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“What are you proposing?”
“We keep things low-key but do as much as we can. Forensics can make a full sweep by then. The one definite victim we have is an Edinburgh guy, no need to go disturbing the bigwigs.”
Corbyn studied her. “You’re a DS, am I right?”
Siobhan nodded.
“Bit junior to be heading something like this.” It didn’t sound like criticism; he was simply stating a fact.
“A DI from my station was with me, sir. We both worked the original inquiry.”
“How much help will you need?”
“I’m not sure much can be spared.”
Corbyn smiled. “It’s a sensitive time, DS Clarke.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m sure you do. And this DI of yours…he’s reliable?”
Siobhan nodded, maintaining eye contact, not blinking. Thinking: Maybe he’s too new to have heard of John Rebus…
“Happy to work a Sunday?” he asked.
“Absolutely. Not so sure about the SOCOs.”
“A word from me should help.” He grew thoughtful. “The march passed off without incident…perhaps we’ll have it easier than we feared.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes regained their focus. “Your accent’s English,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever given you problems?”
“A few gibes along the way.”
He nodded slowly. “All right.” Straightening his back. “See what you can get done before Wednesday. Any problems, let me know. But do try not to step on any toes.” He glanced in the direction of the civil servants.
“There’s an SO12 officer called Steelforth, sir. He may raise a few objections.”
Corbyn looked at his watch. “Direct him to my office.” He fixed his braided cap to his head. “Time I was elsewhere…You do realize the enormous responsibility…?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure your colleague gets the message.”
“He’ll understand, sir.”
He held out his hand. “Very well. Let’s shake on it, DS Clarke.”
They shook.
On the radio news, there was a report from the march and, in a postscript, mention that the death of international development minister Ben Webster was “being treated as a tragic accident.” The chief story, however, was the Hyde Park concert. Siobhan had heard plenty of complaints from the hordes gathered at the Meadows. They felt the pop stars would upstage them.
“Limelight and album sales, that’s what they’re after,” one man said. “Ego-tripping bastards…”
The latest estimate of numbers on the march was 225,000. Siobhan didn’t know how many were at the London concert, but she doubted it was even half that. The nighttime streets were busy with cars and pedestrians. Plenty of buses, too, heading south out of the city. Some of the shops and restaurants she passed had put signs in their windows: WE SUPPORT MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. WE ONLY USE FAIR TRADE PRODUCE. SMALL LOCAL RETAILER. MARCHERS WELCOME. There was graffiti, too: anarchy symbols and messages exhorting the passersby, Activ8, Agit8, Demonstr8. Another statement stated simply, Rome Wasn’t Sacked in One Day. She hoped the chief constable would be proved right, but there was a long way to go.
Buses were parked outside the Niddrie campsite. The tented village had grown. The same guard as the previous night was in charge. She asked him his name.
“Bobby Greig.”
“Bobby, I’m Siobhan. Looks busy tonight.”
He shrugged. “Maybe a couple of thousand. I guess that’s as busy as it’ll get.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Council’s spent a million on this place-could have given them all a hotel room for that, never mind a spot in the wilderness.” He nodded toward the car she’d just locked. “I see you’ve got a replacement.”
“Borrowed from the garage at St. Leonard ’s. Had any more trouble from the natives?”
“Nice and quiet,” he told her. “Dark now, mind…that’s when they come out to play. Know what it feels like in here?” He sca
Siobhan offered a smile. “That makes you mankind’s last great hope, Bobby. You should be flattered.”
“My shift ends at midnight!” he called after her as she made her way to her parents’ tent. There was no one home. She unzipped the opening and looked in. The table and stools had been folded away, sleeping bags rolled tight. She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and left a message. No sign of life in the surrounding tents either. Siobhan began to wonder if her mum and dad had maybe gone out drinking with Santal.
Santal: last seen at the demonstration in Buccleuch Place. Which meant she might be trouble…might get into trouble.
Listen to yourself, girl! Afraid your trendy leftist parents will be led astray!
She tutted to herself and decided to kill some time walking around the camp. It was little changed from the previous night: a strummed guitar, a cross-legged circle of singers, kids playing barefoot on the grass, cheap food doled out at the big tent. New arrivals, weary after the march, were being handed their wristbands and shown where to pitch camp. There was still some light left in the sky, making a startling silhouette of Arthur’s Seat. She thought maybe she would climb it tomorrow, take an hour to herself. The view from the top was a thrill. Always supposing she could afford an hour to herself. She knew she should call Rebus, let him know the score. He was probably still at home in front of the box. Time enough yet to give him the news.
“Saturday night, eh?” Bobby Greig said. He was standing just behind her, holding a flashlight and his two-way. “You should be out enjoying yourself.”
“Seems to be what my friends are up to.” She nodded in the direction of her parents’ tent.
“I’ll be having a drink myself when I finish,” he hinted.
“I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Hope you’re on overtime.”
“Thanks for the offer, though…maybe another night.”
He gave a huge shrug. “I’m trying not to feel rejected here.” His radio burst into life with a jolt of static. He raised it to his mouth. “Say again, tower.”
“Here they come again,” came the distorted voice.
Siobhan looked toward the fence, couldn’t make anything out. She followed Bobby Greig toward the gate. Yes: a dozen of them, hooded tops drawn tight around their heads, eyes shaded by baseball caps. No sign of weapons, other than a quart of cheap booze being passed among them. Half a dozen guards had gathered inside the gate, waiting for Greig to give the word. The gang outside was gesturing: Come and have a go. Greig stared back, seeming bored with the performance.
“Should we call it in?” one of the other security men asked.
“No sign of missiles,” Greig replied. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
The gang had steadily been approaching the fence. Siobhan recognized the one in the middle as the leader from Friday night. The mechanic at Rebus’s recommended workshop had said it might end up costing six hundred to fix her car.
“Insurance might do some of it” had been his only crumb of comfort. In reply she’d asked him if he’d ever heard of Keogh’s Garage, but he’d shaken his head.
“Can you ask around?”
He’d said he would do that, then had asked for a deposit. A hundred gone from her bank account, just like that. Five hundred still to go, and here were the culprits, not twenty feet from her. She wished she had Santal’s camera…fire off a few shots and see if anyone at Craigmillar CID could put names to faces. Had to be security cameras around here somewhere…maybe she could…
Sure she could. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“Off you go now,” Bobby Greig was calling out in a firm voice.
“Niddrie’s ours,” the leader spat. “It’s youse should fuck off!”
“Point taken, but we can’t do that.”
“Makes you feel big, eh? Playing babysitter to a bunch of scum.”
“Happy-clappy hippie shit,” one of his followers concurred.
“Thanks for sharing” was all Bobby Greig said.
The leader barked out a laugh; one of the gang spat at the fence. Another joined him.