The Naming Of The Dead (2006) by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

airport, it took on the aspect of a lowering Transylvanian lair, and made you wonder if you’d lost your color vision. From Princes Street, Lothian Road, and Johnston Terrace its volcanic sides seemed sheer and impregnable—and so they had proved over the years. Yet approaching from the Lawnmarket, you climbed a gentle slope to its entrance, with little hint of its enormous presence.
    The drive from Gayfield Square had almost stymied Rebus. Uniformed cops hadn’t wanted to let him use Waverley Bridge. A great grinding and clanking of metal as the barriers were dragged into position for tomorrow’s march. He’d sounded his horn, ignoring gestures that he should find another route. When one officer had approached, Rebus had rolled down the window and shown his ID.
    “This route’s closed,” the man stated. English accent, maybe Lancashire.
    “I’m CID,” Rebus told him. “And behind me there’s going to be maybe an ambulance, a pathologist, and a Scene of Crime van. Want to tell them the same story?”
    “What’s happened?”
    “Someone’s just landed in the gardens.” Rebus nodded toward the castle.
    “Bloody protesters...one got stuck on the rocks earlier. Fire brigade had to winch him down.”
    “Well, much as I’d like nothing better than a chat...”
    The officer scowled but moved the barrier aside.
    Now another barrier had placed itself in front of Rebus: Commander David Steelforth.
    “This is a dangerous game, Inspector. Better left to those of us specializing in intelligence.”
    Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “You calling me thick?”
    A short, barked laugh. “Not at all.”
    “Good.” Rebus moved past him again. He saw where he was supposed to go. Military guards peering over the edge of the battlements. A cluster of elderly and distinguished-looking men, dressed for dinner, lurked nearby, smoking cigars.
    “This where he fell?” Rebus asked the guards. He had his ID open but had decided not to identify himself as civilian police.
    “Must be about the spot,” someone answered.
    “Anyone see it?”
    There were shakes of the head. “There was an incident earlier,” the same soldier said. “Some idiot got stuck. We were warned more of them might try.”
    “And?”
    “And Private Andrews thought he saw something round the other side.”
    “I said I wasn’t sure,” Andrews said, defending himself.
    “So you all skedaddled to the other side of the castle?” Rebus made a show of sucking in breath. “That used to be called deserting your post.”
    “Detective Inspector Rebus has no jurisdiction here,” Steelforth was telling the group.
    “And that would have counted as treason,” Rebus warned him.
    “Do we know who’s unaccounted for?” one of the older men was asking.
    Rebus heard another car making for the portcullis. Headlights threw wild shadows across the wall ahead. “Hard to say, with everyone running off,” he said quietly.
    “No one’s running off,” Steelforth snapped.
    “Just a bunch of prior engagements?” Rebus guessed.
    “These are hellish busy people, Inspector. Decisions are being made that may change the world.”
    “Won’t change whatever happened to the poor guy down there.” Rebus nodded toward the wall, then turned to face Steelforth. “So what was going on here tonight, Commander?”
    “Discussions over dinner. Moves toward ratification.”
    “Good news for all rats. What about the guests?”
    “G8 representatives—foreign ministers, security personnel, senior civil servants.”
    “Probably rules out pizza and a case or two of beer.”
    “A lot gets done at these get-togethers.”
    Rebus was peering over the edge. He’d never much liked heights and didn’t linger. “Can’t see a damned thing,” he said.
    “We heard him,” one of the soldiers said.
    “Heard what exactly?” Rebus asked.
    “The scream as he fell.” He looked around at his comrades for support. One of them nodded.
    “Seemed to scream all the way down,” he added with a