“That’s right.” He accepted some tea and sat down next to Molly. She slid an arm protectively around him, stretching the material of her T-shirt, further accentuating her breasts. Rebus concentrated all the harder on Bain. “Been busy with G8,” he was saying, “sifting intelligence reports.”

“What sort of stuff?” Rebus asked, getting up as if to stretch his legs. With Bain on the sofa, it was getting crowded there. He began sauntering toward the computer.

“The secret sort,” Bain replied.

“Come across anyone called Steelforth?”

“Should I have?”

“He’s SO12…seems to be running the show.”

But Bain just shook his head slowly and asked them what they wanted. Siobhan handed him the sheet of paper.

“It’s a Web site,” she explained. “Might suddenly disappear. We need everything you can get: subscription lists, anyone who’s been looking at it, maybe downloading stuff…”

“That’s a big ask…”

“I know it is, Eric.” The way she said his name seemed to hit a nerve. He got up and walked to the window, perhaps to hide from Molly the flush of color that had risen up his neck.

Rebus had picked up a piece of paper from beside the computer. It was a letter, headed Axios Systems, signed by someone called Tasos Symeonides. “Sounds Greek,” he said. Eric Bain seemed relieved to be changing the subject.

“Based right here,” he said. “An IT outfit.”

Rebus wafted the letter in front of him. “Sorry to be nosy, Eric…”

“It’s a job offer,” Molly explained. “Eric gets them all the time.” She had risen to her feet and crossed to the window, sliding an arm around Bain. “I have to keep persuading him that his police work is crucial.”

Rebus put the letter back and returned to the sofa. “Any chance of a refill?” he asked. Molly was happy to pour. Bain seized the moment, fixed Siobhan with a stare, dozens of unspoken words transmitted in a few seconds.

“Lovely,” Rebus said, accepting a bit of milk. Molly was seated next to him again.

“How soon could it be shut down?” Bain asked.

“I don’t know,” Siobhan admitted.

“Tonight?”

“More likely tomorrow.”

Bain studied the piece of paper. “All right,” he said.

“Isn’t this nice?” Rebus seemed to be asking the question of the whole room, but Molly wasn’t listening. She’d slapped both of her hands to her face, mouth falling open.

“I forgot the biscuits!” She jumped back to her feet. “How could I have done that? And nobody said…” She turned to Bain. “You could have said!” Color was flushing her cheeks as she flew from the room.

And for the first time Rebus realized that the place wasn’t just tidy.

It was neurotically so.

7

Siobhan had watched the procession, with its anti-war chants and banners. The route was lined with police waiting for trouble. Siobhan caught the sweet smell of cannabis in her nostrils, but doubted anyone would be arrested for it: the Sorbus briefings had said as much.

If they’re shooting up as they pass you, take them in; otherwise, let it go…

Whoever was targeting the BeastWatch Web site had access to high-grade heroin. She thought again of the mild-seeming Thomas Jensen. Vets might not have access to H, but they could always trade for something.

Access to heroin, and a grudge. Vicky’s two pals, the ones who’d been with her at the club and on the bus…maybe they needed to be questioned.

The blow to the head, always from behind. Someone less physically strong than those being attacked. Wanting them down before the injection. Lashing out at Trevor Guest because he’d not been KO’d? Or did it show the killer becoming more unhinged, more brazen, starting to enjoy the process?

But Guest had been the second victim. The third, Cyril Colliar, hadn’t been dealt with so harshly. Meaning someone had stumbled on the scene perhaps, the killer fleeing before he’d had a chance to get his jollies?

Had he killed again? If so…Siobhan gave a little cluck. “He or she,” she reminded herself.

“Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today?”

The chant was taken up by the crowd. They were streaming up Calton Hill, Siobhan following. A few thousand of them, heading for their rally. The wind was biting, the hilltop exposed to the elements. Views toward Fife and across the city to the west. Views south to Holyrood and the parliament, cordoned day and night by police. Calton Hill, Siobhan seemed to recall, was another of Edinburgh ’s extinct volcanoes. The castle sat on one; Arthur’s Seat was another. There was an observatory at the top, and a series of public monuments. Best of all was the Folly: a single side of what had been meant as a full-scale replica of the Parthenon in Athens. The mad donor had died, leaving the thing unfinished. Some marchers were clambering onto it. Others were gathering around to hear the speeches. One young woman, in a world of her own, danced around the periphery, singing to herself.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, dear.”

“No, but I thought I might see you.” Siobhan gave her parents a hug. “Couldn’t find you at the Meadows yesterday.”

“Wasn’t it fantastic?”

Siobhan’s father gave a laugh. “Your mum was in tears throughout.”

“So emotional,” his wife agreed.

“I came looking for you last night.”

“We went out for a drink.”

“With Santal?” Siobhan tried to make the question sound casual. She ran a hand over her head, as if trying to erase the voice within: I’m your bloody daughter, not her!

“She was there for a little while…didn’t seem to appeal to her.” The crowd was clapping and cheering the first speaker.

“Billy Bragg’s on later,” Teddy Clarke said.

“I thought we could get something to eat,” Siobhan was saying. “There’s a restaurant on Waterloo Place…”

“Are you hungry, dear?” Eve Clarke asked her husband.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

Siobhan shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe later, eh?”

Her father put a finger to his lips. “They’re starting,” he whispered.

“Starting what?” Siobhan asked.

“The naming of the dead…”

And so they were: reading out the names of a thousand victims of the warfare in Iraq, people from all sides of the conflict. A thousand names, the speakers taking it in turn, their audience silent. Even the young woman stopped dancing. She stood staring into space instead. Siobhan retreated a little at one point, realizing her cell was still on. Didn’t want Eric Bain calling with news. She took it from her pocket and switched it to vibrate. Drifted a little farther away, still in earshot of the roll call. She could see the Hibernian stadium below, empty now that the season was over. The North Sea looked calm. Berwick Law to the east, looking like yet another extinct volcano. And still the names continued, forcing a secret, rueful smile from her.

Because this was what she did, her whole working life. She named the dead. She recorded their last details, and tried to find out who they’d been, why they’d died. She gave a voice to the forgotten and the missing. A world filled with victims, waiting for her and other detectives like her. Detectives like Rebus, too, who gnawed away at every case, or let it gnaw at them. Never letting go, because that would have been the final insult to those names. Her phone was buzzing. She lifted it to her ear.

“They were quick,” Eric Bain told her.

“The site’s gone?”

“Yep.”

She cursed under her breath. “Did you get anything?”

“Bits and pieces. I couldn’t burrow far enough in, not with the gear at home.”

“No subscriber list?”

“Afraid not.”

Another speaker had taken over at the microphone. The names kept coming.

“Anything else you can try?” she asked.

“From the office, yes, maybe one or two little tricks.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“If our G8 masters can spare me.” He paused. “It was good to see you, Siobhan. Sorry you had to meet…”