The Naming Of The Dead (2006) by Ian Rankin

from an alley off the Cowgate. Rebus looked up and down the road but saw no one. Walked around the corner into Cowgate itself and saw the figure seated on the low wall that fronted the morgue. She was staring at the children’s nursery across the street. Rebus stopped in front of her.
    “Got a cigarette?” she asked.
    “You want one?”
    “Seems as good a time as any.”
    “Meaning you don’t smoke.”
    “So?”
    “So I’m not about to corrupt you.”
    She looked at him for the first time. She had short fair hair and a round face with prominent chin. Her skirt was knee length, an inch of leg showing above brown boots with fur edging. On the wall next to her sat an oversize bag, probably everything shepacked—hurriedly, haphazardly—before rushing north.
    “I’m DI Rebus,” he told her. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
    She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the nursery school. “Is that working?” she asked, gesturing in its direction.
    “As far as I know. It’s not open today, of course...”
    “But it is a nursery.” She turned to examine the building behind her. “And right across the road from this . Short journey, isn’t it, DI Rebus?”
    “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you ID’d the body.”
    “Why? Did you know Ben?”
    “No...I just thought...how come nobody’s with you?”
    “Such as?”
    “From his constituency...the party.”
    “Think Labor gives two hoots about him now?” She gave a short laugh. “They’ll all be lining up at the head of that bloody march, ready for the photo op. Ben kept saying how close he was getting to what he called ‘the power.’ Little good it did him.”
    “Careful there,” Rebus warned her, “you sound like you’d fit right in with the marchers.” She gave a snort, but didn’t say anything. “Any idea why he would—?” Rebus broke off. “You know I need to ask?”
    “I’m a cop, same as you.” She watched him bring out the packet. “Just one,” she begged. How could he refuse? He lit both their cigarettes and leaned against the wall next to her.
    “No cars,” she stated.
    “Town’s locked down,” he explained. “You’ll have trouble getting a taxi, but my car’s parked—”
    “I can walk,” she told him. “He didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you wanted to know. Seemed fine last night, very relaxed, etcetera. Colleagues can’t explain...no problems at work.” She paused, raising her eyes skyward. “Except he always had problems at work.”
    “Sounds like the two of you were close.”
    “He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month—actually, probably more like two—but there were texts, e-mails...” She took a drag on the cigarette.
    “He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.
    “Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”
    “Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.
    She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power—a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”
    “He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.
    “Oh, yes.”
    “And the futility?”
    She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder bag, handed Rebus a business card. Nothing on it but her name—Stacey Webster—and a cell number.
    “How long have you been in the police, Stacey?”
    “Eight years. The last three at Scotland Yard.” Her eyes fixed on his. “You’ll have questions for me: did Ben have any enemies? Money problems? Relationships gone bad? Maybe later, eh? A day or so, give me a call.”
    “Okay.”
    “Nothing in the...?” She had trouble getting the next word out; sucked in some air and tried again. “Nothing to suggest he didn’t just