“Message received.”

Siobhan started to nod slowly, then thought of something. “Did BeastWatch subscribers ever have get-togethers?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But they can contact each other?”

“Obviously.”

“Did you know who Gareth Tench was before you met him?”

“First e-mail he sent, he said he was based in Edinburgh, signed off with his real name.”

“And you told him you were CID?”

Wylie nodded.

“What’s your thinking?” Rebus asked Siobhan.

“I’m not sure yet.” Siobhan started to get her things together. Rebus and Wylie watched her. Finally, with a wave over her shoulder, she was gone. Ellen Wylie folded the newspaper and dumped it in a wastebasket. Rebus had filled the kettle and switched it on.

“I can tell you exactly what she’s thinking,” Wylie told him.

“Then you’re cleverer than me.”

“She knows that murderers don’t always work alone. She also knows sometimes they need validation.”

“Over my head, Ellen.”

“I don’t think so, John. If I know you, you’re thinking much the same. Somebody decides to start killing perverts, they might want to tell someone about it-either beforehand, almost asking permission, or afterward, to get it off their chest.”

“Okay,” Rebus said, busy with the mugs.

“Hard to work in a team if you’re one of the suspects.”

“I really do appreciate you helping out, Ellen,” he said, pausing before adding, “so long as that’s what you’re doing.”

She sprang from the chair, placing her hands on her hips, elbows jutting. Rebus had been told once why humans did that-to make them seem bigger, more threatening, less vulnerable.

“You think,” she was saying, “I’ve been here half the day just to protect Denise?”

“No…but I do think people will go a long way to protect family.”

“Like Siobhan and her mum, you mean?”

“Let’s not pretend we wouldn’t do the same.”

“John…I’m here because you asked me.”

“And I’ve said I’m grateful, but here’s the thing, Ellen-Siobhan and me have just been sent out of the game. We need someone to look out for us; someone we can trust.” He spooned coffee into the two chipped mugs. Sniffed the milk and decided it would do. He was giving her time to think.

“All right,” she said at last.

“No more secrets?” he asked. She shook her head. “Nothing I should know?” Shook it again. “You want to be there when I interview Tench?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “How do you plan to do that? You’re on suspension, remember?”

Rebus made a face and tapped his head. “Short-term memory loss,” he told her. “It comes with the territory.”

After the coffee, they got busy: Rebus filled the copier with a fresh ream of paper; Wylie asked what he wanted copied from the computer’s various databases. The phone rang half a dozen times, but they ignored it.

“Incidentally,” Wylie chimed in at one point, “did you hear? London got the Olympics.”

“Whoop-dee-doo.”

“It was great actually: everyone dancing around Trafalgar Square. Means Paris lost out.”

“Wonder how Chirac’s taking it.” Rebus checked his watch. “He’ll be sitting down to dinner with the queen right around now.”

“With TB doing his Cheshire cat impression, no doubt.”

Rebus smiled. Yes, and Gleneagles serving up the best of Caledonian fare for the French president…He thought back to that afternoon, standing a few hundred yards from all those powerful men. Bush toppling from his bike, a painful reminder that they were every bit as fallible as anyone else. “What does the G stand for?” he asked. Wylie just looked at him. “In G8,” he amplified.

“Government?” she guessed, giving a shrug. There was a tapping against the open door: one of the duty uniforms from the front desk.

“Someone to see you downstairs, sir.” He glanced pointedly in the direction of the nearest phone.

“We’ve not been picking up,” Rebus explained. “Who is it?”

“Woman called Webster…she was hoping for DS Clarke, but said you’d do in a pinch.”

18

Backstage at the Final Push.

Rumors that some sort of rocket had been fired from the railway tracks nearby, falling short of its target.

“Filled with purple dye,” Bobby Greig had told Siobhan. He was in civvies: faded jeans and a battered denim jacket. Looked damp but happy as the rain drizzled down. Siobhan had changed into black cords and a pale green T-shirt, topped off with a biker jacket bought secondhand from an Oxfam shop. Greig had smiled at her. “How come,” he’d said, “whatever you wear, you still look like CID?”

She hadn’t bothered replying. She kept fingering the laminated pass strung around her neck. It showed an outline of Africa and the legend Backstage Access. Sounded grand, but Greig soon explained her spot on the food chain. His own pass was Access All Areas, but beyond this were two further levels-VIP and VVIP. She’d already seen Midge Ure and Claudia Schiffer, both of them VVIPs. Greig had introduced her to the concert promoters, Steve Daws and Emma Diprose, the pair of them glamorous despite the weather.

“Amazing lineup,” Siobhan had told them.

“Thank you,” Daws had said. Then Diprose had asked if Siobhan had a favorite, but she’d shaken her head.

Throughout, Greig hadn’t bothered mentioning to them that she was a cop.

There had been ticketless fans outside Murrayfield, begging to buy, and a few scalpers whose prices were deterring all but the wealthiest and most desperate. With her pass, Siobhan had been able to wander around the base of the stage and onto the playing field itself, where she joined sixty thousand drenched fans. But the hungry looks they gave in the direction of her little plastic rectangle made her uncomfortable, and she soon retreated behind the security fence. Greig was stuffing his face with the free food, while holding a half-empty bottle of continental lager. The Proclaimers had opened the show with a sing-along of “ 500 Miles.” Word was, Eddie Izzard would be playing piano on Midge Ure’s version of “ Vienna.” Texas, Snow Patrol, and Travis were due up later, with Bono helping out the Corrs and a closing set by James Brown.

But the frenetic backstage activity was making her feel old. She didn’t know who half the performers were. They looked important, moving to and fro with their various entourages, but their faces didn’t mean anything to her. It struck her that her parents might be leaving on Friday, giving her just one more day with them. She’d called them earlier; they’d gone back to her place, buying provisions on the way, and might go out for dinner. Just the two of them, her dad had said, making it look like this was what he wanted.

Or maybe so she wouldn’t feel guilty at being elsewhere.

She was trying to relax, to get in the mood, but work kept intruding. Rebus, she knew, would still be hard at it. He wouldn’t rest till his demons had been quelled. Yet each victory was fleeting, and each fight drained him a little more. Now that the sun was setting, the stadium was dotted with the flashes from camera phones. Luminous glow sticks were being waved in the air. Greig found an umbrella from somewhere and handed it to her as the rain got heavier.

“Had any more trouble in Niddrie?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “They’ve made their point,” he said. “Besides which, they probably think there’s a better chance of a fight if they head into town.” He tossed his empty beer bottle into a recycling bin. “Did you see it today?”

“I was in Auchterarder,” she said.

He looked impressed. “Bits I saw on TV made it look like a war zone.”

“Wasn’t quite that bad. How about here?”

“Bit of a demonstration when the buses were stopped from going. Nothing like Monday though.” He nodded over her shoulder. “Annie Lennox,” he pointed out. And so it was, not ten feet away, giving them a smile as she headed to her changing room. “You played great at Hyde Park!” Greig called out to her. She just kept smiling, her mind on the performance ahead. Greig went to fetch more beers. Most of the people Siobhan saw were just hanging around, looking bored. Technical crews who wouldn’t be busy again until it was time to pack everything away and dismantle the stage. Personal assistants and record company staff-the latter wearing a uniform of black suits with matching V-neck sweaters, sunglasses on and phones clamped to their ears. Caterers and promoters and hangers-on. She knew she was one of the last group. No one had asked what role she was playing because no one thought she was a player.