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“You make it sound like Apocalypse Now,” Rebus said. His cell sounded and he moved away a little. Caller ID: Siobhan.
“What can I do for you?” he said into the phone.
“I need a drink,” her voice explained.
“Trouble with the folks?”
“My car’s been vandalized.”
“Catch them in the act?”
“In a ma
“Tempting, but I’m on something. Tell you what, though…”
“What?”
“We could rendezvous at the Balmoral.”
“Spending your overtime?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Fine.” He snapped shut the phone.
“Tragedy runs in that family,” Tam was musing.
“Which one?”
The SOCO nodded in the direction of the corpse. “Mum was attacked a few years back, died as a result.” He paused. “Think something could prey on your mind all that time?”
“Just needs the right trigger,” one of the morgue attendants added.
Everyone, Rebus decided, was a bloody psychologist these days.
He decided to leave the car and walk; quicker than trying to negotiate the barriers again. He was at Waverley in minutes; had to clamber over a couple of obstacles. Some unlucky tourists had just arrived by train. No taxis to be had, so they stood behind the railings, bemused and abandoned. He gave them a body swerve, turned the corner into Princes Street, and was outside the Balmoral Hotel. Some locals still called it the North British, though it had changed its name years back. Its large, illuminated clock tower still ran a few minutes fast, so passengers would be sure to catch their train. A uniformed doorman ushered Rebus inside, where a keen-eyed concierge immediately marked him as trouble of some kind.
“How can I be of assistance this evening, sir?”
Rebus held out his ID in one hand, key card in the other. “I need to take a look at this room.”
“And why’s that, Inspector?”
“Seems the guest checked out early.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I daresay someone else is picking up his tab. Actually, that’s something you could look into for me.”
“I’ll need to clear it with the manager.”
“Fine. Meantime, I’ll be upstairs.” He waved the key card.
“I need to clear that, too, I’m afraid.”
Rebus took a step back, the better to size up his opponent. “How long will it take?”
“Just need to track down the manager…couple of minutes is all.” Rebus followed him to the reception desk. “Sara, is Angela about?”
“Think she went upstairs. I’ll page her.”
“And I’ll check the office,” the concierge told Rebus, moving off again. Rebus waited and watched as the receptionist punched numbers into her phone before putting down the receiver. She looked up at him and smiled. She knew something was up, and wanted to know more.
“Guest just dropped dead,” Rebus obliged.
Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible.”
“Mr. Webster, room two fourteen. Was he here on his own?”
Her fingers busied themselves on her keyboard. “Double room, but just the one key issued. I don’t think I remember him…”
“Is there a home address?”
“ London,” she stated.
Rebus guessed this would be a weekday pied-à-terre. He was leaning across the reception desk, trying to seem casual, unsure how many questions he’d get away with. “Was he paying by credit card, Sara?”
She studied her screen. “All charges to-” She broke off, aware that the concierge was approaching.
“All charges to…?” Rebus nudged.
“Inspector,” the concierge was calling, sensing something was going on.
Sara’s phone was ringing. She lifted the receiver. “Reception,” she trilled. “Oh, hello, Angela. There’s another policeman here…”
Another?
“Will you come down, or shall I send him up?”
The concierge was behind Rebus now. “I’ll take the inspector up,” he told Sara.
Another policeman…Up…Rebus was getting a bad feeling. When the elevator doors signaled that they were opening, he turned toward the sound. Watched David Steelforth step out. The Special Branch man gave the begi
“That’s definitely out of order,” the concierge hissed. His grip was vise-like. Rebus decided the man had seen some action in his time; decided not to make an issue of it. He lifted his hand from the monitor. Sara swung it back toward her.
“You can let go now,” Rebus said. The concierge released his grip. Sara was staring at him in shock, the phone still held in one hand. Rebus turned to Steelforth.
“You’re going to tell me I can’t see room two fourteen.”
“Not at all.” Steelforth’s smile broadened. “But the manager is. That’s her prerogative, after all.”
As if on command, Sara put the phone to her ear. “She’s on her way,” she said.
“I’ll bet she is.” Rebus’s eyes were still on Steelforth, but there was another figure a little way behind him: Siobhan. “Bar still open, is it?” Rebus asked the concierge. The man desperately wanted to say no, but the lie would have been blatant. He gave a little nod instead. “I won’t ask you to join me,” Rebus said to Steelforth. He brushed past both men and climbed the steps to the Palm Court. Stood at the bar and waited for Siobhan to catch up. He took a deep breath and reached into his jacket for a cigarette.
“Little problem with the management?” Siobhan asked.
“You saw our friend from SO12?”
“Nice perks they get in Special Branch.”
“I don’t know if he’s staying here, but a guy called Ben Webster was.”
“The Labor MP?”
“That’s the one.”
“I feel there’s a story behind this.” Her shoulders seemed to slump a little, and Rebus remembered that she, too, had had adventures this evening.
“You go first,” he insisted. The barman had placed bowls of nibbles in front of them. “ Highland Park for me,” Rebus told him. “Vodka tonic for the lady.” Siobhan nodded her agreement. As the barman turned away, Rebus reached for one of the paper napkins. Took a pen from his pocket and jotted something down. Siobhan angled her head to get a better look.
“Who or what is Pe
“Whoever they are, they’ve got deep pockets and a London postal code.” From the corner of his eye, Rebus could see Steelforth watching from the doorway. He made a show of waving the napkin at him before folding and pocketing it.
“So who was it that attacked your car-CND, Greenpeace, Stop the War?”
“Niddrie,” Siobhan stated. “More specifically, the Niddrie Young Team.”
“Think we can persuade the G8 to list them as a terror cell?”
“Few thousand marines would sort things nicely.”
“Sadly, however, Niddrie has yet to strike oil.” Rebus reached a hand out toward the tumbler of whiskey. Slightest of tremors, that was all. Toasted his drinking partner, the G8, and the marines…and would have toasted Steelforth, too.
Had the doorway not been empty.
Saturday, July 2, 2005