The Naming Of The Dead (2006) by Ian Rankin Page B

she sent a text to her parents instead, then headed toward the waiting lines again. Banners had been hoisted high, whistles were being blown, drums beaten. All that energy in the air...Rebus would say it was being wasted. He’d say the political deals had already been done. And he’d be right: the guys at Sorbus HQ had told her as much. Gleneagles was for private confabs and public photo ops. The real business had been thrashed out in advance by lesser mortals, chief among them the chancellor of the exchequer. All of it done on the quiet and ratified by eight signatures on the final day of the G8.
    “And how much is it all costing?” Siobhan had wondered.
    “A hundred and fifty mil, give or take.”
    The answer had produced a sharp intake of breath from DCI Macrae. Siobhan had pursed her lips, saying nothing.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” her informant had continued. “Same sort of money buys a lot of vaccine...”
    Every path across the Meadows was now four-deep with waiting marchers. A new line had formed, stretching back to the tennis courts and Buccleuch Street. As Siobhan squeezed her way past, still no sign of her parents, she caught a blur of color at the edge of her vision. Bright yellow jackets hurrying down Meadow Lane. She followed them, rounding the corner into Buccleuch Place.
    And was stopped dead.
    Sixty or so black-clad demonstrators had been encircled by double that number of police. The protesters had air horns, which rasped a deafening complaint. They wore sunglasses, black scarves muffling their faces. Some wore hooded tops. Black combat pants and boots, a few bandannas. They didn’t carry signs, and none of them were smiling. Riot shields were all that separated them from the police lines. Someone had spray-painted the anarchist symbol on at least one translucent shield. The mass of demonstrators pressed forward, demanding access to the Meadows. But police tactics said different: containment above all else. A demonstration contained was a demonstration controlled. Siobhan was impressed; her colleagues had to have known the protesters were on their way. They’d taken up position fast and weren’t about to let the situation develop any further than here and now. There were a few other bystanders, torn between this spectacle and a need to join the march. Some of them had their camera phones out. Siobhan looked around, making sure no fresh intake of riot officers tried corralling her . The voices from within the cordon seemed foreign, maybe Spanish or Italian. She knew some of the names: Ya Basta, Black Bloc. No sign of anything as outlandish as the Wombles or Rebel Clown Army. Her hand went into her pocket, clutching her ID. Wanted to be ready to show it if things got heated. Helicopter hovering overhead, and a uniformed officer videotaping proceedings from the steps of one of the university buildings. He scanned the street with his camera, pausing on her for a moment before moving on to the other bystanders. But Siobhan was suddenly aware of another camera, focused on him . Santal was inside the cordon, recording everything with her own digital video. She was dressed like the others, backpack slung over one shoulder, concentrating on her task rather than joining in with the chants and slogans. The demonstrators wanted their own record: to watch later and enjoy; so they could learn police tactics and how to counter them; and just in case of—maybe even in the hope of—heavy-handedness. They were media savvy, counted lawyers among their activist friends. Film from Genoa had been beamed around the world. No reason fresh film of violent policing wouldn’t be just as efficacious.
    Siobhan realized Santal had seen her. The camera was pointed her way, and the mouth below the viewfinder broke into a scowl. Siobhan didn’t think it the right time to wander over and ask for her parents’ whereabouts. Her phone started to vibrate, telling her she had an incoming call. She checked the number but