He wasn’t going to find her.

Siobhan almost allowed herself a smile, but knew her own search might well prove every bit as fruitless as his. And meantime she was in the middle of a demonstration, one that could at any moment turn into a riot.

I’d kill for a Starbucks latte, she thought.

Wrong place, and very definitely the wrong time.

Mairie was in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel. The elevator door opened and she saw the man in the blue silk suit appear. She got up from her chair, and he walked toward her, holding out his hand.

“Mr. Kamweze?” she asked.

He gave a bow of confirmation, and she returned his handshake.

“Good of you to see me on short notice,” Mairie said, trying not to sound too gushing. Her phone call had been just that: the cub reporter, overawed to be talking to such a senior figure in African politics…and could he possibly spare five minutes to help with a profile she was doing?

The pose was no longer necessary; he was right there in front of her. All the same, she didn’t want him bolting just yet.

“Tea?” he suggested, leading the way to the Palm Court.

“I love your suit,” she said as he drew out her chair for her. She smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat. Joseph Kamweze seemed to enjoy the view.

“Thank you,” he said, sliding onto the banquette opposite her.

“Is it designer?”

“Purchased in Singapore, on my way back from a delegation to Canberra. Really rather inexpensive…” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But let’s keep that to ourselves.” He gave a huge grin, showing one gold tooth at the back of his mouth.

“Well, I want to thank you again for seeing me.” Mairie was reaching into her bag for notebook and pen. She also had a little digital recorder, and she asked him if he would mind.

“That will be dependent on your questions,” he said with another grin. The waitress arrived and he ordered Lapsang souchong for both of them. Mairie hated the stuff but kept her mouth shut.

“You must let me pay,” she told him. He waved the offer aside.

“It is of no consequence.”

Mairie raised an eyebrow. She was still busying herself with the tools of her trade when she asked her next question.

“Your trip’s being funded by Pennen Industries?”

The grin disappeared; the eyes hardened. “I beg your pardon?”

She tried for a look of unsullied naïveté. “Just wondered who was paying for your stay here.”

“What is it you want?” The voice was chilled. His hands brushed the edge of the table, the fingertips running along it.

Mairie made a show of consulting her notes. “You are part of the Kenyan trade delegation, Mr. Kamweze. What exactly is it that you’re looking for from the G8?” She checked that the recorder was running and placed it on the table between them. Joseph Kamweze seemed thrown by the sheer ordinariness of the question.

“Debt relief is crucial to Africa ’s rebirth,” he recited. “Chancellor Brown has indicated that some of Kenya ’s neighbors-” He broke off, unable to keep going. “Why are you here? Is Henderson even your real name? I’m a fool for not asking to see your identification.”

“I’ve got it right here.” Mairie began to rummage through her bag.

“Why did you mention Richard Pennen?” Kamweze interrupted.

She blinked at him. “I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

“I did mention Pennen Industries, but that’s a company, not an individual.”

“You were with the policeman at Prestonfield House.” It sounded like a statement, though he could have been guessing. Either way, she didn’t deny it.

“I think you should go now,” he stated.

“Are you sure about that?” Her own voice had hardened, and she returned his stare. “Because if you walk away from here, I’m going to splash a photo of you across the whole front page of my newspaper.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“It’s a bit grainy, and we’ll need to blow it up, meaning it might be on the fuzzy side, too. But it will show a pole dancer cavorting in front of you, Mr. Kamweze. You’ll have your hands on your knees and a big smile on your face as you stare at her naked chest. Her name’s Molly and she works at the Nook on Bread Street. I took possession of the security-camera tape this morning.” Lies, all lies, but she loved the effect they were having on him. His fingernails were digging into the tabletop. His close-cropped hair glistened with sweat.

“You were then questioned at a police station, Mr. Kamweze. I daresay there’s footage of that little expedition, too.”

“What is it you want from me?” he hissed. But he had to compose himself as the tea tray arrived, and with it some shortbread biscuits. Mairie bit into one: no breakfast this morning. The tea smelled like oven-baked seaweed, and she pushed her cup aside after the waitress had poured. The Kenyan did the same with his.

“Not thirsty?” she asked, and couldn’t help smiling.

“The detective told you,” Kamweze realized. “He, too, threatened me like this.”

“Thing is, he can’t prosecute. Me, on the other hand…well, unless you give me a good reason to dump a front-page exclusive…” She could see he hadn’t yet taken the bait. “A front page that will be seen around the world…How long till the press in your own country picks up the story and runs with it? How long till your government masters get to hear of it? Your neighbors, friends-”

“Enough,” he growled. His eyes were focused on the table. It was highly polished, throwing his own reflection back at him.

“Enough,” he repeated, and his tone told her he was beaten. She bit into another of the biscuits. “What do you want?”

“Not much, really,” she assured him. “Just everything you can tell me about Mr. Richard Pennen.”

“Am I to be your Deep Throat, Miss Henderson?”

“If the thought excites you,” she offered.

Thinking to herself: But really, you’re just another dupe who got caught…another flawed civil servant.

Another informer…

His second funeral in a week.

He’d crawled out of the city-domino effect from earlier. At the Forth Bridge, Fife constabulary were pulling over trucks and vans, checking their potential as barricades. Once over the bridge, however, traffic was fine. He was early as a result. Drove into the center of Dundee, parked by the waterfront, and smoked a cigarette with the radio tuned to news. Funny, the English stations were on about London ’s Olympic bid; hardly a mention of Edinburgh. Tony Blair was jetting back from Singapore. Rebus pondered whether he got frequent-flier miles.

The Scottish news had picked up on Mairie’s story: everyone was calling him the G8 Killer. Chief Constable James Corbyn was making no public statements on the subject; SO12 was stressing that there was no danger to the leaders gathering at Gleneagles.

Two funerals inside a week. He wondered if one reason that he was working so hard was so he wouldn’t have time to think too much about Mickey. He’d brought a CD of Quadrophenia with him, played some of it on the drive north, Daltrey rasping the insistent question: Can you see the real me? He had the photos on the passenger seat: Edinburgh Castle, dinner jackets and bow ties. Ben Webster with about two hours to live, looking no different from anyone else. But then suicides didn’t wear signs around their necks. Neither did serial killers, gangsters, bent politicians. Beneath all the official portraits was Mungo’s close-up of Santal and her camera. Rebus studied it for a moment before placing it on top. Then he started the car and headed for the funeral home.

Place was packed. Family and friends, plus representatives from all the political parties. Labor MSPs, too. The media kept their distance, huddled at the gates. Probably the office juniors, sour-faced with the knowledge that their elders and betters were busy at the G8, capturing Thursday’s headlines and front pages. Rebus hung back as the real guests were ushered indoors. Some of them had looked at him quizzically, thinking it unlikely he’d been a man with any connection to the MP, taking him for some kind of vulture, preying on the grief of strangers.