“He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month-actually, probably more like two-but there were texts, e-mails…” She took a drag on the cigarette.

“He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.

“Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”

“Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.

She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power-a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”

“He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.

“Oh, yes.”

“And the futility?”

She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder bag, handed Rebus a business card. Nothing on it but her name-Stacey Webster-and a cell number.

“How long have you been in the police, Stacey?”

“Eight years. The last three at Scotland Yard.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’ll have questions for me: did Ben have any enemies? Money problems? Relationships gone bad? Maybe later, eh? A day or so, give me a call.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing in the…?” She had trouble getting the next word out; sucked in some air and tried again. “Nothing to suggest he didn’t just fall?”

“He’d had a glass or two of wine-might’ve made him woozy.”

“Nobody saw anything?”

Rebus offered a shrug. “Sure I can’t give you a lift?”

She shook her head. “I need to walk.”

“Word of advice: steer clear of the parade route. Maybe I’ll see you again…and I really am sorry about Ben.”

Her eyes bored into his. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”

He almost opened up to her-I left my own brother in a box only yesterday-but gave a twitch of the mouth instead. She might have started asking questions: Were you close? Are you okay? Questions he didn’t really know the answers to. He watched her start her long and lonely walk along Cowgate, then went back inside for the autopsy’s closing act.

4

By the time Siobhan arrived at the Meadows, the line of waiting marchers stretched all the way down the side of the old infirmary and across the playing fields to where the rows of buses sat. Someone with a megaphone was warning that it might be two hours before those at the back of the line actually started moving.

“It’s the pigs,” someone explained. “Only letting us go in batches of forty or fifty.”

Siobhan had been about to defend the tactic but knew it would give her away. She moved down the patient line, wondering how she was expected to meet her parents. There had to be a hundred thousand people here, maybe even double that. She’d never known a crowd like it; T in the Park only got sixty thousand. The local soccer derby might attract eighteen on a good day. New Year’s Eve in and around Princes Street, you could get close to a hundred.

This was bigger.

And everyone was smiling.

Hardly a uniform to be seen; not many security guys either. Families streaming down from Morningside and Tollcross and Newington. She’d bumped into half a dozen acquaintances and neighbors. The lord provost was leading the procession. Some said Gordon Brown was there, too. Later, he’d be addressing a rally, the police protection squad in attendance, though Operation Sorbus had graded him low risk due to his active pronouncements on aid and fair trade. She’d been shown a list of celebrities who were expected to hit the city: Geldof and Bono, of course; maybe Ewan McGregor (who was due at an event in Dunblane anyway); Julie Christie; Claudia Schiffer; George Clooney; Susan Sarandon…Having worked her way down the line, Siobhan headed for the main stage. A band was playing, a few people were dancing enthusiastically. Most just sat on the grass and watched. The small tented village nearby offered activities for children, first aid, petitions, and exhibits. Crafts were being sold, flyers handed out. One of the tabloids seemed to have been distributing MAKE POVERTY HISTORY placards. Recipients were now tearing off the top section of each placard, removing the tabloid’s masthead. Helium-filled balloons rose into the sky. A makeshift brass band was circumnavigating the field, followed by an African steel band. More dancing; more smiles. She knew then, knew that it was going to be all right. There’d be no riots today, not on this march.

She looked at her cell. No messages. She’d tried her parents twice, but they weren’t answering. So she commenced another tour of the site. A smaller stage had been erected in front of a stationary open-topped bus. There were TV cameras here, and people were being interviewed. She recognized Pete Postlethwaite and Billy Boyd; caught a glimpse of Billy Bragg. The actor she really wanted to see was Gael García Bernal, just in case he really did look as good in the flesh…

The lines at the vegetarian food vans were longer than the one for burgers. She’d been vegetarian herself at one time but had lapsed several years back, blaming Rebus and the bacon rolls he’d kept wafting in her face. She thought of texting him, dragging him down here. What else would he be doing? Either slumped on the sofa or resting on a stool at the Oxford Bar. But she sent a text to her parents instead, then headed toward the waiting lines again. Banners had been hoisted high, whistles were being blown, drums beaten. All that energy in the air…Rebus would say it was being wasted. He’d say the political deals had already been done. And he’d be right: the guys at Sorbus HQ had told her as much. Gleneagles was for private confabs and public photo ops. The real business had been thrashed out in advance by lesser mortals, chief among them the chancellor of the exchequer. All of it done on the quiet and ratified by eight signatures on the final day of the G8.

“And how much is it all costing?” Siobhan had wondered.

“A hundred and fifty mil, give or take.”

The answer had produced a sharp intake of breath from DCI Macrae. Siobhan had pursed her lips, saying nothing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” her informant had continued. “Same sort of money buys a lot of vaccine…”

Every path across the Meadows was now four-deep with waiting marchers. A new line had formed, stretching back to the tennis courts and Buccleuch Street. As Siobhan squeezed her way past, still no sign of her parents, she caught a blur of color at the edge of her vision. Bright yellow jackets hurrying down Meadow Lane. She followed them, rounding the corner into Buccleuch Place.

And was stopped dead.

Sixty or so black-clad demonstrators had been encircled by double that number of police. The protesters had air horns, which rasped a deafening complaint. They wore sunglasses, black scarves muffling their faces. Some wore hooded tops. Black combat pants and boots, a few bandannas. They didn’t carry signs, and none of them were smiling. Riot shields were all that separated them from the police lines. Someone had spray-painted the anarchist symbol on at least one translucent shield. The mass of demonstrators pressed forward, demanding access to the Meadows. But police tactics said different: containment above all else. A demonstration contained was a demonstration controlled. Siobhan was impressed; her colleagues had to have known the protesters were on their way. They’d taken up position fast and weren’t about to let the situation develop any further than here and now. There were a few other bystanders, torn between this spectacle and a need to join the march. Some of them had their camera phones out. Siobhan looked around, making sure no fresh intake of riot officers tried corralling her. The voices from within the cordon seemed foreign, maybe Spanish or Italian. She knew some of the names: Ya Basta, Black Bloc. No sign of anything as outlandish as the Wombles or Rebel Clown Army. Her hand went into her pocket, clutching her ID. Wanted to be ready to show it if things got heated. Helicopter hovering overhead, and a uniformed officer videotaping proceedings from the steps of one of the university buildings. He scanned the street with his camera, pausing on her for a moment before moving on to the other bystanders. But Siobhan was suddenly aware of another camera, focused on him. Santal was inside the cordon, recording everything with her own digital video. She was dressed like the others, backpack slung over one shoulder, concentrating on her task rather than joining in with the chants and slogans. The demonstrators wanted their own record: to watch later and enjoy; so they could learn police tactics and how to counter them; and just in case of-maybe even in the hope of-heavy-handedness. They were media savvy, counted lawyers among their activist friends. Film from Genoa had been beamed around the world. No reason fresh film of violent policing wouldn’t be just as efficacious.