The Naming of the Dead

But then she was already the loser, wasn’t she?

“And so much fun to be around,” she muttered to herself, rising to a crouch and stretching out a hand toward the nearest towel.

It didn’t take her long to pack-same bag she’d taken with her to Stirling. And even though she wouldn’t be staying the night, she dropped in her toothbrush and toothpaste anyway. Maybe once she was in the car, she’d just keep on driving. If she ran out of land, she could always take a ferry to Orkney. That was the thing about a car-it gave the illusion of freedom. The ads always played on that sense of adventure and discovery, but in her case ” would be more accurate.

“Not doing that,” she explained to the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. She’d said as much to Rebus, told him she could take her own medicine.

Not that Cafferty was medicine-more like poison.

She knew the route she should take: go see James Corbyn and tell him how badly she’d messed up, then end up back in uniform as a result.

“I’m a good copper,” she told the mirror, trying to imagine how she would explain it to her dad…her dad who’d become so proud of her. And to her mother, who’d told her it didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter who’d hit her.

And just why had it mattered so much to Siobhan? Not really because of the anger at thinking it might be another cop, but because she could use it to prove she was good at her job.

“A good cop,” she repeated quietly. And then, wiping steam from the mirror: “Despite all the evidence to the contrary.”

Second and final detour: Craigmillar police station. McManus was already at work.

“Conscientious,” Rebus said, walking into the CID office. There was no else about as yet. McManus was dressed casually-sports shirt and denims.

“What does that make you?” McManus asked, wetting a finger so he could turn the page of the report he was reading.

“Autopsy results?” Rebus guessed.

McManus nodded. “I’m just back.”

“Déjà vu all over again,” Rebus commented. “I was in your shoes last Saturday-Ben Webster.”

“No wonder Professor Gates looked miffed-two Saturdays in a row.”

By now Rebus was standing next to McManus’s desk. “Any conclusions?”

“Serrated knife, seven eighths of an inch in width. Gates figures you’d find them in most kitchens.”

“He’s right. Is Keith Carberry still on the premises?”

“You know the drill, Rebus: after six hours, we charge or throw out.”

“Meaning you’ve not charged him?”

McManus looked up from the report. “He denies any involvement. Even has an alibi-he was playing pool at the time, seven or eight witnesses.”

“All of them doubtless good friends of his.”

McManus just shrugged. “Plenty of knives in his mum’s kitchen, but no sign any of them’s missing. We’ve lifted the lot for analysis.”

“And Carberry’s clothes?”

“Went through those, too. No traces of blood.”

“Meaning they’ve been disposed of, same as the knife.”

McManus leaned back in his chair. “Whose investigation is this, Rebus?”

Rebus held up his hands in surrender. “Just thinking aloud. Who was it interviewed Carberry?”

“I did it myself.”

“You think he’s guilty?”

“He seemed genuinely shocked when we told him about Tench. But just behind those nasty blue eyes of his, I thought I could see something else.”

“What?”

“He was scared.”

“Because he’d been found out?”

McManus shook his head. “Scared to say anything.”

Rebus turned away, not wanting McManus to see anything behind his eyes. Say Carberry didn’t do it…was Cafferty himself suddenly in the frame again? The young man scared because that was his thinking, too…and if Cafferty had struck at Tench, would Keith himself be next?

“Did you ask him about tailing the councilman?”

“Admitted waiting for him. Said he wanted to thank him.”

“For what?” Rebus turned to face McManus again.

“Moral support after he was bailed for fighting.”

Rebus gave a snort. “You believe that?”

“Not necessarily, but it wasn’t grounds to hold him indefinitely.” McManus paused. “Thing is…when we told him he could go, he was reluctant-tried not to show it, but he was. Looked to left and right as he walked out of the door, as though expecting something. Fairly hared away, too.” McManus paused again. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Rebus?”

Rebus nodded. “Hare rather than fox.”

“Along those lines, yes. Makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I’d still have him down as a suspect.”

“Agreed.” McManus rose from his chair, fixed Rebus with a look. “But is he the only one we should be speaking to?”

“Councilmen make enemies,” Rebus stated.

“According to the widow, Tench counted you among them.”

“She’s mistaken.”

McManus ignored this and concentrated on folding his arms instead. “She also thinks the family home was being watched-not by Keith Carberry though. Description she gave was a silver-haired man in a big, posh car. Does that sound to you like Big Ger Cafferty?”

Rebus shrugged a reply.

“Another little story I hear…” McManus was approaching Rebus. “Concerns you and a man answering that same description at a meeting in a church hall, just a few days back. The councilman had a few words with this third man. Care to enlighten me?”

He was close enough for Rebus to feel his breath on his cheek. “Case like this,” he speculated, “you’ll always get stories.”

McManus just smiled. “I’ve never had a case like this, Rebus. Gareth Tench was loved and admired-plenty of friends of his out there, angry at their loss and wanting answers. Some of them packing all sorts of clout…clout they’ve promised to share with me.”

“That’s nice for you.”

“An offer I’d find it very hard to refuse,” McManus went on. “Meaning this might be the only chance I’ll be able to give.” He took a step back. “So, DI Rebus, having apprised you of the situation…is there anything at all you want to tell me?”

There was no way to land Cafferty in it without embroiling Siobhan. Before he could do anything, he had to be sure she’d be safe.

“Don’t think so,” he said, folding his own arms. McManus nodded toward the gesture.

“Sure sign you’ve got something to hide.”

“Really?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. “How about you then?” He turned and headed for the door, leaving McManus to wonder just when it was exactly that he’d decided to fold his own arms.

Nice day for a drive, even if he spent half the journey behind a truck. South to Dalkeith and from there to Coldstream. At Dun Law, he passed a wind farm, turbines on either side of the road-it was as close as he’d ever come to them. Sheep and cattle grazing, and plenty of roadkill: pheasants and hares. Birds of prey hovering overhead, or peering intently from fence posts. Fifty miles and he hit Coldstream, passed through the town and over a bridge, finding himself suddenly in England. A road sign told him he was only sixty miles north of Newcastle. He turned at a hotel parking lot and headed back across the border, parking curbside. There was a police station, cleverly disguised as just another gabled house with a blue wooden door. The sign told him it was only open weekdays, nine till twelve. Coldstream’s main drag was dominated by bars and small shops. Day-trippers took up most of the space on the narrow pavements. A single-decker bus from Lesmahagow was pouring out its chatty cargo at the Ram’s Head. Rebus beat them inside and demanded a half of Best. Looking around, he saw that the tables had been reserved for lunch. There were sandwiches behind the bar, and he asked for cheese and pickle.

“We’ve soup, too,” the barmaid informed him. “Cock-a-leekie.”

“Ca

She gave a tut. “Would I poison you with that muck?”

“Go on then,” he said with a smile. She called his order out to the kitchen and he gave his spine a stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck.