Maybe they were right at that.

A hotel in Broughty Ferry was providing refreshments afterward. “The family,” the reverend was telling the assembly, “have asked me to say that you’ll all be most welcome.” But his eyes told another story: close family and bosom friends only, please. Quite right, too: Rebus doubted any hotel in the Ferry could cope with a crowd this size.

He was seated in the back row. The reverend had asked one of Ben Webster’s colleagues to step up and say a few words. Sounded much like the eulogy at Mickey’s funeral: a good man…much missed by those who knew him, and many did…devoted to his family…well liked in the community. Rebus reckoned he’d given it long enough. There was no sign of Stacey. He hadn’t really thought much about her since that meeting outside the morgue. He guessed she’d gone back to London, or else was clearing out her brother’s home, dealing with the banks and insurers and such.

But to miss the funeral…

There had been more than a week between Mickey’s death and his cremation. And Ben Webster? Not even five full days. Could the haste be classed as indecent? Stacey Webster’s decision, or someone else’s? Outside in the parking lot, he lit another cigarette and gave it five more minutes. Then he unlocked the driver’s side and got in.

Can you see the real me…

“Oh, yes,” he said quietly, turning the ignition.

Mayhem in Auchterarder.

The rumor had gone around that Bush’s helicopter was on its way. Siobhan had checked her watch, knowing he wasn’t due to arrive at Prestwick till midafternoon. Every chopper that came over, the crowd booed and bayed. They’d streamed down lanes and through fields, clambered over walls into people’s gardens. One aim in mind: get to the cordon. Get past the cordon. That would be the real victory; no matter if they were still half a mile from the actual hotel. They would be on the Gleneagles estate. They would have beaten the police. She saw a few members of the Clown Army, and two protesters dressed in plus fours and carrying golf bags: the People’s Golfing Association, whose mission was to play a hole on the hallowed championship course. She had heard American accents, Spanish voices, Germans. She had watched a huddle of black-clad, face-muffled anarchists planning their next move. An airship droning overhead, gathering surveillance…

But no Santal.

Back on Auchterarder’s main street, news had arrived that the Edinburgh contingent was being prevented from leaving the city.

“So they’re marching there instead,” someone explained gleefully. “Bullyboys are going to be stretched to breaking.”

Siobhan doubted it. All the same, she tried her parents’ cell. Her father answered, said they’d been sitting on the bus for hours and were still there.

“Promise me you won’t join any march,” Siobhan implored.

“Promise,” her father said. Then he put his wife on so Siobhan could hear the same pledge from her. As she ended the call, Siobhan suddenly felt like an utter idiot. What was she doing here when she could be with her parents? Another march meant more riot cops; could be her mother would recognize her attacker, or something might nudge a nugget of remembrance to the surface.

She cursed herself quietly, then turned and was face to face with her quarry.

“Santal,” she said. The young woman lowered her camera.

“What are you doing here?” Santal asked.

“Surprised?”

“Just a little, yes. Are your parents…?”

“They’re stranded in Edinburgh. I see your lisp’s improved.”

“What?”

“Monday in the gardens,” Siobhan went on, “you were busy with your little camera. Only thing is, you weren’t zeroing in on the cops. Why is that?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.” But Santal glanced to the left and right, as if afraid they would be overheard.

“Reason you didn’t want to show me any of your photos is that they would tell me something.”

“Like what?” She sounded neither scared nor wary, but genuinely curious.

“They’d tell me you were interested in your fellow rabble-rousers rather than the forces of law and order.”

“So?”

“So I got to wondering why that might be. It should have come to me earlier. Everyone said so, after all-at the Niddrie camp and then again in Stirling.” Siobhan had taken a step closer, the two women nose to nose. She leaned in toward Santal’s ear. “You’re undercover,” she whispered. Then she stood back, as if admiring the young woman’s getup. “The earrings and piercings…mostly fake?” she guessed. “Temporary tattoos, and”-staring at the coils of hair-“a nicely made wig. Why you bothered with the lisp, I’ve no idea-maybe to help you retain a sense of your own identity.” She paused. “How am I doing?”

Santal just rolled her eyes. A phone was ringing, and she searched her pockets, bringing out two. The screen on one was lit up. She studied it, then stared over Siobhan’s right shoulder. “Gang’s all here,” she said. Siobhan wasn’t sure what she meant. Oldest trick in the book, but she turned and looked anyway.

John Rebus, standing there with a phone in one hand and what looked like a business card in the other.

“I’m not sure of the etiquette,” he commented, coming closer. “If I light up something that’s a hundred percent tobacco, does that make me a slave to the evil empire?” He shrugged and brought out the pack of cigarettes anyway.

“Santal here is a plant,” Siobhan explained to him.

“This just might not be the safest place to announce that fact,” Santal hissed.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Siobhan snorted.

“I think I can oblige,” Rebus said. But his eyes were on Santal. “Beyond the call of duty,” he told her, “skipping your own brother’s funeral.”

She glared at him. “You were there?”

He nodded. “I have to admit, though, I stared and stared at the photo of Santal, and it still took an age to dawn on me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

“I wanted to be there, you know.”

“What sort of excuse did you give?”

Only at this point did Siobhan butt in. “You’re Ben Webster’s sister?”

“The penny drops,” Rebus commented. “DS Clarke, meet Stacey Webster.” Rebus’s eyes were still on Stacey. “But I’m guessing we should keep calling you Santal?”

“Bit late for that now,” Stacey replied. As if on cue, a young man with a red bandanna around his forehead started toward them.

“Everything cool here?”

“Just catching up with an old friend,” Rebus warned him.

“You look like pigs to me.” His eyes shifted between Rebus and Siobhan.

“Hey, I can handle it.” Santal was back in character: the strong woman, able to fight her own battles. She stared the young man down.

“If you’re sure…” He was already retreating. As she turned back toward Rebus and Siobhan, she became Stacey again.

“You can’t stay here,” she stated. “I’m due to be relieved in an hour-we can talk then.”

“Where?”

She considered for a moment. “Inside the security fence. There’s a field behind the hotel, that’s where the drivers hang out. Wait for me there.”

Siobhan looked at the crowds surrounding them. “And how exactly do we get there?”

Stacey offered a sour smile. “Show some initiative.”

“I think,” Rebus explained, “she’s telling us to get ourselves arrested.”