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“I wasn’t-my company was.”
“What’s your interest in debt relief, sir?”
But Pe
“Nice to have Commander Steelforth on your team…”
Pe
“Still, it’s nice that he took the trouble.” Rebus could have added because it means I’ve got him rattled.
“You’re aware, of course, of how much flak you might get if I were to report this intrusion?”
“We’re just enjoying a cup of tea, sir,” Rebus said. “Far as I’m aware, you’re the one doing the intruding.”
Pe
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
Pe
“Of arms,” Mairie stated.
“Of technology,” Pe
Mairie slumped onto a sofa, which creaked beneath her, as if unused to such mistreatment.
“Bloody hell,” she said, pouring out some tea. Rebus could smell the peppermint. He poured himself some coffee from the small carafe.
“Remind me,” he said, “how much is this whole thing costing?”
“The G8?” She waited till he’d nodded, puffed out her cheeks as she tried to remember. “A hundred and fifty?”
“As in millions?”
“As in millions.”
“And all so businessmen like Mr. Pe
“There might be a bit more to it than that.” Mairie was smiling. “But you’re right in a sense: the decisions have already been made.”
“So what’s Gleneagles all about but a few nice di
“Putting Scotland on the map?” she offered.
“Aye, right.” Rebus finished his coffee. “Maybe we should stay for lunch, see if we can rile Pe
“Sure you can afford it?”
Rebus looked around him. “Which reminds me, that flunky’s not come back with my change.”
“Change?” Mairie gave a laugh. Rebus caught her meaning and decided he was going to drain the carafe to its last drop.
According to the TV news, central Edinburgh was a war zone.
Half past two on a Monday afternoon. Normally, there would have been shoppers in Princes Street, laden with purchases; people in the adjacent gardens, enjoying a promenade or resting on one of the commemorative benches.
But not today.
The newsroom cut to protests at the Faslane Naval Base, home to Britain ’s four Trident-class submarines. The place was under siege from about two thousand demonstrators. Police in Fife had been handed control of the Forth Road Bridge for the first time in its history. Cars heading north were being stopped and searched. Roads out of the capital had been blocked by sit-down protests. There had been scuffles near the Peace Camp in Stirling.
And a riot was kicking off in Princes Street. Baton-wielding police making their presence felt. They carried circular shields of a kind Siobhan hadn’t seen before. The area around Ca
“They’re trying to start a fight,” Eric Bain said. He’d come to Gayfield to show her what little he’d been able to find so far.
“It could have waited till after you’d seen Mrs. Jensen,” she’d told him, to which all he’d done was shrug.
They were alone in the CID office. “See what they’re doing?” Bain asked, pointing at the screen. “A rioter wades in, then backs off. The nearest cop raises his billy club, and the papers get a photo of him striking out at some poor guy who’s first in line. Meantime, the real troublemaker is tucked away somewhere behind, ready to do the same thing again.”
Siobhan nodded. “Makes it look like we’re being heavy-handed.”
“Which is what the rioters want.” He folded his arms. “They’ve learned a few tricks since Genoa.”
“But so have we,” Siobhan said. “Containment, for one thing. That’s four hours now the group in Ca
Back in the studio, one of the presenters had a live feed to Midge Ure. He was telling the troublemakers to go home.
“Shame none of them are watching,” Bain commented.
“Are you going to speak with Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan hinted.
“Yes, boss. How hard should I push her?”
“I’ve already warned we could set her for obstruction. Remind her of that.” Siobhan wrote the Jensens’ address on a sheet of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over. Bain’s attention was back on the TV screen. More live pictures from Princes Street. Some protesters had climbed onto the Scott Monument. Others scrambled over the railings into the gardens. Kicks were aimed at shields. Divots of earth were being thrown. Benches and trash cans were next.
“This is getting bad,” Bain muttered. The screen flickered. A new location: Torphichen Street, site of the city’s West End police station. Sticks and bottles were being hurled. “Glad we’re not stuck there” was all Bain said.
“No, we’re stuck here instead.”
He looked at her. “You’d rather be in the thick of things?”
She shrugged, stared at the screen. Someone was calling into the studio by cell phone, a shopper, trapped like so many others in the branch of British Home Stores on Princes Street.
“We’re just bystanders,” the woman was shrieking. “All we want to do is get out, but the police are treating us all the same, mothers with babies, old folk…”
“You’re saying the police are overreacting?” the journalist in the studio asked. Siobhan used the remote to change cha
“That’s Kidnapped,” Bain said. “Brilliant.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, finding another of the news cha
“That reminds me,” Bain said, “I had Rebus on the phone, asking how an out-of-service number could still be active.”
Siobhan looked at him. “Did he say why?” Bain shook his head. “So what did you tell him?”
“You can clone the SIM card, or specify outgoing calls only.” He gave a shrug. “All kinds of ways to do it.”
Siobhan nodded, eyes back on the TV screen. Bain ran a hand across the back of his neck.
“So what did you think of Molly?” he asked.
“You’re a lucky man, Eric.”
He gave a huge grin. “Pretty much my thinking.”
“But tell me,” Siobhan asked, hating herself for being led down this route, “does she always twitch so much?”
Bain’s grin melted away.
“Sorry, Eric, that was out of order.”
“She said she likes you,” he confided. “She’s not got a bad bone in her body.”