The Naming Of The Dead (2006) Read Online Free PDF Page A

you?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I knew he would. This whole trip, it’s shaken years off him.”
    “Kept him out of the station, too.”
    “So everybody wins.” She paused. “You think you’ve got a crack at this, don’t you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Cyril Colliar. The next week or so, nobody’s going to be holding your leash.”
    “I didn’t realize I was up there in your estimation.”
    “John, you’re a couple of years away from retirement. I know you want one last go at Cafferty.”
    “And it seems I’m transparent, too.”
    “Look, I’m just trying to—”
    “I know, and I’m touched.”
    “You really think Cafferty could be responsible?”
    “If he’s not, he’ll want whoever was. Look, if it all gets a bit fraught with your parents...” Now who was changing the subject? “Send me a text and we’ll meet for a drink.”
    “All right, I will. You can turn the Elbow CD up now.”
    “Well spotted. Talk to you later.”
    Rebus cut the connection and did as he was told.

2

    T he barriers were going up. Down George IV Bridge and all along Princes Street, workmen were busy putting them in place. Road repairs and building projects had been put on hold, scaffolding removed so it couldn’t be taken apart and used as missiles. Mailboxes had been sealed shut and some shops boarded up. Financial institutions had been warned, staff advised not to wear formal clothing—it would make them easy targets. For a Friday evening, the town was quiet. Police vans cruised the central streets, metal grilles fixed to their windshields. More vans were parked out of sight in unlit side roads. The cops on board wore riot gear and laughed among themselves, swapping stories from previous engagements. A few veterans had seen action during the last wave of miners’ strikes. Others tried to match these memories with stories of soccer battles, poll-tax demonstrations, the Newbury Bypass. They exchanged rumors about the expected size of the Italian anarchist contingent.
    “Genoa toughened them up.”
    “Just the way we like it, eh, lads?”
    Bravado and nerves and camaraderie. The talk faltering whenever a radio crackled to life.
    The uniformed police working the train station wore bright yellow jackets. Here, too, barriers were being erected. They were blocking exits, so there remained a single route in and out. Some officers carried cameras with which to record the faces of arrivals from the London trains. Special cars had been added on for the protesters, which made them easy to identify. Not that such skills were really needed: they sang songs, carried backpacks, wore badges and T-shirts and wristbands. They carried flags and banners, were dressed in baggy pants, camouflage jackets, hiking boots. Intelligence reports said busloads had already left from the south of England. First estimates had stated fifty thousand. The latest guess was north of a hundred thousand. Which, added to the summer tourists, would swell Edinburgh’s population nicely.
    Somewhere in the city there was a rally signaling the start of G8 Alternatives, a weeklong series of marches and meetings. More police would be there. If needed, some of these would be on horseback. Plenty of dog handlers, too, including four on Waverley Station’s concourse. The plan was simple: visible strength. Let any potential troublemakers know what they’d be dealing with. Visors and billly clubs and handcuffs, horses and dogs and patrol vans.
    Force of numbers.
    Tools of the trade.
    Tactics.
    Earlier in its history, Edinburgh was prone to invasion. Its inhabitants hid behind walls and gates, and when those were breached they retreated to the warrenlike tunnels below the castle and the High Street, leaving the city empty and the victory hollow. It was a talent the denizens continued to bring to the annual August festival. As the population swelled, the locals became less visible, blending in to the background. It might also explain Edinburgh’s reliance on