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“Why are you giving me this?”
“My latent anarchic streak?” he pretended to guess.
“It might not even make the front page, not this week.”
“So?”
“Any week of the year except this…”
“Are you checking my gift horse’s mouth?”
“This stuff about the Web site…” She was sca
“It’s all kosher, Mairie. If you don’t have a use for it…” He held out his hand to take it back.
“What’s a ‘serial kilter’? Is that someone who can’t stop making kilts?”
“Give it back.”
“Who is it that’s pissed you off?” she asked with a smile. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”
“Just hand it over and we’ll say no more.”
But she slid the page back into the envelope and folded it into her pocket. “If things stay calm for the rest of the day, maybe my editor can be persuaded.”
“Stress the link with the Web site,” Rebus advised. “Might help the others on the list be a bit more cautious.”
“They’ve not been told?”
“Haven’t got around to it. And if the chief constable gets his way, they won’t find out till next week.”
“By which time the killer could strike again?”
Rebus nodded.
“So really you’re doing this to save these scuzzballs’ lives?”
“To protect and serve,” Rebus said, trying another salute.
“And not because you’ve had a falling-out with the chief constable?”
Rebus shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in her. “And I thought I was the one with the cynical streak…You’ll really keep looking at Richard Pe
“For a little while longer.” She waved the sheet of paper at him. “Got to retype all of this first though. Didn’t realize English wasn’t your first language.”
Siobhan had headed home and run a bath, closing her eyes after getting in, then waking with a jolt, chin touching the surface of the tepid water. She’d gotten out and changed her clothes, ordered a taxi, and headed for the garage where her car was ready. She’d driven to Niddrie, trusting that lightning wouldn’t strike twice…actually, three times, though she’d managed to get the St. Leonard’s loaner back to its berth without anyone spotting her. If anyone came asking, she could always say the damage must have been done in the car lot.
There was a single-decker bus idling next to the pavement, its driver busy with his newspaper. A few campers passed Siobhan on their way out to it, knapsacks bulging. They gave sleepy smiles. Bobby Greig was watching them leave. Siobhan looked around and saw that others were busy dismantling their tents.
“Saturday was our busiest night,” Greig explained. “Each day since has been a bit quieter.”
“You didn’t have to turn people away then?”
His mouth twitched. “Facilities for fifteen thousand, and only two could be bothered to show.” He paused. “Your ‘friends’ didn’t come home last night.” The way he said it let her know he’d worked something out.
“My parents,” she confirmed.
“And why didn’t you want me to know that?”
“I’m not sure, Bobby. Maybe I didn’t think a cop’s mum and dad would be safe here.”
“So they’re staying with you?”
She shook her head. “One of the riot police cracked my mum across her face. She spent the night in a hospital bed.”
“Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”
She shook her head again. “Any more trouble with the locals?”
“Another standoff last night.”
“Persistent little jerks, aren’t they?”
“Councilman happened by again and made the truce.”
“Tench?”
Greig nodded. “He was showing a bigwig around. Some urban regeneration thing.”
“Area could use it. What sort of bigwig?”
Greig shrugged. “Government.” He ran his fingers over his shaved head. “This place’ll be dead soon. Good riddance to it.”
Siobhan didn’t ask if he meant the camp or Niddrie itself. She turned and made for her parents’ tent. Unzipped the flap and looked inside. Everything was intact, but with a few additions. It looked as if those who were moving out had decided to leave gifts of leftover food, candles, and water.
“Where are they?”
Siobhan recognized Santal’s voice. She backed out of the tent and straightened up. Santal, too, was toting a knapsack and holding a bottle of water.
“Heading out?” Siobhan asked.
“Bus to Stirling. I wanted to say good-bye.”
“You’re off to the Peace Camp?” Siobhan watched Santal’s braids flex as she nodded. “Were you at Princes Street yesterday?”
“Last time I saw your parents. What’s happened to them?”
“Someone belted my mum. She’s in the hospital.”
“Christ, that’s hellish…Was it…” She paused. “One of your lot?”
“One of my lot,” Siobhan echoed. “And I want him caught. Lucky you’re still here.”
“Why?”
“Did you get any film? I thought maybe I could look at it.”
But Santal was shaking her head.
“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured her, “I’m not looking to…It’s the uniforms I’m interested in, not the demonstration itself.” But Santal kept shaking her head.
“I didn’t have my camera.” A bald lie.
“Come on, Santal. Surely you want to help.”
“Plenty of others taking photos.” She gestured around the camp with an outstretched arm. “Ask them.”
“I’m asking you.”
“The bus is leaving…” She pushed her way past Siobhan.
“Any message for my mum?” Siobhan called after her. “Shall I bring them to see you at the Peace Camp?” But the figure kept moving. Siobhan cursed under her breath. Should have known better: to Santal she was still a pig, the filth, the cops. Still the enemy. She found herself standing beside Bobby Greig as the bus filled, its door closing with a hiss of air. The sound of communal singing came from inside. A few of the passengers waved out at Greig. He waved back.
“Not a bad bunch,” he observed to Siobhan, offering her a piece of gum, “for hippies, I mean.” Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Got a ticket for tomorrow night?”
“Failed in the attempt,” she admitted.
“My firm’s doing security…”
She stared at him. “You’ve got a spare?”
“Not exactly, but I’ll be there, meaning you could be ‘plus one.’”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not a date or anything…offer’s there if you want it.”
“It’s very generous, Bobby.”
“Up to you.” He was looking everywhere but at her.
“Can I take your number, let you know tomorrow?”
“Thinking something better might come up?”
She shook her head. “Work might come up,” she corrected him.
“Everyone’s allowed a night off, DS Clarke.”
“Call me Siobhan,” she insisted.
“Where are you?” Rebus asked into the cell.
“On my way to the Scotsman.”
“What’s at the Scotsman?”
“More photos.”
“Your phone’s been switched off.”
“I needed to charge it.”
“Well, I’ve just been taking a statement from Tornupinside.”
“Who?”
“I told you yesterday…” But then he remembered that she’d had other things on her mind. So he explained again about the blog and how he’d sent a message, and Ellen Wylie had called back…
“Whoa, back up,” Siobhan said. “Our Ellen Wylie?”
“Wrote a long and angry piece for BeastWatch.”
“But why?”
“Because the system’s letting the sisterhood down,” Rebus answered.
“Are those her exact words?”
“I’ve got them on tape. Of course, the one thing I don’t have is corroboration, since there was no one around to assist with the interview.”
“Sorry about that. So is Ellen a suspect?”
“Listen to the tape, then you can tell me.” Rebus looked around the CID room. The windows needed a clean, but what was the point when all they looked down on was the rear parking lot? A lick of paint would cheer up the walls, but soon be covered by scene-of-crime photos and victim details.
“Maybe it’s because of her sister,” Siobhan was saying.
“What?”
“Ellen’s sister Denise.”
“What about her?”
“She moved in with Ellen a year or so back…maybe a bit less actually. Left her partner.”