Read Online The Naming Of The Dead (2006) by Ian Rankin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian Rankin
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picnics.
But not today.
Melville Drive had already been cordoned off, turning an important traffic artery into a bus lot. There were dozens of them, stretching to the curve of the road and beyond, three abreast in some places. They were from Derby and Macclesfield and Hull, Swansea and Ripon, Carlisle and Epping. People dressed in white were getting off. White: Rebus remembered that everyone had been asked to wear the same color. It meant that when they marched around the city, they would create a vast and visible ribbon. He checked his own clothes: the chinos were fawn, the shirt pale blue.
Thank Christ for that.
A lot of the bus people looked elderly, some quite frail. But they all sported their wristbands and their sloganed shirts. Some carried homemade banners. They looked delighted to be there. Farther along, marquees had been constructed. Vans were arriving, ready to sell fries and meat-free burgers to the hungry masses. Stages had been erected, and there was a display of huge wooden jigsaw pieces laid out next to a series of cranes. It took Rebus only a matter of seconds to spell out the words MAKE POVERTY HISTORY . There were uniformed cops in the vicinity, but nobody Rebus knew; probably not even local. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine, another three hours till kickoff. Hardly a cloud in the sky. A police van had decided that its quickest route would entail mounting the curb, forcing Rebus to backtrack onto the grass. He scowled at the driver, who returned the look. The side window opened.
“What’s your problem, granddad?”
Rebus made a rude gesture, willing the driver to stop. The pair of them could have a nice little chat. But the van had other ideas; it kept moving. Rebus finished his banana, thought about dropping the skin but figured he’d be pounced on by the Recycling Police. Headed over to a trash can instead.
“Here you go,” a young woman said, smiling and holding out a plastic bag. Rebus looked inside: a couple of stickers and a Help the Aged T-shirt.
“Hell do I want this for?” he growled. She took it back, trying hard to retain the traces of her original smile.
He moved away, opening the reserve bottle of Irn-Bru. His head felt less gummy, but there was sweat on his back. A memory had been trying to force its way through, and now he grasped it: Mickey and himself, church outings to Burntisland links. Buses took them there, trailing streamers from their windows. Lines of buses waiting to take them home after the picnic and the organized races across the grass—Mickey always able to beat him from a standing start, so that Rebus had stopped trying eventually—his only weapon against his kid brother’s sinewy determination. White cardboard boxes containing their lunch: jam sandwich, iced cake, maybe a hard-boiled egg.
They always left the egg.
Summer weekends, appearing endless and unchangeable. Nowadays, Rebus hated them. Hated that so little would happen to him. Monday mornings were his true release, a break from the sofa and the bar stool, the supermarket and curry house. His colleagues returned to work with stories of shopping exploits, soccer games, bike rides with the family. Siobhan would have been to Glasgow or Dundee, seeing friends, catching up. Cinema trips and walks by the Water of Leith. Nobody asked Rebus anymore how he spent the weekend. They knew he’d just shrug.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting ...
Except that coasting was the one thing he had no time for. Without the job, he almost ceased to exist. Which was why he punched a number into his phone and waited. Listened to the voice-mail message.
“Good morning, Ray,” he said when prompted, “this is your wake-up call. Every hour on the hour till I start to get some answers. Speak to you soon.” He ended the call, immediately make another, leaving the same message on Ray Duff’s home machine. Cell and landline taken care of, there wasn’t much he could do but wait. The Live 8 concert started
But not today.
Melville Drive had already been cordoned off, turning an important traffic artery into a bus lot. There were dozens of them, stretching to the curve of the road and beyond, three abreast in some places. They were from Derby and Macclesfield and Hull, Swansea and Ripon, Carlisle and Epping. People dressed in white were getting off. White: Rebus remembered that everyone had been asked to wear the same color. It meant that when they marched around the city, they would create a vast and visible ribbon. He checked his own clothes: the chinos were fawn, the shirt pale blue.
Thank Christ for that.
A lot of the bus people looked elderly, some quite frail. But they all sported their wristbands and their sloganed shirts. Some carried homemade banners. They looked delighted to be there. Farther along, marquees had been constructed. Vans were arriving, ready to sell fries and meat-free burgers to the hungry masses. Stages had been erected, and there was a display of huge wooden jigsaw pieces laid out next to a series of cranes. It took Rebus only a matter of seconds to spell out the words MAKE POVERTY HISTORY . There were uniformed cops in the vicinity, but nobody Rebus knew; probably not even local. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine, another three hours till kickoff. Hardly a cloud in the sky. A police van had decided that its quickest route would entail mounting the curb, forcing Rebus to backtrack onto the grass. He scowled at the driver, who returned the look. The side window opened.
“What’s your problem, granddad?”
Rebus made a rude gesture, willing the driver to stop. The pair of them could have a nice little chat. But the van had other ideas; it kept moving. Rebus finished his banana, thought about dropping the skin but figured he’d be pounced on by the Recycling Police. Headed over to a trash can instead.
“Here you go,” a young woman said, smiling and holding out a plastic bag. Rebus looked inside: a couple of stickers and a Help the Aged T-shirt.
“Hell do I want this for?” he growled. She took it back, trying hard to retain the traces of her original smile.
He moved away, opening the reserve bottle of Irn-Bru. His head felt less gummy, but there was sweat on his back. A memory had been trying to force its way through, and now he grasped it: Mickey and himself, church outings to Burntisland links. Buses took them there, trailing streamers from their windows. Lines of buses waiting to take them home after the picnic and the organized races across the grass—Mickey always able to beat him from a standing start, so that Rebus had stopped trying eventually—his only weapon against his kid brother’s sinewy determination. White cardboard boxes containing their lunch: jam sandwich, iced cake, maybe a hard-boiled egg.
They always left the egg.
Summer weekends, appearing endless and unchangeable. Nowadays, Rebus hated them. Hated that so little would happen to him. Monday mornings were his true release, a break from the sofa and the bar stool, the supermarket and curry house. His colleagues returned to work with stories of shopping exploits, soccer games, bike rides with the family. Siobhan would have been to Glasgow or Dundee, seeing friends, catching up. Cinema trips and walks by the Water of Leith. Nobody asked Rebus anymore how he spent the weekend. They knew he’d just shrug.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting ...
Except that coasting was the one thing he had no time for. Without the job, he almost ceased to exist. Which was why he punched a number into his phone and waited. Listened to the voice-mail message.
“Good morning, Ray,” he said when prompted, “this is your wake-up call. Every hour on the hour till I start to get some answers. Speak to you soon.” He ended the call, immediately make another, leaving the same message on Ray Duff’s home machine. Cell and landline taken care of, there wasn’t much he could do but wait. The Live 8 concert started
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