. Kenny had thought for a second before Rebus put the lad out of his misery by extending a hand to be squeezed. He wondered if there would be any fallings-out; there usually were at funerals. With grief came blame and resentment. Just as well he hadn’t stayed. When it came to the potential for confrontation, John Rebus punched well above his already substantial weight.

  There was a parking area just off the road. It looked newly built, trees having been cleared, chippings of tree bark strewn across the ground. Room enough for four cars, but only one was waiting. Siobhan Clarke was leaning against it, arms folded. Rebus pulled on the brake and got out.

  “Nice spot,” he said.

  “Been here over a hundred years,” she told him.

  “Didn’t think I drove that slowly.”

  She offered only a twist of the mouth, leading him into the woods, arms still folded. She was dressed more formally than usual: knee-length black skirt and black stockings. Her shoes were smudged from having walked this same trail earlier.

  “I saw the sign yesterday,” she was saying. “The one leading off the main drag. Decided I’d take a look.”

  “Well, if the choice was that or Glenrothes...”

  “There’s a bulletin board back at the clearing, tells you a bit about the place. All sorts of witchy goings-on over the years.” They were ascending a slope, rounding a thick, twisted oak. “The townspeople decided there must be sprites living here; shrieks in the dark, that sort of thing.”

  “Local farmhands more like,” Rebus offered.

  She nodded agreement. “All the same, they started leaving little offerings. Hence the name clootie.” She glanced around at him. “You’ll know what it means, you being the only native Scot around here?”

  He had a sudden image of his mother lifting the pudding out of its pan. The pudding wrapped in...

  “Cloth,” he told her.

  “And clothing,” she added as they entered another clearing. They stopped and Rebus breathed deeply. Damp cloth...damp, rotting cloth. He’d been smelling it for the past half minute. The smell clothes gave off in his old house, the one he’d grown up in, when they weren’t aired, when the damp and the mildew got to them. The trees around him were strung with rags and remnants. Pieces had fallen to the ground, where they were decomposing to a mulch.

  “Tradition has it,” Siobhan said quietly, “they were left here for good luck. Keep the sprites warm, and they’d see no harm came to you. Another theory: when kids died young, their parents left something here, by way of remembrance.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.

  “I’m not made of glass,” Rebus assured her. “You can use words like remembrance—I’m not going to start blubbing.”

  She nodded again. Rebus was walking around the clearing. Leaves and soft moss underfoot, and the sound of a stream, just a thin trickle of water pushing up from the ground. Candles and coins had been left by its edges.

  “Not much of a well,” he commented.

  She just shrugged. “I was here a few minutes...didn’t really warm to the atmosphere. But then I noticed some of the newer clothing.” Rebus saw it too. Strung from the branches. A shawl, overalls, a red polka-dot handkerchief. A nearly new sneaker, its laces dangling. Even underwear and what looked like children’s stockings.

  “Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus muttered, not really knowing what else to say. The smell seemed to be growing stronger. He had another flashback to a ten-day bender many years before, coming out of it to find that a load of laundry had been sitting in the machine, waiting to be hung. When he’d opened the door, this same smell had hit him. He’d washed everything again but still had to throw it all away afterward. “And the jacket?”

  All she did was point. Rebus walked slowly toward the tree in question. The piece of nylon had been pierced by a short branch. It swayed just a little in the breeze. Threads straggling from it but no mistaking the logo.

  “CC Rider,” Rebus said in confirmation. Siobhan was running her hands through her hair. He knew she had questions, knew she would have been turning them over in her mind all the time she’d been waiting for him. “So what do we do?” he prompted.

  “It’s a crime scene,” she began. “A team is on the way from Stirling. We need to secure the site, comb the area for evidence. We need to reassemble the original murder squad, start going door to door locally—”

  “Including Gleneagles?” Rebus interrupted. “You’re the expert, so you tell me: how many times has the hotel staff been vetted? And how do we go about knocking on doors in the middle of a weeklong demonstration? Securing the site won’t be a problem, mind you, not with all the secret service teams we’re about to welcome...”

  Naturally she had considered all these points. He knew as much and his voice trailed off.

  “We keep it quiet till the summit’s over,” she suggested.

  “Tempting,” he admitted.

  She smiled. “Only because it gives you a head start.”

  He admitted as much with a wink.

  She sighed. “Macrae needs to be told. Which means he’ll tell Tayside Police.”

  “But the SOCOs are coming from Stirling,” Rebus added, “and Stirling belongs to Central Region.”

  “So that’s just the three police forces who need to know....Shouldn’t have any trouble keeping it under wraps.”

  Rebus was looking around. “If we can at least get the scene checked and photographed...take the cloth back to the lab...”

  “Before the fun and games start?”

  Rebus puffed out his cheeks. “Kicks off on Wednesday, right?”

  “The G8 does, yes. But there’s the Poverty March
tomorrow and another planned for Monday.”

  “In Edinburgh, though, not Auchterarder.” Then he saw what she was getting at. Even with the evidence at the lab, the whole place could be under siege. Getting from Gayfield Square to the lab at Howdenhall meant crossing the city, always supposing the technicians had managed to force their way into work.

  “Why leave it here?” Siobhan asked, studying the patch again. “Some sort of trophy?”

  “If so, why here specifically?”

  “Could be local. Any family connections with the area?”

  “I think Colliar’s solid Edinburgh.”

  She looked at him. “I meant the rape victim.”

  Rebus formed his mouth into an O.

  “Something to consider,” she added. Then she paused. “What’s that sound?”

  Rebus patted his stomach. “Been a while since I’ve eaten. Don’t suppose Gleneagles is open for afternoon tea?”

  “Depends on your credit card limit. There are places in town. One of us should stay for the SOCOs.”

  “Better be you, then; don’t want accusations that I’m hogging the limelight. In fact, you probably deserve a complimentary cup of Aucherarder’s finest tea.” He turned to go, but she stopped him.

  “Why me? Why now?” Her arms stretching from her sides.

  “Why not?” he answered. “Just call it kismet.”

  “That’s not what I mean...”

  He turned toward her again.

  “What I mean,” she said quietly, “is that I’m not sure I want them caught. If they are, and it’s because of me...”

  “If they are, Shiv, it’ll be due to their screwup.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the patch. “That, and maybe even a bit of teamwork.”

  The Scene of Crime Unit hadn’t been thrilled by news that Rebus and Siobhan had entered the crime site. Prints of their shoes had been taken, for purposes of elimination, along with hair samples.

  “Go easy,” Rebus had warned. “I can’t afford to be generous.”

  The SOCO—Scene of Crime officer—had apologized. “Got to get the root, else we can’t get the DNA.” On the third try with the tweezers, he’d been successful. One of his colleagues had almost finished videoing the scene. Another was taking photographs and yet another was in conversation with Siobhan about how much of the other clothing they should take to the lab.

  “Just the most recent,” she told him, her eyes on Rebus. He nodded his agreement, sharing her train of thought. Even if Colliar was a message to Cafferty, it didn’t mean there weren’t other messages here.

  “Sports shirt seems to have a company logo on it,” the SOCO commented.

  “Your job could hardly be easier,” Siobhan said with a smile.

  “My job’s collection. The rest is up to you.”

  “Speaking of which,” Rebus interrupted, “any chance this could all go to Edinburgh rather than Stirling?”

  The SOCO stiffened his shoulders. Rebus didn’t know him but he knew the type: late forties, half a lifetime’s experience. There was plenty of rivalry between the various police regions as it was. Rebus held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “All I mean is, it’s an Edinburgh case. Makes sense if they don’t have to keep traipsing through to Stirling every time there’s something you need to show them.”

  Siobhan was smiling again, amused by his use of they and them. But she gave a slight nod, too, recognizing a useful ploy when she saw one.

  “Especially now,” Rebus was arguing, “with the demonstrations and everything.” He looked up to where a helicopter was circling. Gleneagles surveillance, it had to be. Someone up there wondering at the sudden appearance of two cars and two unmarked white vans at the Clootie Well. Returning his gaze to the SOCO, Rebus realized the chopper had sealed the deal. A time like this, cooperation was paramount. It had been hammered home in memorandum after memorandum. Macrae himself had said as much at the past dozen or so briefings at Gayfield Square.

  Be nice. Work together. Help each other. Because for these few short days, the world would be watching.

  Maybe the SOCO had been at similar briefings. He was nodding slowly, turning away to continue his work. Rebus and Siobhan shared another look. Then Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

  “No traces, please,” one of the other SOCOs warned him, so Rebus moved away, back toward the parking lot. He was just lighting up when another car appeared. The more the merrier, he thought to himself as DCI Macrae leaped out. He was dressed in what looked like a new suit. New tie, too, and a crisp white shirt. His hair was gray and sparse, face saggy, nose bulbous and red veined.

  He’s the same age as me, Rebus thought. Why does he seem so much older?

  “Afternoon, sir,” Rebus said.

  “Thought you were supposed to be at a funeral.” The tone was accusatory, as though Rebus might have fabricated a death in the family to secure a Friday sleep-in.

  “DS Clarke interrupted proceedings,” Rebus explained. “Thought I’d show my face.” Making it sound like a sacrifice. The words worked, too; Macrae’s tightened jaw relaxed a little.

  I’m on a roll, Rebus thought. First the SOCO, now the boss. Macrae had been pretty good actually, green-lighting a day off for Rebus as soon as news broke of Mickey’s death. He’d told Rebus to go get smashed, and Rebus had obliged—the Scotsman’s way of dealing with death. He’d found himself in a part of town he didn’t know, no idea how he got there. He walked into a drugstore and asked where he was. Answer: Colinton Village Pharmacy. He’d thanked them by making the purchase of some aspirin.

  “Sorry, John,” Macrae said now, taking a deep breath. “How did it go?” Trying to sound concerned.

  “It went” was all Rebus said. He watched the helicopter bank steeply as it turned for home.

  “Hope to Christ that wasn’t TV,” Macrae commented.

  “Not much to see, even supposing it was. Shame to tear you away from Glenrothes, sir. How’s Sorbus looking?”

  Operation Sorbus: the policing plan for G8 week. To Rebus, it sounded like something a dieter would use in his tea instead of sugar. Siobhan had set him straight, told him it was a kind of tree.

  “We’re prepared for any eventuality,” Macrae stated briskly.

  “Except maybe one,” Rebus felt it his duty to add.

  “Back burner till next week, John,” his boss muttered.

  Rebus nodded his agreement. “Always assuming they agree.”

  Macrae followed Rebus’s sight line and saw the car approaching. It was a silver Merc with tinted rear windows.

  “Probably means the chopper wasn’t TV,” Rebus added for Macrae’s benefit. He reached into his own car’s passenger seat and brought out what remained of a sandwich. Ham salad: the first had slipped down without touching the sides.

  “The hell’s this?” Macrae was asking through gritted teeth. The Merc had pulled to an abrupt stop beside one of the Scene of Crime vans. The driver’s door opened and a man got out. He walked around the car and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. It took several moments for the man inside to emerge. He was tall and narrow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. As he secured all three buttons of his suit coat, he seemed to be studying the two white vans and the three unmarked police cars. Eventually, he peered up at the sky, mouthed something to his driver, and stepped away from the vehicle. Instead of approaching Rebus and Macrae, he walked over to the signpost, the one informing tourists of the Clootie Well’s history. The driver was back behind his steering wheel, eyes on Rebus and Macrae. Rebus blew him a little kiss, content to stand there until the new arrival consented to make introductions. Again, he thought he knew the type: cold and calculating, making a show of being the real power. Had to be security of some kind, following up the chopper’s call.

  Macrae took only seconds to crack. Strode over to the man and asked him who he was.

  “I’m SO12, who the hell are you?” the man replied in a measured voice. Maybe he’d missed the briefing
s on friendly cooperation. English accent, Rebus noted. Stood to reason. SO12 was Special Branch, based in London. One step away from the spooks. “I mean,” the man went on, his interest still apparently concentrated on the signpost, “I know what you are. You’re CID. And those are Scene of Crime vans. And in a clearing just ahead of us there are men in white protective overalls making a detailed examination of the trees and ground.” Finally he turned toward Macrae and reached a slow hand to his own face to remove the sunglasses. “How am I doing so far?”

  Macrae’s face had reddened in anger. All day he’d been treated with the dignity that was his due. Now this.

  “Care to show some ID?” Macrae snapped. The man stared at him then gave a wry smile. Is that all you’ve got? the smile seemed to say. As he reached into his jacket, not bothering to unbutton it, his eyes shifted from Macrae to Rebus. The smile stayed, inviting Rebus to share its message. A small black leather wallet was held open for Macrae’s inspection.

  “There,” the man said, snapping it shut again. “Now you know all there is to know about me.”

  “You’re Steelforth,” Macrae said, clearing his throat between words. Rebus could see his boss had been thrown. Macrae turned toward him. “Commander Steelforth is in charge of G8 security,” he explained. But Rebus had already guessed as much. Macrae turned back to Steelforth. “I was in Glenrothes this morning, being given a tour courtesy of ACC Finnigan. And Gleneagles yesterday...” Macrae’s voice faltered. Steelforth was already moving away from him, toward Rebus.

  “Not interrupting your coronary, am I?” he asked, glancing at the sandwich. Rebus gave the belch he felt the query demanded. Steelforth’s eyes narrowed.

  “We can’t all be dining courtesy of the taxpayer,” Rebus said. “How is the food at Gleneagles, by the way?”

  “I doubt you’ll get the chance to find out, Detective Sergeant.”