The Naming Of The Dead (2006) Read Free Page A

when they weren’t aired, when the damp and the mildew got to them. The trees around him were strung with rags and remnants. Pieces had fallen to the ground, where they were decomposing to a mulch.
    “Tradition has it,” Siobhan said quietly, “they were left here for good luck. Keep the sprites warm, and they’d see no harm came to you. Another theory: when kids died young, their parents left something here, by way of remembrance.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.
    “I’m not made of glass,” Rebus assured her. “You can use words like remembrance —I’m not going to start blubbing.”
    She nodded again. Rebus was walking around the clearing. Leaves and soft moss underfoot, and the sound of a stream, just a thin trickle of water pushing up from the ground. Candles and coins had been left by its edges.
    “Not much of a well,” he commented.
    She just shrugged. “I was here a few minutes...didn’t really warm to the atmosphere. But then I noticed some of the newer clothing.” Rebus saw it too. Strung from the branches. A shawl, overalls, a red polka-dot handkerchief. A nearly new sneaker, its laces dangling. Even underwear and what looked like children’s stockings.
    “Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus muttered, not really knowing what else to say. The smell seemed to be growing stronger. He had another flashback to a ten-day bender many years before, coming out of it to find that a load of laundry had been sitting in the machine, waiting to be hung. When he’d opened the door, this same smell had hit him. He’d washed everything again but still had to throw it all away afterward. “And the jacket?”
    All she did was point. Rebus walked slowly toward the tree in question. The piece of nylon had been pierced by a short branch. It swayed just a little in the breeze. Threads straggling from it but no mistaking the logo.
    “CC Rider,” Rebus said in confirmation. Siobhan was running her hands through her hair. He knew she had questions, knew she would have been turning them over in her mind all the time she’d been waiting for him. “So what do we do?” he prompted.
    “It’s a crime scene,” she began. “A team is on the way from Stirling. We need to secure the site, comb the area for evidence. We need to reassemble the original murder squad, start going door to door locally—”
    “Including Gleneagles?” Rebus interrupted. “You’re the expert, so you tell me: how many times has the hotel staff been vetted? And how do we go about knocking on doors in the middle of a weeklong demonstration? Securing the site won’t be a problem, mind you, not with all the secret service teams we’re about to welcome...”
    Naturally she had considered all these points. He knew as much and his voice trailed off.
    “We keep it quiet till the summit’s over,” she suggested.
    “Tempting,” he admitted.
    She smiled. “Only because it gives you a head start.”
    He admitted as much with a wink.
    She sighed. “Macrae needs to be told. Which means he’ll tell Tayside Police.”
    “But the SOCOs are coming from Stirling,” Rebus added, “and Stirling belongs to Central Region.”
    “So that’s just the three police forces who need to know....Shouldn’t have any trouble keeping it under wraps.”
    Rebus was looking around. “If we can at least get the scene checked and photographed...take the cloth back to the lab...”
    “Before the fun and games start?”
    Rebus puffed out his cheeks. “Kicks off on Wednesday, right?”
    “The G8 does, yes. But there’s the Poverty March tomorrow and another planned for Monday.”
    “In Edinburgh, though, not Auchterarder.” Then he saw what she was getting at. Even with the evidence at the lab, the whole place could be under siege. Getting from Gayfield Square to the lab at Howdenhall meant crossing the city, always supposing the technicians had managed to force their way into work.
    “Why leave it here?” Siobhan asked, studying the patch again.