Fleshmarket Close

11

Next morning, Rebus was back in Knoxland. Some of the previous day’s banners and placards were strewn around, their slogans blurred by footprints. Rebus was in the Portakabin, drinking a coffee he’d brought with him and finishing the newspaper. Stef Yurgii’s name had been revealed to the media at a press conference yesterday evening. It merited just the one mention in Steve Holly’s tabloid, while Mo Dirwan got a couple of paragraphs. There was also a series of pictures of Rebus: wrestling the youth to the ground, being proclaimed a hero by an arms-aloft Dirwan, and watched by Dirwan’s followers. The headline — almost certainly the work of Holly himself — was the single word STONED!

Rebus tossed the paper into the bin, aware that someone would in all probability just fish it out again. He found a cup half full of cold slops and poured it over the newsprint, feeling better for it. His watch said it was nine fifteen. Earlier, he’d made the request for a patrol car to head out to Portobello. By his reckoning, it would be here any minute. The Portakabin was quiet. Wise counsel had decided that it would be foolish to keep a computer in Knoxland, so instead all the door-to-door reports were being collated back at Torphichen. Walking over to the window, Rebus scraped some shards of glass into a pile. Despite its grille, the window had been broken: a stick of some kind or a thin metal pole. Something sticky had then been sprayed through the window, marking the floor and the nearest desk. To add a final touch, the word FILTH had been spray-painted on every available surface of the exterior. By close of play today, Rebus knew that the window would be boarded up. In fact, the Portakabin might even have been declared surplus to requirements. They’d gleaned what they could, taken what evidence was available. Rebus knew that Shug Davidson had one main strategy: shame the estate into pointing the finger. So maybe Holly’s stories were no bad thing.

Well, it would be nice to think so, but Rebus doubted many people in Knoxland would read of racism and feel anything but complete justification. However, Davidson was counting on just one person seeing the light — one witness was all he needed.

One name.

There would have been blood; a weapon to dispose of; clothes to be burned or thrown out. Someone knew. Hidden away in one of those blocks, hopefully with guilt gnawing away at them.

Someone knew.

Rebus had called Steve Holly first thing, asked him how come he always seemed to be outside the Nook when a celeb came stumbling out.

‘Just good investigative journalism. But you’re talking ancient history.’

‘How so?’

‘When the place opened, it was hot for a few months. That’s when those pics got taken. Go there often, do you?’

Rebus had hung up without replying.

Now he heard a car approaching, peered through the cracked glass and saw it. Allowed himself a little smile as he drained his coffee.

He walked out to meet Gareth Baird, nodding a greeting at the two uniforms who’d brought him here.

‘Morning, Gareth.’

‘What’s the game then?’ Gareth dug his fists into his pockets. ‘Harassment, is that it?’

‘Not at all. It’s just that you’re a valuable witness. Remember, you’re the one who knows what Stef Yurgii’s girlfriend looks like.’

‘Christ, I barely noticed her!’

‘But she did the talking,’ Rebus said calmly. ‘And I’ve an inkling you’d know her if you saw her again.’

‘You want me to do a photofit for you, is that it?’

‘That comes later. Right now, you’re going to go on a recce with these two officers.’

‘A recce?’

‘Door-to-door. Give you a taste of police work.’

‘How many doors?’ Gareth was scanning the tower blocks.

‘All of them.’

He stared at Rebus, wide-eyed, like a kid given detention on the flimsiest of evidence.

‘Sooner you start...’ Rebus patted the young man on the shoulder. Then, to the uniforms: ‘Take him away, lads.’

Watching Gareth trudge, head down, towards the first of the blocks, sandwiched by the two constables, Rebus felt a buzz of satisfaction. It was good to know the job could still offer the odd perk...

Two more cars were arriving: Davidson and Wylie in one, Reynolds in another. They’d probably travelled in convoy from Torphichen. Davidson carried the morning paper with him, folded open at STONED!

‘Seen this?’ he asked.

‘I wouldn’t lower myself, Shug.’

‘Why not?’ Reynolds grinned. ‘You’re the towel-heads’ new hero.’

Davidson’s cheeks reddened. ‘One more crack like that, Charlie, and I’ll have you on report — is that clear?’

Reynolds stiffened his back. ‘Slip of the tongue, sir.’

‘You’ve collected more slips than a bookie’s dustbin. Don’t let it happen again.’

‘Sir.’

Davidson let the silence lie for a moment, then decided he’d made his point. ‘Is there anything useful you can be doing?’

Reynolds relaxed a little. ‘Inside gen — there’s a woman in one of the flats does a pot of tea and some biscuits.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Met her yesterday, sir. She said she wouldn’t mind making us a brew as and when.’

Davidson nodded. ‘Then go fetch.’ Reynolds made to move off. ‘Oh, and Charlie? The clock’s running — don’t get too comfy in there...’

‘I’ll remain professional, sir, don’t worry.’ Giving Rebus a leer as he passed him.

Davidson turned to Rebus. ‘Who was that with the uniforms?’

Rebus lit a cigarette. ‘Gareth Baird. He’s going to see if the victim’s lady friend is hiding behind one of those doors.’

‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff?’ Davidson commented.

Rebus just shrugged. Ellen Wylie had disappeared inside the Portakabin. Davidson was only now registering the fresh daubs. ‘Filth, eh? I’ve always thought that the people who call us that are that.’ He pushed his hair back from his forehead, scratching at his scalp. ‘Anything else on today?’

‘Victim’s wife’s ID-ing the body. Thought I’d maybe attend.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to do it.’

‘It’s all yours. Nothing waiting for you back at Gayfield then?’

‘Not even a proper desk.’

‘They’re hoping you’ll take the hint?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Think I should?’

Davidson looked sceptical. ‘What’s waiting for you when you retire?’

‘Liver disease, probably. I’ve already made the down-payment...’

Davidson smiled. ‘Well, I’d say we’re still short-handed, which means I’m happy for you to stick around.’ Rebus was about to say something — thanks, perhaps — but Davidson raised a finger. ‘So long as you don’t go off on any wild tangents, understood?’

‘Crystal clear, Shug.’

Both men turned at a sudden bellow from two storeys up: ‘Good morning to you, Inspector!’ It was Mo Dirwan, waving down to Rebus from the walkway. Rebus gave a half-hearted wave back, but then remembered that he had a few questions for the lawyer.

‘Stay there, I’m coming up!’ he called.

‘I’m in flat two-o-two.’

‘Dirwan’s been working for the Yurgii family,’ Rebus reminded Davidson. ‘Few things I need to clear up with him.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Davidson placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘But no more photo-calls, eh?’

‘Don’t worry, Shug, there won’t be.’

Rebus took the lift to the second floor, and walked to the door marked 202. Looking down, he saw that Davidson was studying the damage to the outside of the Portakabin. There was no sign of Reynolds with the promised tea.

The door was ajar, so Rebus walked in. The place was carpeted with what looked like off-cuts. A broom rested against the lobby wall. A plumbing problem had left a large brown stain on the cream ceiling.

‘In here,’ Dirwan called. He was seated on a sofa in the living room. Again, the windows were frosted with condensation. Both bars of the electric fire were glowing. Ethnic music was playing softly from a tape machine. An elderly couple were standing in front of the sofa.

‘Join me,’ Dirwan said, slapping the cushion beside him with one hand, cup and saucer gripped in the other. Rebus sat down, the couple bowing slightly at his smiled greeting. It was only when he was seated that he realised there were no other chairs, nothing for the couple to do but stand there. Not that this seemed to bother the lawyer.

‘Mr and Mrs Singh have been here eleven years,’ he was saying. ‘But not for much longer.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rebus replied.

Dirwan chuckled. ‘They’re not being deported, Inspector: their son has done very well for himself in business. Big house in Barnton...’

‘Cramond,’ Mr Singh corrected, naming one of the city’s better areas.

‘Big house in Cramond,’ the lawyer ploughed on. ‘They’re moving in with him.’

‘Into the granny flat,’ Mrs Singh said, seeming to take pleasure in the phrase. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘I’m fine actually,’ Rebus apologised. ‘But I do need a word with Mr Dirwan.’

‘You would like us to leave?’

‘No, no... we’ll talk outside.’ Rebus gave Dirwan a meaningful look. The lawyer handed his cup to Mrs Singh.

‘Tell your son I wish him everything he could wish himself,’ he barked, his voice seeming out of all proportion to what was necessary. The room echoed as he stopped.

The Singhs bowed again, and Rebus got to his feet. Hands had to be shaken before Rebus could lead Dirwan out on to the walkway.

‘A lovely family, you must agree,’ Dirwan said after the door had closed. ‘Immigrants, you see, can make a vital contribution to the community at large.’

‘I’ve never doubted it. You know we have a name for the victim? Stef Yurgii.’

Dirwan sighed. ‘I just found out this morning.’

‘You didn’t see the photos we placed in the tabloids?’

‘I do not read the gutter press.’

‘But you were going to come and talk to us, to let us know you knew him?’

‘I didn’t know him: I know his wife and children.’

‘And you hadn’t had any contact with him? He didn’t try getting a message to his family?’

Dirwan shook his head. ‘Not through me. I would not hesitate to tell you.’ He fixed his eyes on Rebus. ‘You must trust me on that, John.’

‘Only my best friends call me John,’ Rebus warned, ‘and trust has to be earned, Mr Dirwan.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘You didn’t know he was in Edinburgh?’

‘I did not.’

‘But you’ve been working on the wife’s case?’

The lawyer nodded. ‘It’s not right, you know: we call ourselves civilised, but are happy to let her rot with her children in Whitemire. You’ve seen them?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Then you will know — no trees, no freedom, the bare minimum of education and nourishment...’

‘But nothing to do with this inquiry,’ Rebus felt the need to say.

‘My God, I don’t believe I just heard that! You’ve seen first-hand the problems with racism in this country.’

‘Doesn’t seem to be harming the Singhs.’

‘Just because they smile doesn’t mean anything.’ He broke off suddenly, started rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I should not drink so much tea. It heats the blood, you know.’

‘Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, talking to all these people...’

‘Regarding which, would you like to know what I’ve gleaned?’

‘Sure.’

‘I was knocking on doors all of last evening, and from first thing this morning... Of course, not everyone was relevant or would speak with me.’

‘Thanks for trying anyway.’

Dirwan received the praise with a motion of his head. ‘You know that Stef Yurgii was a journalist in his own country?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, people here — the ones who knew him — did not know that. However, he was good at getting to know people; at getting them to talk — it is in a journalist’s nature, yes?’

Rebus nodded.

‘So,’ the lawyer continued, ‘Stef spoke to people about their lives, asking many questions without revealing much of his own past.’

‘You think he was going to write about it?’

‘That is a possibility.’

‘What about the girlfriend?’

Dirwan shook his head. ‘No one seems to know about her. Of course, with a family in Whitemire, it is entirely possible that he would want her existence to remain a secret.’

Rebus nodded again. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘Not as yet. You wish me to continue knocking on doors?’

‘I know it’s a chore...’

‘But that’s exactly what it isn’t! I am gaining a feel for this place, and I’m meeting people who may wish to form their own collective.’

‘Like the one in Glasgow?’

‘Exactly. People are stronger when they act together.’

Rebus considered this. ‘Well, good luck to you — and thanks again.’ He shook the proffered hand, unsure how far he trusted Dirwan. The man was a lawyer, after all; added to which, he had his own agenda.

Someone was walking towards them. They had to move to let him past. Rebus recognised the youth from yesterday, the one with the rock. The youth just stared at the two men, unsure as to who deserved his scorn more. He stopped at the lifts and jabbed the button.

‘I hear you like tattoos,’ Rebus called out. He nodded to Dirwan to let the lawyer know they were finished. Then he walked over to join the youth, who backed away as if fearing contamination. Like the youth, Rebus kept his eyes on the lift doors. Dirwan meantime was getting no answer at 203; moved further away to try 204.

‘What do you want?’ the youth muttered.

‘Just passing the time of day. It’s what humans do, you know: communicate with each other.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘Something else we do: accept the opinions of others. We’re all different, after all.’ There was a dull ping as the doors on the left-hand lift shuddered open. Rebus made to step in, then saw that the youth was going to stay behind. Rebus grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him inside, held him till the doors had closed again. The youth pushed him away, tried the ‘Door Open’ button, but too late. The lift was starting its creeping descent.

‘You like the paramilitaries?’ Rebus went on. ‘UVF, all that lot?’

The youth clamped his mouth shut, lips sucked in behind his teeth.

‘Gives you something to hide behind, I suppose,’ Rebus said, as if to himself. ‘Every coward needs some sort of shield... They’ll look lovely later on, too, those tattoos, when you’re married with kids... Catholic neighbours and a Muslim boss...’

‘Aye, right, like I’d let that happen.’

‘A lot of things are going to happen to you that you can’t control, son. Take it from a veteran.’

The lift came to a stop, its doors not opening fast enough for the youth, who started trying to pull them apart, squeezing out and loping off. Rebus watched him cross the stretch of playground. Shug Davidson, too, was watching from the Portakabin’s doorway.

‘Been fraternising with the locals?’ he asked.

‘A bit of lifestyle advice,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘What’s his name, by the way?’

Davidson had to think. ‘Howard Slowther... calls himself Howie.’

‘Age?’

‘Nearly fifteen. Education are after him for truancy. Young Howie’s heading down the pan big-time.’ Davidson shrugged. ‘And there’s bugger-all we can do about it until he does something really stupid.’

‘Which could be any day now,’ Rebus said, eyes still on the rapidly retreating figure, following it as it descended the slope towards the underpass.

‘Any day,’ Davidson agreed. ‘What time’s your meeting at the mortuary?’

‘Ten.’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘Time I was going.’

‘Remember: keep in touch.’

‘I’ll send you a postcard, Shug: “Wish you were here”.’

12

Siobhan had no reason to think that Ishbel’s ‘pimp’ was Stuart Bullen: Bullen seemed too young. He had the leather jacket, but not a sports car. She’d looked at an X5 on the internet, and it was anything but sporty.

Then again, she’d asked him a specific question: what car did he drive? Maybe he had more than one: the X5 for day-to-day stuff, and something else garaged for nights and weekends. Was it worth checking? Worth another visit to the Nook? Right now, she didn’t think so.

Having squeezed into a space on Cockburn Street, she was walking up Fleshmarket Close. A couple of middle-aged tourists were gazing at the cellar door. The man held a videocam, the woman a guidebook.

‘Excuse me,’ the woman asked. Her accent was English Midlands, maybe Yorkshire. ‘Do you know if this is where the skeletons were found?’

‘That’s right,’ Siobhan told her.

‘The tour guide told us about it,’ the woman explained. ‘Last night.’

‘One of the ghost tours?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘That’s it, pet. She told us it were witchcraft.’

‘Is that right?’

The husband had already started filming the studded wooden door. Siobhan found herself apologising as she brushed past. The pub wasn’t open yet, but she reckoned someone would be there, so she rattled the door with her foot. The lower half was solid, but the top half comprised green glass circles, like the bottoms of wine bottles. She watched a shadow move behind the glass, the click of a key being turned.

‘We open at eleven.’

‘Mr Mangold? DS Clarke... remember me?’

‘Christ, what is it now?’

‘Any chance I can come in?’

‘I’m in a meeting.’

‘It won’t take long...’

Mangold hesitated, then pulled open the door.

‘Thanks,’ Siobhan said, stepping in. ‘What happened to your face?’

He touched the bruising on his left cheek. The eye above was swollen. ‘Bit of a disagreement with a punter,’ he said. ‘One of the perils of the job.’

Siobhan looked towards the barman. He was transferring ice from one bucket to another, gave her a nod of greeting. There was a smell of disinfectant and wood polish. A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray on the bar, a mug of coffee next to it. There was paperwork, too: the morning post by the look of things.

‘Looks like you got off lightly,’ she said. The barman shrugged.

‘Wasn’t my shift.’

She noticed two more mugs of coffee on a corner table, a woman cupping one of them in both hands. There was a small pile of books in front of her. Siobhan could make out a couple of the titles: Edinburgh Haunts and The City Above and Below.

‘Make it quick, will you? I’m up to my eyes today.’ Mangold seemed in no hurry to introduce his other visitor, but Siobhan offered her a smile anyway, which the woman returned. She was in her forties, with frizzy dark hair tied back with a black velvet bow. She’d kept on her Afghan coat. Siobhan could see bare ankles and leather sandals beneath. Mangold stood with arms folded, legs apart, in the centre of the room.

‘You were going to look out the paperwork,’ Siobhan reminded him.

‘Paperwork?’

‘For the laying of the floor in the cellar.’

‘There aren’t enough hours in the day,’ Mangold complained.

‘Even so, sir...’

‘Two fake skeletons — where’s the fire?’ He held his arms out in supplication.

Siobhan realised that the woman was coming towards them. ‘You’re interested in the burials?’ she asked in a soft, sibilant voice.

‘That’s right,’ Siobhan said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke, and you’re Judith Lennox.’ Lennox went wide-eyed. ‘I recognise you from your picture in the paper,’ Siobhan explained.

Lennox took Siobhan’s hand, gripping rather than shaking it. ‘You’re so full of energy, Miss Clarke. It’s like electricity.’

‘And you’re giving Mr Mangold here a history lesson.’

‘Quite right.’ The woman’s eyes had widened again.

‘The titles on the spines,’ Siobhan explained, nodding towards the books. ‘Bit of a giveaway.’

Lennox looked at Mangold. ‘I’m helping Ray develop his new theme bar... it’s very exciting.’

‘The cellar?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘He wants some idea of historical context.’

Mangold coughed an interruption. ‘I’m sure Detective Sergeant Clarke has better things to do with her time...’ Hinting that he, too, was a man with things to do. Then, to Siobhan: ‘I did have a quick look for anything to do with the job, but came up blank. Could have been cash in hand. Plenty cowboys out there who’ll lay a floor, no questions asked, nothing in writing...’

‘Nothing in writing?’ Siobhan repeated.

‘You were here when the skeletons were found?’ Judith Lennox asked.

Siobhan tried to ignore her, focused on Mangold instead. ‘You’re trying to tell me...’

‘It was Mag Lennox, wasn’t it? It was her skeleton you found.’

Siobhan stared at the woman. ‘What makes you say that?’

Judith Lennox squeezed shut her eyes. ‘I had a premonition. I’d been trying to arrange tours of the medical faculty... they wouldn’t let me. Wouldn’t even let me see the skeleton...’ Her eyes burned with zeal. ‘I’m her descendant, you know.’

‘Are you?’

‘She laid a curse on this country, and on anyone who would do her harm or mischief.’ Lennox nodded to herself.

Siobhan thought of Cater and McAteer: not much sign of any curse befalling them. She thought of saying as much, but remembered her promise to Curt.

‘All I know is, the skeletons were fake,’ Siobhan stressed.

‘My point exactly,’ Mangold broke in. ‘So why are you so bloody interested?’

‘It would be nice to have an explanation,’ Siobhan said quietly. She thought back to the scene in the cellar, the way her whole body had contracted at the sight of the infant... placing her coat gently over the bones.

‘They found skeletons in the grounds of Holyrood,’ Lennox was saying. ‘Those were real enough. And a coven in Gilmerton.’

Siobhan knew of the ‘coven’: a series of chambers buried beneath a bookmaker’s shop. But last she’d heard, it had been proven to belong to a blacksmith. Not a view she guessed would be shared by the historian.

‘And that’s as much as you can tell me?’ she asked Mangold instead.

He opened his arms again, gold bracelets sliding over his wrists.

‘In which case,’ said Siobhan, ‘I’ll let you get back to work. It was nice to meet you, Miss Lennox.’

‘And you,’ the historian said. She pushed a palm forwards. Siobhan took a step back. Lennox had her eyes closed again, lashes fluttering. ‘Make use of that energy. It is replenishable.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

Lennox opened her eyes, focusing on Siobhan. ‘We give some of our life force to our children. They are the true replenishment...’

The look Mangold gave Siobhan was mostly apologetic, partly self-pitying: his time with Judith Lennox, after all, still had a ways to run...

Rebus had never seen children in a mortuary before, and the sight offended him. This was a place for professionals, for adults, for the widowed. It was a place for unwelcome truths about the human body. It was the antithesis of childhood.

Then again, what was childhood to the Yurgii children but confusion and desperation?

Which didn’t stop Rebus pinning one of the guards to the wall. Not physically, of course, not using his hands. But by dint of placing himself at an intimidating proximity to the man and then inching forward, until the guard had his back to the wall of the waiting area.

‘You brought kids here?’ Rebus spat.

The guard was young; his ill-fitting uniform offered no protection against someone like Rebus. ‘They wouldn’t stay,’ he stammered. ‘Bawling and grabbing on to her...’ Rebus had turned his head to look at where the seated mother was folding the children in towards her, showing no interest in this scene, and in turn being embraced by her friend in the headscarf, the one from Whitemire. The boy, however, was watching intently. ‘Mr Traynor thought it best to let them come.’

‘They could have stayed in the van.’ Rebus had seen it outside: custodial blue with bars on its windows, a toughened grille between the front seats and the benches in the back.

‘Not without their mum...’

The door was opening, a second guard entering. This man was the elder. He held a clipboard. Behind him came the white-coated figure of Bill Ness, who ran the mortuary. Ness was in his fifties, with Buddy Holly glasses. As ever, he was chewing a piece of gum. He went over to the family and offered the rest of the packet to the children, who reacted by moving even closer to their mother. Left standing in the doorway was Ellen Wylie. She was there to witness the ID procedure. She hadn’t known Rebus was coming, and he’d since told her that she was welcome to the job.

‘Everything all right here?’ the elder guard was asking Rebus now.

‘Hunky dory,’ Rebus said, taking a couple of paces back.

‘Mrs Yurgii,’ Ness was coaxing, ‘we’re ready when you are.’

She nodded and tried rising to her feet, had to be helped up by her friend. She placed a hand on either child’s head.

‘I’ll stay here with them, if you like,’ Rebus said. She looked at him, then whispered something to the children, who gripped her all the harder.

‘Your mum’ll just be through that door,’ Ness told them, pointing. ‘We’ll only be a minute...’

Mrs Yurgii crouched in front of son and daughter, whispered more words to them. Her eyes were glazed with tears. Then she lifted either child on to a chair, smiled at them, and backed away towards the door. Ness held it open for her. Both guards followed her, the elder glaring a warning towards Rebus: Keep an eye on them. Rebus didn’t even blink.

When the door closed, the girl ran towards it, placing her hands against its surface. She said nothing, and wasn’t crying. Her brother went to her, put his arm around her and led her back to where they’d been sitting. Rebus crouched down, resting his back against the wall opposite. It was a desolate spot: no posters or notices, no magazines. Nothing to pass the time because no one passed time here. Usually you waited only a minute, enough time for the body to be moved from its refrigerated shelf to the viewing room. And afterwards, you left swiftly, not wishing to spend another minute in this place. There wasn’t even a clock, for, as Ness had said once to Rebus, ‘Our clients are out of time.’ One of countless puns which helped him and his colleagues do the job they did.

‘My name’s John, by the way,’ Rebus told the children. The girl was transfixed by the door, but the boy seemed to understand.

‘Police bad,’ he stated with passion.

‘Not here,’ Rebus told him. ‘Not in this country.’

‘In Turkey, very bad.’

Rebus nodded acceptance of this. ‘But not here,’ he repeated. ‘Here, police good.’ The boy looked sceptical, and Rebus didn’t blame him. After all, what did he know of the police? They had accompanied the Immigration officials, taking the family into custody. The Whitemire guards probably looked like police officers, too: anyone in a uniform was suspect. Anyone in authority.

They were the people who had made his mother cry, his father disappear.

‘You want to stay here? In this country?’ Rebus asked. This concept was beyond the lad. He blinked a few times, until it was clear he wasn’t about to answer.

‘What toys do you like?’

‘Toys?’

‘Things you play with.’

‘I play with my sister.’

‘You play games, read books?’

Again, the question seemed unanswerable. It was as if Rebus were quizzing him on local history or the rules of rugby.

The door opened. Mrs Yurgii was sobbing quietly, supported by her friend, the officials behind them sombre, as befitted the moment. Ellen Wylie nodded at Rebus to let him know identity had been confirmed.

‘That’s us then,’ the elder guard stated. The children were clinging to their mother again. The guards started manoeuvring all four figures towards the opposite door, the one leading back to the outside world, the land of the living.

The boy turned just the once, as if to gauge Rebus’s reaction. Rebus tried a smile which was not returned.

Ness headed back into the heart of the building, which left only Rebus and Wylie in the waiting area.

‘Do we need to talk to her?’ she asked.

‘Why?’

‘To establish when she last heard from her husband...’

Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s up to you, Ellen.’

She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

Rebus shook his head slowly.

‘It’s tough on the kids,’ she said.

‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘when do you reckon was the last time life wasn’t tough on those kids?’

She shrugged. ‘Nobody asked them to come here.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

She was still looking at him. ‘But it’s not the point you were making?’ she guessed.

‘I just think they deserve a childhood,’ he responded. ‘That’s all.’

He went outside to smoke a cigarette, watched Wylie drive off in her Volvo. He paced the small car park, three of the mortuary’s unmarked vans standing there, awaiting their next call. Inside, the attendants would be playing cards and drinking tea. There was a nursery school across the street, and Rebus considered the short journey between the two, then squashed the remains of the cigarette underfoot and got into his own car. Drove towards Gayfield Square, but continued past the police station. There was a toy shop he knew: Harburn Hobbies on Elm Row. He parked outside and headed in. Didn’t bother looking at the prices, just picked out a few things: a simple train-set, a couple of model kits, and a doll’s house and doll. The assistant helped him load the car. Back behind the steering wheel, he had another idea, this time driving to his flat in Arden Street. In the hall cupboard, he found a box full of old annuals and story books from when his daughter was twenty years younger. Why were they still there? Maybe awaiting the grandchildren who’d not yet come. Rebus put them on the back seat beside the other toys, and drove west out of town. Traffic was light, and within half an hour he was at the Whitemire turn-off. There were wisps of smoke from the camp-fire, but the woman was rolling up her tent, paying him no heed. A different guard was on duty at the gatehouse. Rebus had to show his ID, drive to the car park, and be met by another guard, who was reluctant to help with the haul.

There was no sign of Traynor, but that didn’t matter. Rebus and the guard took the toys inside.

‘They’ll have to be checked,’ the guard said.

‘Checked?’

‘We can’t have people just bring anything in here...’

‘You think there are drugs hidden inside the doll?’

‘It’s standard procedure, Inspector.’ The guard lowered his voice. ‘You and I know it’s completely bloody stupid, but it still has to be done.’

The two men shared a look. Rebus nodded eventually. ‘But they will get to the kids?’ he asked.

‘By the end of the day, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

‘Thanks.’ Rebus shook the guard’s hand, then looked around. ‘How do you stand it here?’

‘Would you rather have the place staffed by people different from me? God knows there are enough of them...’

Rebus managed a smile. ‘You’ve got a point.’ He thanked the man again. The guard just shrugged.

Driving out, Rebus noticed that the tent had gone. Its owner was now trudging down the side of the road, a rucksack on her back. He stopped, winding down his window.

‘Need a lift?’ he asked. ‘I’m headed for Edinburgh.’

‘You were here yesterday,’ she stated. He nodded. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘The murder in Knoxland?’ she guessed. Rebus nodded again. She peered into the back of the car.

‘Plenty room for your rucksack,’ he told her.

‘That’s not why I was looking.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just wondering what happened to the doll’s house. I saw a doll’s house on the back seat when you drove in.’

‘Then your eyes obviously deceived you.’

‘Obviously,’ she said. ‘After all, why would a policeman bring toys to a detention centre?’

‘Why indeed?’ Rebus agreed, getting out to help her stash her things.

They drove the first half-mile in silence, then Rebus asked her if she smoked.

‘No, but you go ahead if you like.’

‘I’m all right,’ Rebus lied. ‘How often do you do that vigil thing?’

‘As often as I can.’

‘All by yourself?’

‘There were more of us to start with.’

‘I remember seeing it on the telly.’

‘Others join me when they can: weekends, usually.’

‘They have jobs to go to?’ Rebus guessed.

‘I work too, you know,’ she snapped. ‘It’s just that I can juggle my time.’

‘You’re an acrobat?’

She smiled at this. ‘I’m an artist.’ She paused, awaiting a response. ‘And thank you for not snorting.’

‘Why would I snort?’

‘Most people like you would.’

‘People like me?’

‘People who see anyone who’s different to them as a threat.’

Rebus made a show of taking this in. ‘So that’s what I’m like. I’d always wondered...’

She smiled again. ‘All right, I’m jumping to conclusions, but not without some grounds. You’ll have to trust me on that.’ She leaned forward to operate the seat mechanism, sliding it back as far as it would go, giving her room to put her feet on the dashboard in front of her. Rebus thought she was probably in her mid-forties, long mousy-brown hair woven into braids. Three hooped golden earrings in either lobe. Her face was pale and freckled, and her front two teeth overlapped, giving her the look of an impish schoolgirl.

‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I also take it you’re not a big fan of our asylum laws?’

‘That’s because they stink.’

‘And what do they stink of?’

She turned from the windscreen to look at him. ‘Hypocrisy, for starters,’ she said. ‘This is a country where you can buy your way to a passport if you know the right politician. If you don’t, and we don’t like your skin colour or your politics, then forget it.’

‘You don’t think we’re a soft touch then?’

‘Give me a break,’ she said dismissively, turning her attention back to the scenery.

‘I’m just asking.’

‘A question to which you think you already know the answer?’

‘I know we’ve got better welfare than some countries.’

‘Yeah, right. That’s why people pay their life savings to gangs who smuggle them over borders? That’s why they suffocate in the backs of lorries, or squashed into cargo containers?’

‘Don’t forget the Eurostar: don’t they cling to its undercarriage?’

‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’

‘Just making conversation.’ Rebus concentrated on driving for a few moments. ‘So what kind of art do you do?’

It took her a few moments to answer him. ‘Portraits mostly... the occasional landscape...’

‘Would I have heard of you?’

‘You don’t look like a collector.’

‘I used to have an H.R. Giger on my wall.’

‘An original?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘LP cover — Brain Salad Surgery.’

‘At least you remember the artist’s name.’ She sniffed, running a hand across her nose. ‘Mine’s Caro Quinn.’

‘Caro short for Caroline?’ She nodded. Rebus reached out awkwardly with his right hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

Quinn slipped off a grey woollen glove and they shook, the car creeping over the carriageway’s central dividing line. Rebus quickly corrected the steering.

‘Promise to get us back to Edinburgh in one piece?’ the artist pleaded.

‘Where do you want to be dropped?’

‘Are you going anywhere near Leith Walk?’

‘I’m based at Gayfield.’

‘Perfect... I’m just off Pilrig Street, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Fine by me.’ They were quiet for a few minutes until Quinn spoke.

‘You couldn’t move sheep around Europe the way some of these families have been moved... nearly two thousand of them in detention in Britain.’

‘But a lot of them get to stay, right?’

‘Not nearly enough. Holland’s getting ready to deport twenty-six thousand.’

‘Seems a lot. How many are there in Scotland?’

‘Eleven thousand in Glasgow alone.’

Rebus whistled.

‘Go back a couple of years, we took more asylum-seekers than any country in the world.’

‘I thought we still did.’

‘Numbers are dropping fast.’

‘Because the world’s a safer place?’

She looked at him, decided he was being ironic. ‘Controls are tightening all the time.’

‘Only so many jobs to go round,’ Rebus said with a shrug.

‘And that’s supposed to make us less compassionate?’

‘Never found much room for compassion in my job.’

‘That’s why you went to Whitemire with a car full of toys?’

‘My friends call me Santa...’

Rebus double-parked, as directed, outside her tenement flat. ‘Come up for a minute,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘Something I’d like you to see.’

He locked his car, hoping the owner of the boxed-in Mini wouldn’t mind. Quinn lived on the top floor — in Rebus’s experience the usual haunt of student renters. Quinn had another explanation.

‘I get two storeys,’ she said. ‘There’s a stair into the roof-space.’ She unlocked the door, Rebus lagging half a flight behind her. He thought he heard her call out something — a name maybe — but when he entered the hallway there was no one there. Quinn had rested her rucksack against the wall and was beckoning him up the steep, narrow stairway into the eaves of the building. Rebus took a few deep breaths and started climbing again.

There was just the one room, illuminated by natural light from four large Velux windows. Canvases were stacked against the walls, black and white photographs pinned to every available inch of the eaves.

‘I tend to work from photos,’ Quinn told him. ‘These are what I wanted you to see.’ They were close-ups of faces, the camera seeming to focus on the eyes specifically. Rebus saw mistrust, fear, curiosity, indulgence, good humour. Surrounded by so many stares, he felt like an exhibit himself, and said as much to the artist, who seemed gratified.

‘My next exhibition, I don’t want any wall-space showing, just ranks of painted faces demanding we pay them some attention.’

‘Staring us down.’ Rebus nodded slowly. Quinn was nodding too. ‘So where did you take them?’

‘All over: Dundee, Glasgow, Knoxland.’

‘They’re all immigrants?’

She nodded, studying her work.

‘When were you in Knoxland?’

‘Three or four months back. I was kicked out after a couple of days...’

‘Kicked out?’

She turned to him. ‘Well, let’s say made to feel unwelcome.’

‘Who by?’

‘Locals... bigots... people with a grudge.’

Rebus was looking more closely at the photos. He didn’t see anyone he recognised.

‘Some don’t want to be photographed, of course, and I have to respect that.’

‘Do you ask their names?’ He watched her nod. ‘No one called Stef Yurgii?’

She started to shake her head, then went rigid, her eyes widening. ‘You’re interrogating me!’

‘Just asking a question,’ he countered.

‘Seeming friendly, giving me a lift...’ She shook her head at her own stupidity. ‘Christ, and to think I invited you in.’

‘I’m trying to solve a case here, Caro. And for what it’s worth, I gave you a lift out of natural curiosity... no other agenda.’

She stared at him. ‘Natural curiosity about what?’ Folding her arms defensively.

‘I don’t know... Maybe about why you’d hold a vigil like that. You didn’t look the type.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘The type?’

He shrugged. ‘No matted hair or combat jacket, no ratty-looking dog on a length of clothes-line... and not too many body piercings either, by the look of it.’ He was trying to lighten the mood, and was relieved to see her shoulders relax. She gave a half-twitch of a smile and unfolded her arms, sliding her hands into her pockets instead.

There was a noise from downstairs: a baby crying. ‘Yours?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’m not even married these days...’ She turned and started down the narrow stairs again, Rebus lingering a moment before following, feeling all those eyes on him as he went.

One of the doors off the hallway was open. It led to a small bedroom. There was a single bed inside, on which sat a dark-skinned, sleepy-eyed woman, a baby suckling at her breast.

‘Is she okay?’ Quinn was asking the young woman.

‘Okay,’ came the reply.

‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’ Quinn started closing the door.

‘Peace,’ came the quiet voice from within.

‘Guess where I found her?’ the artist asked Rebus.

‘On the street?’

She shook her head. ‘At Whitemire. She’s a trained nurse, only she’s not allowed to work here. Others in Whitemire are doctors, teachers...’ She smiled at the look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t sneak her out or anything. If you offer an address and bail money, you can free any number of them.’

‘Really? I didn’t know. How much does it cost?’

Her smiled widened. ‘Someone you’re thinking of helping out, Inspector?’

‘No... I was just wondering.’

‘Plenty have been bailed already by people like me... Even the odd MSP has done it.’ She paused. ‘It’s Mrs Yurgii, isn’t it? I saw them bringing her back with her kids. Then, not much more than an hour later, you turn up with the doll’s house.’ She paused again. ‘They won’t give her bail.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s listed as an “abscond risk” — probably because her husband did the same thing.’

‘Only now he’s dead.’

‘I’m not sure that’ll change their minds.’ She angled her head, as though seeking his potential as a future portrait. ‘You know something? Maybe I was too quick to judge you. Have you got time for some coffee?’

Rebus made a show of studying his watch. ‘Things to do,’ he said. The sound of a car horn blared from below. ‘Plus I’ve a Mini driver downstairs to mollify.’

‘Another time maybe.’

‘Sure.’ He handed her his card. ‘My mobile’s on the back.’

She held the card in the palm of her hand, as though weighing it. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said.

‘Let me know when the exhibition opens.’

‘Just two things you’ll need to bring — your chequebook, for one...’

‘And?’

‘Your conscience,’ she said, opening the door for him.

13

Siobhan was fed up waiting. She’d called ahead to the hospital, and they’d tried paging Dr Cater — to no effect. So she’d driven out there anyway and asked for him at reception. Again he’d been paged — again, to no effect.

‘I’m sure he’s here,’ a passing nurse had said. ‘I saw him half an hour back.’

‘Where?’ Siobhan had demanded.

But the nurse hadn’t been sure, offering half a dozen suggestions, so now Siobhan was prowling the wards and corridors, listening at doors, peering through the gaps in partitions, waiting outside rooms until consultations were finished and the doctor proved not to be Alexis Cater.

‘Can I help?’ She’d been asked this question a dozen times or more. Each time, she would ask for the whereabouts of Cater, receiving conflicting answers for her efforts.

‘You can run, but you can’t hide,’ she muttered to herself as she entered a corridor she recognised from not ten minutes before. Stopping at a vending machine, she selected a can of Irn-Bru, sipping from it as she continued her quest. When her mobile sounded, she didn’t recognise the number on the screen: another mobile.

‘Hello?’ she said, turning another corner.

‘Shiv? Is that you?’

She stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Of course it’s me — you’re calling my phone, aren’t you?’

‘Well, if that’s your attitude...’

‘Hang on, hang on.’ She gave a noisy sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you.’

Alexis Cater chuckled. ‘I’d heard rumours. Nice to know I’m so popular...’

‘But sliding down the charts as we speak. I thought you were going to get back to me.’

‘Was I?’

‘With your friend Pippa’s details,’ Siobhan replied, not bothering to hide her exasperation. She lifted the can to her lips.

‘It’ll rot your teeth,’ Cater warned.

‘What will...?’ Siobhan broke off suddenly, did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. He was watching her through the glass panel of a swing door halfway down the corridor. She started stalking towards him.

‘Nice hips,’ his voice said.

‘How long have you been following me?’ she asked into her own phone.

‘Not long.’ He pushed open the door, closing his phone just as she closed hers. He was wearing his white coat unbuttoned, revealing a grey shirt and narrow pea-green tie.

‘Maybe you’ve got time for games, but I haven’t.’

‘Then why drive all the way out here? A simple call would have sufficed.’

‘You weren’t answering.’

He formed his substantial lips into a pout. ‘You’re sure you weren’t dying to see me?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Your friend Pippa,’ she reminded him.

He nodded. ‘What about a drink after work? I’ll tell you then.’

‘You’ll tell me now.’

‘Good idea — we can have the drink without business intruding.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Pippa works for Bill Lindquist: do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘Hotshot PR guy. Based in London for a time, but got to like golf and fell in love with Edinburgh. He’s played a few rounds with my father...’ He saw that Siobhan was impressed by none of this.

‘Work address?’

‘It’ll be in the phone book under “Lindquist PR”. Down in the New Town somewhere... maybe India Street. I’d call first if I were you: PR isn’t PR if you’re sitting on your jacksy in the office...’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Well, then... about that drink...?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Opal Lounge, nine o’clock?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘Great.’ Siobhan smiled at him and started walking away. He called out to her, and she stopped.

‘You’ve no intention of turning up, have you?’

‘You’ll have to be there at nine to find out,’ she said, waving as she headed down the corridor. Her mobile sounded and she took the call. Cater’s voice.

‘You’ve still got great hips, Shiv. Shame not to give them some fresh air and exercise...’

She drove straight to India Street, calling ahead to make sure Pippa Greenlaw was there. She wasn’t: she was meeting some clients on Lothian Road, but was expected back by the top of the hour. As Siobhan had estimated, traffic on the way back into town meant that she, too, arrived at the offices of Lindquist PR almost exactly on the hour. The office was in the basement of a traditional Georgian block, reached by a winding set of stone steps. Siobhan knew that a lot of properties in the New Town had been turned into office accommodation, but many were now reverting to their origins as private homes. There were plenty of For Sale signs on this and surrounding streets. The buildings in the New Town were proving unable to adapt to the needs of the new century: most had listed interiors. You couldn’t just rip walls out to put in new cabling systems or reconfigure the available space, and you couldn’t build new extensions. Local council red tape was there to ensure that the New Town’s famed ‘elegance’ was retained, and when the local council failed, there were still plenty of local pressure groups to contend with...

Some of which became the topic of discussion between Siobhan and the receptionist, who was apologetic that Pippa had obviously been delayed. She poured coffee from the machine for Siobhan, offered her one of her own biscuits from the desk drawer, and chatted between answering phone calls.

‘Ceiling’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ she said. Siobhan agreed, staring up at the ornate cornicing. ‘You should see the fireplace in Mr Lindquist’s office.’ The receptionist screwed shut her eyes in rapture. ‘It’s absolutely...’

‘Gorgeous?’ Siobhan offered. The receptionist nodded.

‘More coffee?’

Siobhan declined, having yet to start the first cup. A door opened and a male head appeared. ‘Pippa back?’

‘She must have been delayed, Bill,’ the receptionist apologised breathily. Lindquist looked at Siobhan but said nothing, then disappeared back into his room.

The receptionist smiled at Siobhan and raised her eyebrows slightly, the gesture telling Siobhan that she thought Mr Lindquist, too, was gorgeous. Maybe everyone was gorgeous in PR, Siobhan decided — everyone and everything.

The outer door opened with some violence. ‘Fuckwits... bunch of brain-dead fuckwits.’ A young woman strode in. She was slim, wearing a skirt and jacket that showed off her figure. Long red hair and glossy red lipstick. Black high heels and black stockings: something told Siobhan they were definitely stockings rather than tights. ‘How the hell are we supposed to help them when they’ve got gold medals in fuckwittery — answer that, Sherlock!’ She slammed her briefcase down on the reception desk. ‘As God is my witness, Zara, if Bill sends me down there again, I’m taking an Uzi and as much bloody ammo as I can stuff into this case.’ She slapped her briefcase, noticing only now that Zara’s eyes were on the line of chairs by the window.

‘Pippa,’ Zara said tremulously, ‘this lady’s been waiting to see you...’

‘Name’s Siobhan Clarke,’ Siobhan said, taking a step forward. ‘I’m a potential new client...’ Seeing the look of horror on Greenlaw’s face, she held up a hand. ‘Only joking.’

Greenlaw rolled her eyes with relief. ‘Thank the sweet baby Jesus for that.’

‘I’m actually a police officer.’

‘I wasn’t serious about the Uzi...’

‘Quite right — I believe they’re notorious for jamming. Much better with a Heckler and Koch...’

Pippa Greenlaw smiled. ‘Come into my office while I write that down.’

Her office was probably the maid’s room of the original multi-storey house, narrow and not especially long, with a barred window looking on to a cramped car park where Siobhan recognised a Maserati and a Porsche.

‘I’m guessing yours is the Porsche,’ she said.

‘Of course it is — isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because that bloody speed camera near the zoo caught me again last week.’

‘Nothing to do with me. Do you mind if I sit?’

Greenlaw frowned, nodding at the same time. Siobhan shifted some paperwork from a chair. ‘I want to ask you about one of Lex Cater’s parties,’ she said.

‘Which one?’

‘About a year ago. It was the one with the skeletons.’

‘Well... I was just about to say that no one ever remembers anything about Lex’s little gatherings — not with the amount of booze we get through — but I do remember that one. At least, I remember the skeleton.’ She winced. ‘Bastard didn’t tell me it was real till after I’d kissed it.’

‘You kissed it?’

‘For a dare.’ She paused. ‘After about ten glasses of champagne... There was a baby, too.’ She winced again. ‘I remember now.’

‘You remember who else was there?’

‘Usual crowd probably. What’s this all about?’

‘The skeletons went missing after the party.’

‘Did they?’

‘Lex never said?’

Pippa shook her head. Close up, her face was covered in freckles, which her tan only partially concealed. ‘I thought he’d just got rid of them.’

‘You had a partner with you that night.’

‘I’m never short of partners, darling.’

The door opened and Lindquist’s head appeared. ‘Pippa?’ he said. ‘My office in five?’

‘No problem, Bill.’

‘And the meeting this afternoon...?’

Greenlaw shrugged. ‘Absolutely fine, Bill, just as you said.’

He smiled and retreated again. Siobhan wondered if there was actually a body attached to the head and neck; maybe the rest of him was wires and metal. She waited a moment before speaking. ‘He must’ve heard you when you came in, or is his room sound-proofed?’

‘Bill only hears good news, that’s his golden rule... Why are you asking about Lex’s party?’

‘The skeletons have turned up again — in a cellar in Fleshmarket Close.’

Greenlaw’s eyes widened. ‘I heard about that on the radio!’

‘What did you think?’

‘Had to be a publicity stunt — that was my first reaction.’

‘They were hidden under a concrete floor.’

‘But dug up again.’

‘They lay there the best part of a year...’

‘Evidence of forward planning...’ But Greenlaw sounded less sure. ‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’ She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. There was nothing else there but a slim silver laptop: no printer or trailing wires.

‘You were with someone. Lex reckons he might have taken the skeletons.’

Greenlaw’s whole face creased. ‘Who was I with?’

‘That’s what I was hoping you might tell me. Lex seems to remember he was a footballer.’

‘A footballer?’

‘That’s how you met him...’

Greenlaw was thoughtful. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever... no, wait, there was one guy.’ She angled her head towards heaven, revealing a slender neck. ‘He wasn’t a real footballer... played for some amateur side. Christ, what was his name?’ Triumphantly, her eyes met Siobhan’s. ‘Barry.’

‘Barry?’

‘Or Gary... something like that.’

‘You must know a lot of men.’

‘Not that many at all, really. But plenty of forgettables like Barry-or-Gary.’

‘Does he have a surname?’

‘I probably never knew it.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

Greenlaw tried to think back. ‘Almost certainly in a bar... maybe at a party or some launch for a client.’ She smiled in apology. ‘It was a one-nighter; he was good-looking enough to be my date. Actually, I think I do remember him. I reckoned he might shock Lex.’

‘Shock him how?’

‘You know... a bit of rough.’

‘And how rough was he?’

‘Christ, I don’t mean he was a biker or anything. He was just a bit more...’ She sought the right word. ‘More of a prole than I’d normally have hooked up with.’

She gave another shrug of apology and leaned back in her chair, rocking it slightly, fingertips pressed together.

‘Any idea where he came from? Where he lived? How he earned a living?’

‘I seem to remember he had a flat in Corstorphine... not that I saw it. He was...’ She screwed shut her eyes for a moment. ‘No, I can’t remember what he did. Flashed the cash around though.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Bleached hair with dark highlights. Wiry, willing to show off his six-pack... Plenty of energy in bed, but no finesse. Not over-endowed either.’

‘That’s probably enough to be going on with.’

The two women shared a smile.

‘Seems like a lifetime ago,’ Greenlaw commented.

‘You haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘And you don’t happen to’ve kept his phone number?’

‘Every New Year, I make a little funeral pyre of all those scraps of paper... you know the ones — the numbers and initials, people you’ll never call again; some you’re not sure you ever knew in the first place. All those ghastly, garish fucking hypocrites who grab your bum on the dance floor or slip a hand around your tit at a party and assume that PR means Patently Rogerable...’ Greenlaw let out a groan.

‘This meeting you’ve just come from, Pippa... anything to drink, perchance?’

‘Just champagne.’

‘And you drove back here in the Porsche?’

‘Oh, Christ, are you planning to breathalyse me, officer?’

‘Actually, I’m quietly impressed: it’s taken me till now to notice.’

‘Thing about champagne is, it always makes me so bloody thirsty.’ She examined her watch. ‘Fancy joining me?’

‘Zara’s got some coffee going spare,’ Siobhan countered.

Greenlaw made a face. ‘I’ve got to talk to Bill, but that’s me finished for the day.’

‘Lucky you.’

Greenlaw stuck out her bottom lip. ‘What about later?’

‘I’ll let you into a secret: Lex is going to be at the Opal Lounge at nine.’

‘Is he?’

‘I’m sure he’d buy you a drink.’

‘But that’s hours away,’ Greenlaw protested.

‘Tough it out,’ Siobhan advised, rising to her feet. ‘And thanks for talking to me.’

She was ready to leave, but Greenlaw gestured for her to sit down again. She started rummaging in the desk drawers, finally producing a pad of paper and a biro.

‘That gun you were talking about,’ she said, ‘what was it called again...?’

At Knoxland, the Portakabin was being lifted by crane on to the back of a lorry. Heads were at windows, the tower-block residents watching the manoeuvre. More graffiti had been added to the Portakabin since Rebus’s last visit, its window had been smashed further, and someone had tried setting fire to its door.

‘And the roof,’ Shug Davidson added for Rebus’s benefit. ‘Lighter fluid, newspapers and an old car tyre.’

‘That amazes me.’

‘What does?’

‘Newspapers — you mean someone in Knoxland actually reads?’

Davidson’s smile was short-lived. He folded his arms. ‘I wonder sometimes why we bother.’

As he spoke, Gareth Baird was being led from the nearest tower block by the same two uniforms. All three looked numb with exhaustion.

‘Nothing?’ Davidson asked. One of the uniforms shook his head.

‘Forty or fifty flats, we got no answer.’

‘No way I’m coming back!’ Gareth complained.

‘You will if we want you to,’ Rebus warned him.

‘Should we drop him home?’ the uniform asked.

As Rebus shook his head, his eyes were on Gareth. ‘Nothing wrong with the bus. There’s one every half-hour.’

Gareth’s eyebrows dipped in disbelief. ‘After everything I’ve done.’

‘No, son,’ Rebus corrected him, ‘because of everything you’ve done. You’ve only just started paying for that. Bus stop’s over that way, I think.’ Rebus pointed towards the dual carriageway. ‘Through the subway, if you’re brave enough.’

Gareth looked around him, seeing not one sympathetic face. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ he muttered, stomping off.

‘Back to the station, lads,’ Davidson told the uniforms. ‘Sorry you drew today’s short straw...’

The uniforms nodded and headed for their patrol car.

‘Nice little surprise for them,’ Davidson told Rebus. ‘Someone’s smashed a whole carton of eggs on their windscreen.’

Rebus shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘You mean someone in Knoxland buys fresh food?’ he said.

Davidson didn’t smile this time. He was reaching for his mobile. Rebus recognised the ring-tone: ‘Scots Wha Hae’. Davidson shrugged. ‘One of my kids was mucking around last night... I forgot to change it back.’ He answered the call, Rebus listening.

‘Speaking... Oh yes, Mr Allan.’ Davidson rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right... He did?’ Davidson locked eyes with Rebus. ‘That’s interesting. Any chance I could speak to you in person?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Some time today ideally... happens I’m free right now if you can spare... No, I’m sure it won’t take long... we could be there in twenty minutes... Yes, I’m sure of that. Thanks then. Cheers.’ Davidson ended the call and stared at his handset.

‘Mr Allan?’ Rebus prompted.

‘Rory Allan,’ Davidson said, still distracted.

‘The Scotsman editor?’

‘One of his news team’s just told him they took a phone call a week or so back from a foreign-sounding guy calling himself Stef.’

‘As in Stef Yurgii?’

‘Sounds likely... said he was a reporter and had a story he wanted to write.’

‘What about?’

Davidson shrugged. ‘That’s why I’m meeting Rory Allan.’

‘Need some company, big boy?’ Rebus gave his most winning smile.

Davidson thought for a moment. ‘It should be Ellen, really...’

‘Except she’s not here.’

‘But I could call her.’

Rebus tried for a look of outrage. ‘Are you spurning me, Shug?’

Davidson hesitated a few more moments, then put the mobile back into his pocket. ‘Only if you’re on your best behaviour,’ he said.

‘Scout’s honour.’ Rebus gave a salute.

‘God help me,’ Davidson said, as if he already regretted his momentary weakness.

Edinburgh’s daily broadsheet was housed in a new building opposite the BBC on Holyrood Road. There was a good view of the cranes which still dominated the sky above the emerging Scottish Parliament complex.

‘Wonder if they’ll finish it before the cost finishes us,’ Davidson mused, walking into the Scotsman building. The security guard let them through a turnstile and told them to take the lift to the first floor, from where they could look down on to the journalists in their open-plan environment below. To the rear was a glass wall, offering views of Salisbury Crags. Smokers were puffing away on a balcony outside, letting Rebus know that he wouldn’t be able to indulge in this place. Rory Allan came towards them.

‘DI Davidson,’ he said, instinctively homing in on Rebus.

‘I’m actually DI Rebus. Just because I look like his dad doesn’t mean he’s not the boss.’

‘Guilty of ageism as charged,’ Allan said, shaking first Rebus’s hand and then Davidson’s. ‘There’s a meeting room free... follow me.’

They entered a long, narrow room with an elongated oval table at its centre.

‘Smells brand new,’ Rebus commented of the furnishings.

‘Place doesn’t get used much,’ the editor explained. Rory Allan was in his thirties, with rapidly receding hair, prematurely silver, and John Lennon-style glasses. He’d left his jacket back in his own office, and wore a pale blue shirt with red silk tie, sleeves rolled up in workmanlike fashion. ‘Sit down, won’t you? Can I get either of you a coffee?’

‘We’re fine, thanks, Mr Allan.’

Allan nodded his satisfaction with this. ‘To business then... You’ll appreciate that we could have gone to print with this and let you find out for yourselves?’

Davidson bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. There was a knock at the door.

‘Come!’ Allan barked.

A smaller version of the editor seemed to appear: same hairstyle, similar glasses, sleeves rolled up.

‘This is Danny Watling. Danny’s one of our news staff. I asked him to join us so he could tell you himself.’ Allan gestured for the journalist to sit.

‘Not much to tell,’ Danny Watling said, in a voice so quiet Rebus, seated across the table from him, strained to catch it. ‘I was working the desk... picked up a phone call... guy said he was a reporter, had a story he wanted to write.’

Shug Davidson sat with his fingers pressed together on the table. ‘Did he say what it was about?’

Watling shook his head. ‘He was cagey... and his English wasn’t great. It was like the words had come from a dictionary.’

‘Or he was reading them out?’ Rebus interrupted.

Watling considered this. ‘Maybe reading them out, yes.’

Davidson asked for an explanation. ‘Girlfriend might have written them,’ Rebus replied. ‘Her English is supposed to be better than Stef’s.’

‘He told you his name?’ Davidson asked the reporter.

‘Stef, yes.’

‘No surname?’

‘I don’t think he wanted me to know.’ Watling looked to his editor. ‘Thing is, we get dozens of crank calls...’

‘Danny perhaps didn’t take him as seriously as he might have,’ Allan commented, picking at an invisible thread on his trousers.

‘No, well...’ Watling blushed at the throat. ‘I said we didn’t normally use freelancers, but if he wanted to talk to someone, we might give him a share of the by-line.’

‘What did he say to that?’ Rebus asked.

‘Didn’t seem to understand. That made me a bit more suspicious.’

‘He didn’t know what “freelance” meant?’ Davidson guessed.

‘Or maybe he just didn’t have an equivalent in his own language,’ Rebus argued.

Watling blinked a few times. ‘With benefit of hindsight,’ he told Rebus, ‘I think that may be right...’

‘And he gave you no inkling what this story of his might be?’

‘No. I think he wanted a face-to-face with me first.’

‘An offer you turned down?’

Watling’s back stiffened. ‘Oh no, I agreed to see him. Ten o’clock that night outside Jenner’s.’

‘Jenner’s department store?’ Davidson asked.

Watling nodded. ‘It was about the only place he knew... I tried a few pubs, even the really well-known ones that only tourists would be seen dead in. But he hardly seemed to know the city at all.’

‘Did you ask him to name a meeting place?’

‘I said I’d go anywhere he wanted, but he couldn’t think of a single place. Then I mentioned Princes Street, and he knew that, so I decided on the biggest landmark there.’

‘But he didn’t show up?’ Rebus guessed.

The reporter shook his head slowly. ‘That was probably the night before he died.’

The room was quiet for a moment. ‘Could be something or nothing,’ Davidson felt compelled to spell out.

‘It might give you a motive, though,’ Rory Allan added.

‘Another motive, you mean,’ Davidson corrected him. ‘The papers — including your own, I think, Mr Allan — have been happy till now to focus on it as a race crime.’

The editor shrugged. ‘I’m just speculating...’

Rebus was staring at the reporter. ‘Have you got any notes?’ he asked. Watling nodded, then looked to his boss, who granted permission with a nod. Watling handed Davidson a single folded sheet of notepaper, torn from a lined pad. Davidson took only a few seconds to digest the contents and slide the sheet across the table to Rebus.

Steph... East European???

Journ. story

10 2nite Jenrs

‘Doesn’t add what I’d call a new dimension,’ Rebus stated blandly. ‘He didn’t call again?’

‘No.’

‘Not even to one of the other staffers?’ A shake of the head. ‘And when he spoke to you, that was the first call he’d made?’ A nod. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to get a phone number from him, or trace where he was calling from?’

‘Sounded like a callbox. Traffic was close by.’

Rebus thought of the bus stop on the edge of Knoxland... there was a phone box about fifteen yards from it, next to the roadway. ‘Do we know where the 999 call came from?’ he asked Davidson.

‘Phone box near the underpass,’ Davidson confirmed.

‘Maybe the same one?’ Watling guessed.

‘Almost a news story in itself,’ his editor joked. ‘“Working phone box found in Knoxland”.’

Shug Davidson was looking at Rebus, who offered a twitch of one shoulder, indicating that he’d run out of questions. Both men started to rise.

‘Well, thanks for getting in touch, Mr Allan, we do appreciate it.’

‘I know it’s not much...’

‘Still, it’s another piece of the jigsaw.’

‘And how’s that jigsaw progressing, Inspector?’

‘I’d say we’ve finished the border, just got to fill in the middle.’

‘The most difficult part,’ Allan offered, his voice sympathetic. There were handshakes all round. Watling bustled back to his desk. Allan waved to the two detectives as the lift doors closed. Out on the street, Davidson pointed to a café across the road.

‘My treat,’ he said.

Rebus was lighting a cigarette. ‘Fine, but give me a minute to smoke this...’ He took in a lungful and exhaled through his nostrils, picked a loose shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘So it’s a jigsaw, eh?’

‘Man like Allan works with clichés... thought I’d give him one to chew over.’

‘Thing about jigsaws,’ Rebus commented, ‘is that they all depend on the number of pieces.’

‘That’s true, John.’

‘And how many pieces have we got?’

‘To be honest, half are lying on the floor, maybe even a few under the sofa and the edge of the carpet. Now will you hurry up and smoke that bastard? I need an espresso pronto.’

‘It’s a terrible thing to see someone so addicted to their fix,’ Rebus said, before drawing more deeply on his cigarette.

Five minutes later, they were sitting stirring their coffees, Davidson chewing on sticky gobbets of cherry cake.

‘By the way,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He patted his jacket pockets, and produced a cassette tape. ‘It’s a recording of the emergency call.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I let Gareth Baird hear it.’

‘And was it Yurgii’s girlfriend?’

‘He wasn’t sure. Like he said, it’s not exactly Dolby Pro Logic.’

‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus pocketed the tape.

14

He played it in his car on the way home. Fiddled with the controls for bass and treble, but wasn’t able to improve much on the quality. The voice of a frantic woman, counterpointed by the professional calm of the emergency operator.

Dying... he’s dying... oh my God...

Can you give us an address, madam?

Knoxland... between the buildings... the tall buildings... he is pavement...

You need an ambulance?

Dead... dead... Collapsing into shrieks and sobs.

The police have been alerted. Can you stay there till they arrive, please? Madam? Hello, madam...?

What? What?

Can I take your name, please?

They’ve killed him... he said... oh my God...

We’ll send an ambulance. Is that the only address you can give? Madam? Hello, are you still there...?

But she wasn’t. The line was dead. Rebus wondered again if she’d used the same phone box as Stef, when he’d called Danny Watling. He wondered, too, what the story might be, the one which had necessitated a face-to-face... Stef Yurgii with his own journalistic instincts, talking to Knoxland’s immigrants... reluctant to see his story stolen by others. Rebus wound the tape back.

They’ve killed him... he said...

Said what? Warned her this would happen? Told her his life was in danger?

Because of a story?

Rebus signalled and pulled over to the side of the road. He played the tape one more time, all the way through and with the volume up. The background hiss seemed still to be there once the tape had been stopped. He felt like he was at altitude, needing his ears to pop.

It was a race crime, a hate crime. Ugly but simple, the killer bitter and twisted, his act earthing all that anger.

Well, wasn’t it?

Kids without a father... guards brainwashed into a fear of toys... tyres burning on a roof...

‘What in Christ’s name is happening here?’ he found himself asking. The world passed by, determined not to notice: cars grinding homewards; pedestrians making eye contact only with the pavement ahead of them, because what you didn’t see couldn’t hurt you. A fine, brave world awaiting the new parliament. An ageing country dispatching its talents to the four corners of the globe... unwelcoming to visitor and migrant alike.

‘What in Christ’s name?’ he whispered, hands strangling the steering wheel. He noticed there was a pub just a few yards further on. His car might get a ticket, but he could always risk it.

But no... if he’d wanted a drink, he’d have headed to the Ox. Instead he was going home, same as the other workers. A long hot bath and maybe one or two nips from a bottle of malt. There was a new batch of CDs he hadn’t listened to yet, picked up the weekend before: Jackie Leven, Lou Reed, John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers... Plus the ones Siobhan had loaned him: Snow Patrol and Grant-Lee Phillips... he’d promised them back by last week.

Maybe he could give her a call, see if she was busy. They didn’t have to go drinking: curry and beer at his place or hers, some music and chat. Things had been a bit awkward since the time he’d wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Not that they’d talked about it; he reckoned she just wanted to put it behind them. But it didn’t mean they couldn’t sit in a room together, sharing curry.

Did it?

But then she’d probably have other plans. She had friends, after all. And what did he have? All his years in this city, doing the job he did, and what was waiting for him back home?

Ghosts.

Vigils at his window, staring past his reflection.

He thought of Caro Quinn, surrounded by pairs of eyes... her own ghosts. She interested him in part because she represented a challenge: he had his own prejudices, and she had hers. He was wondering how much common ground they might turn out to share. She had his number, but he doubted she would call. And if he did go drinking, he would drink alone, turning into what his dad had called a ‘barley king’ — the soured hardmen who drank at the bar, facing the row of optics, supping the cheapest brand of whisky. Speaking to no one, because they’d stepped away from society, away from dialogue and laughter. The kingdoms they ruled had populations of one.

Finally, he ejected the tape. Shug could have it back. It wasn’t going to reveal any sudden secrets. All it told him was that a woman had cared about Stef Yurgii.

A woman who might know why he’d died.

A woman who’d gone to ground.

So why worry? Leave the job at the office, John. That’s all it should be to you: a job. The bastards who’d found him a lowly corner at Gayfield Square merited nothing more. He shook his head, scrubbed at his scalp with his hands, trying to clear everything out of there. Then he signalled back into the stream of traffic.

He was going home, and the world could go shaft itself.

‘John Rebus?’

The man was black. And tall, built from muscle. As he stepped forward from the shadows, what Rebus saw first were the whites of his eyes.

The man had been waiting in the stairwell of Rebus’s tenement, standing by the rear door, the one leading to the overgrown drying-green. It was a mugger’s spot, which was why Rebus tensed, even when his name was mentioned.

‘You’re Detective Inspector John Rebus?’

The black man had closely cropped hair and wore a smart-looking suit with an open-necked purple shirt. His ears were tiny triangles, with almost no lobes. He was standing in front of Rebus, and neither man had blinked in the best part of twenty seconds.

Rebus had a carrier bag in his right hand. There was a bottle of twenty-quid malt inside, and he was loath to take a swing with it unless absolutely necessary. For some reason his mind flashed on an old Chic Murray sketch: a man falling over with a half-bottle in his pocket, feeling a damp patch and touching it: Thank Christ for that... it’s only blood.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Sorry if I startled you...’

‘Who says you did?’

‘Tell me you’re not thinking of going for me with whatever’s in that bag?’

‘I’d be lying. Who are you and what do you want?’

‘Okay to show you ID?’ The man hesitated with his hand halfway to the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Fire away.’

A wallet came out. The man flipped it open. His name was Felix Storey. He was an Immigration official.

‘Felix?’ Rebus said, one eyebrow rising.

‘It means happy, so they tell me.’

‘And a cartoon cat...’

‘That too, of course.’ Storey started tucking the wallet away again. ‘Anything drinkable in that bag?’

‘Might be.’

‘I notice it’s from an off-licence.’

‘You’re very observant.’

Storey almost smiled. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Because you, Inspector, were observed last night, coming out of a place called the Nook.’

‘Was I?’

‘I’ve got a nice set of ten-by-eights to prove it.’

‘And what the hell has any of that got to do with Immigration?’

‘For the price of a drink, maybe I can tell you...’

Rebus wrestled with a dozen questions, but the carrier bag was growing heavy. He gave the slightest of nods and headed up the stairs, Storey following. Unlocked his door and pushed it open, sweeping the day’s mail aside with his foot, so that it came to rest on top of the previous day’s. Rebus went into the kitchen long enough to grab two clean glasses, then led Storey into the living room.

‘Nice,’ Storey said, nodding as he surveyed the room. ‘High ceilings, bay window. Are all the flats round here this size?’

‘Some are bigger.’ Rebus had removed the malt from its box and was wrestling with the stopper. ‘Sit yourself down.’

‘I like a nice drop of Scotch.’

‘Up here we don’t call it that.’

‘What do you call it then?’

‘Whisky, or malt.’

‘Why not Scotch?’

‘I think it goes back to when “Scotch” was a put-down.’

‘A pejorative term?’

‘If that’s the fancy word for it...’

Storey grinned, showing gleaming teeth. ‘In my job, you have to know the jargon.’ He rose slightly from the sofa to accept a glass from Rebus. ‘Cheers, then.’

‘Slainte.’

‘That’s Gaelic, is it?’ Rebus nodded. ‘You speak Gaelic then?’

‘No.’

Storey seemed to ponder this as he savoured a mouthful of Lagavulin. Finally he nodded his appreciation. ‘Bloody hell, it’s strong though.’

‘You want some water?’

The Englishman shook his head.

‘Your accent,’ Rebus said, ‘London, is it?’

‘That’s right: Tottenham.’

‘I was in Tottenham once.’

‘Football game?’

‘Murder case... Body found by the canal...’

‘I think I remember. I was a kid at the time.’

‘Thanks for that.’ Rebus poured a little more into his glass, then offered the bottle to Storey, who took it and refilled his own. ‘So you’re from London and you work for Immigration. And you’ve got the Nook under surveillance for some reason.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Explains how you clocked me, but not how you knew who I was.’

‘We’ve got local CID assistance. I can’t name names, but the officer recognised yourself and DS Clarke straight off.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Like I say, I can’t name names...’

‘So what’s your interest in the Nook?’

‘What’s yours?’

‘I asked first... But let me take a guess: some of the girls at the club are from overseas?’

‘I’m sure they are.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of his tumbler. ‘But they’re not why you’re here?’

‘Before I can talk about it, I really need to know what you were doing there.’

‘I was partnering DS Clarke, that’s all. She had a few questions for the owner.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘A teenager’s gone missing. Her parents are worried she’ll end up in a place like the Nook.’ Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to it. DS Clarke knows the family, so she’s going an extra yard.’

‘She didn’t fancy going to the Nook on her own?’

‘No.’

Storey was thoughtful, making a show of studying his glass as he swirled its contents. ‘Mind if I verify that with her?’

‘You think I’m lying?’

‘Not necessarily.’

Rebus glared at him, then produced his mobile phone and called her. ‘Siobhan? You up to anything?’ He listened to her response, eyes still fixed on Storey. ‘Listen, I’ve got someone here. He’s from Immigration and he wants to know what we were doing at the Nook. I’m passing you over...’

Storey took the handset. ‘DS Clarke? My name’s Felix Storey. I’m sure DI Rebus will fill you in later, but for now, could you just confirm why you were at the Nook?’ He paused, listening. Then: ‘Yes, that’s pretty much what DI Rebus said. I appreciate you telling me. Sorry to’ve troubled you...’ He handed the phone back to Rebus.

‘Cheers, Shiv... we’ll talk later. Right now, it’s Mr Storey’s turn.’ Rebus snapped the phone closed.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ the Immigration official said.

‘Best to clear things up...’

‘What I meant was, you didn’t have to use your mobile — house phone’s just over there.’ He nodded towards the dining table. ‘It’d have been a lot cheaper.’

Rebus eventually conceded a smile. Felix Storey placed his tumbler on the carpet and straightened up, hands clasped.

‘The case I’m working, I can’t take chances.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because a bent cop or two might sidle into the picture...’ Storey let this sink in. ‘Not that I’ve any evidence to back that up. It’s just the sort of thing that can happen. The sort of people I deal with, they wouldn’t think twice about buying off a whole division.’

‘Maybe there are more bent cops in London.’

‘Maybe there are.’

‘If the dancers aren’t illegal, it must be Stuart Bullen,’ Rebus stated. The Immigration official nodded slowly. ‘And for someone to make the trip from London... go to the expense of setting up a surveillance...’

Storey was still nodding. ‘It’s big,’ he said. ‘Could be very big.’ He shifted position on the sofa. ‘My own parents arrived here in the fifties: Jamaica to Brixton, just two among many. A proper migration that was, but dwarfed by the situation we’ve got now. Tens of thousands a year, coming ashore illegally... often paying handsomely for the privilege. Illegals have become big business, Inspector. Thing is, you never see them until something goes wrong.’ He paused, allowing Rebus room for a question.

‘How’s Bullen involved?’

‘We think he might run the whole Scottish operation.’

Rebus snorted. ‘That wee nyaff?’

‘He’s his father’s son, Inspector.’

‘Chicory Tip,’ Rebus muttered. Then, to answer Storey’s quizzical look: ‘They had a big hit with “Son of My Father”... before your time, though. How long have you been watching the Nook?’

‘Just the past week.’

‘The closed-down newsagent’s?’ Rebus guessed. He was remembering the shop across the road from the club, with its whited-out windows. Storey nodded. ‘Well, having been inside the Nook, I can tell you it doesn’t look to me like there are rooms heaped high with illegal immigrants.’

‘I’m not suggesting he stashes them there...’

‘And I didn’t see any hoards of fake passports.’

‘You went into his office?’

‘He didn’t look like he was hiding anything: the safe was wide open.’

‘Throwing you off the scent?’ Storey speculated. ‘When he found out why you were there, did you notice a change in him? Maybe he relaxed a little?’

‘Nothing that told me he might have other worries. So what is it exactly that you think he does?’

‘He’s a link in a chain. That’s one of the problems: we don’t know how many links there are, or what part each one plays.’

‘Sounds to me like you know the square root of bugger-all.’

Storey decided not to argue. ‘Had you met Bullen before?’

‘Didn’t even know he was in Edinburgh.’

‘So you knew who he was?’

‘I know of the family, yes. Doesn’t mean I tuck them in at night.’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Inspector.’

‘You’re sounding me out, which amounts to the same thing — and none too subtly, I might add.’

‘Sorry if it seems that way...’

‘It is that way. And here I am, sharing my whisky with you...’ Rebus shook his head.

‘I know your reputation, Inspector. Nothing I’ve heard leads me to believe you’d cosy up to Stuart Bullen.’

‘Maybe you’ve just not been talking to the right people.’ Rebus poured himself a little more whisky, offering none to Storey. ‘So what is it you hope to find by spying on the Nook? Apart from cops on the take, naturally...’

‘Associates... hints and a few fresh leads.’

‘Meaning the old ones have gone cold? How much hard evidence do you have?’

‘His name’s been mentioned...’

Rebus waited for more, but there wasn’t any. He gave a snort. ‘Anonymous tip-off? Could be any one of his competitors in the pubic triangle, looking to dump on him.’

‘The club would make for good cover.’

‘Ever been inside?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Because you think you’d stick out?’

‘You mean my skin colour?’ Storey shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Not many black faces on your streets, but that’ll change. Whether you choose to see them or not is another matter.’ He looked around the room again. ‘Nice place...’

‘So you said.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Just the twenty-odd years.’

‘That’s a long time... Am I the first black person you’ve invited in?’

Rebus considered this. ‘Probably,’ he admitted.

‘Any Chinese or Asians?’ Rebus chose not to answer. ‘All I’m saying is...’

‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘I’ve had enough of this. Finish your drink and vamoose... and that’s not me being racist, just bloody annoyed.’ He rose to his feet. Storey did the same, handing the glass back.

‘It was good whisky,’ he said. ‘See? You’ve taught me not to say “Scotch”.’ He reached into his breast pocket and produced his business card. ‘In case you feel the need to get in touch.’

Rebus took the card without looking at it. ‘Which hotel are you in?’

‘It’s near Haymarket, on Grosvenor Street.’

‘I know the one.’

‘Drop in some night, I’ll buy you a drink.’

Rebus said nothing to this, just: ‘I’ll see you out.’

Which he did, switching off the lights on his way back to the living room, standing by the uncurtained window, peering down towards pavement level. Sure enough, Storey emerged. As he did so, a car cruised to a stop and he got in the back. Rebus could make out neither driver nor number plate. It was a big car, maybe a Vauxhall. It turned right at the bottom of the street. Rebus walked over to the table and picked up the house phone, called for a taxi. Then he headed downstairs himself, waiting for it outside. As it drew up, his mobile chirped: Siobhan.

‘You finished with our mystery guest?’ she asked.

‘For now.’

‘What the hell was that all about?’

He explained it to her as best he could.

‘And this arrogant prick thinks we’re in Bullen’s pocket?’ was her first question. Rebus guessed it was rhetorical.

‘He might want to talk to you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for him.’ An ambulance pulled out from a side street, siren wailing. ‘You’re in the car,’ she commented.

‘Taxi,’ he corrected her. ‘Last thing I need right now is a conviction for drunk-driving.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Just out on the town.’ The cab had passed the Tollcross intersection. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘Have fun.’

‘I’ll try.’

He ended the call. The cabbie was taking them around the back of Earl Grey Street, making best use of the oneway system. They would cross Lothian Road at Morrison Street... next stop: Bread Street. Rebus handed over a tip, and decided to take a receipt. He could try adding it to his expenses on the Yurgii case.

‘Not sure lap-dancing’s tax-deductible, pal,’ the cabbie warned him.

‘Do I really look the type?’

‘How honest an answer do you want?’ the man called, crunching gears as he moved off.

‘Last time you get a tip,’ Rebus muttered, pocketing the receipt. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock. Packs of men prowled the streets, looking for their next watering-hole. Bouncers protecting most of the harshly lit doorways: some wore three-quarter-length coats, others bomber jackets. Rebus saw them as clones beneath the clothing: it wasn’t so much that they looked identical, more in the way they saw the world — divided into two groups: threat and prey.

Rebus knew he couldn’t linger outside the closed-down shop — if one of the Nook’s doormen became suspicious, it could mean the end of Storey’s operation. Instead, he crossed the road, on the same side now as the Nook, but ten yards shy of the entrance. He stopped and lifted his phone to his ear, conducting one side of an inebriated conversation.

‘Aye, it’s me... where are you? You were supposed to be at the Shakespeare... no, I’m on Bread Street...’

It didn’t matter what he was saying. To anyone who saw or overheard, he was just another night person, uttering the low gutturals of the local drunk. But he was also making study of the shop. There was no light inside, no movement or shadowplay. If the surveillance was twenty-four/seven, then it was bloody good. He reckoned they’d be filming, but couldn’t work out how. If they removed a small square of white from the window, anyone outside would be able to see in, eventually spotting the reflection from the lens. There were no gaps in the window anyway. The door was covered in a wire grille, a roller-blind blocking any view. Again, no obvious spy-hole. But hang on... above the door there was another, smaller window, maybe three feet by two, whited out except for a small square in one corner. It was ingenious: no passing eyes would stray there. Of course, it meant one of the surveillance team would have to be placed atop a step-ladder or similar, armed with the camera. Awkward and uncomfortable, but perfect nonetheless.

Rebus finished his imaginary call and turned away from the Nook, walking back in the direction of Lothian Road. On Saturday nights, the place was best avoided. Even now, on a week-night, there were songs and chants and people kicking bottles along the pavement, scampering across the lanes of traffic. The high-pitched laughter of hen parties, girls in short skirts with flashing headbands. A man was selling these headbands, plus pulsing plastic wands. He carried a fistful of each as he paced up and down. Rebus looked at him, remembering Storey’s words: Whether you choose to see them or not... The man was wiry and young and tan-skinned. Rebus stopped in front of him.

‘How much are they?’

‘Two pounds.’

Rebus made a show of searching his pockets for change. ‘Where you from?’ The man didn’t respond, eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘How long have you been in Scotland?’ But the man was moving off. ‘You not going to sell me one, then?’ Obviously not: the man kept walking. Rebus headed in the opposite direction, towards Princes Street’s west end. A flower-seller was emerging from the Shakespeare pub, one arm cradled around tight bunches of roses.

‘How much?’ Rebus asked.

‘Five pounds.’ The seller was barely into his teens. His face was tan, maybe Middle Eastern. Again, Rebus fumbled in his pockets.

‘Where you from?’

The youth pretended not to understand. ‘Five,’ he repeated.

‘Is your boss anywhere around?’ Rebus persisted.

The youth’s eyes darted to left and right, seeking help.

‘How old are you, son? Which school are you at?’

‘Not understand.’

‘Don’t give me that...’

‘You want roses?’

‘I just need to find my money... Bit late for you to be out working, isn’t it? Mum and Dad know what you’re up to?’

The rose-seller had had enough. He ran, dropping one of his bunches, not looking back, not stopping. Rebus picked it up, handed it to a group of passing girls.

‘That doesn’t get you in my knickers,’ one of them said, ‘but it does get you this.’ She pecked him on the cheek. As they staggered away, screeching and clattering in their noisy heels, another of the group yelped that he was old enough to be their grandad.

So I am, Rebus thought, and feel it, too...

He scrutinised the faces all along Princes Street. More Chinese than he’d expected. The beggars all had Scottish and English accents. Rebus stopped in at a hotel. The head barman there had known him fifteen years; didn’t matter if Rebus needed a shave or wasn’t wearing his best suit, his crispest shirt.

‘What’ll it be, Mr Rebus?’ Placing a coaster in front of him. ‘Maybe a wee malt?’

‘Lagavulin,’ Rebus said, knowing a single measure here would cost him the price of a quarter-bottle... The drink was placed in front of him, the barman knowing better than to suggest ice or water.

‘Ted,’ Rebus said, ‘does this place ever use foreign staff?’

No question ever seemed to faze Ted: sign of a good barman. He moved his jaws as he considered a response. Rebus meantime was helping himself from the bowl of nuts which had appeared beside his drink.

‘Had a few Australians behind the bar,’ Ted said, starting to polish glasses with a towel. ‘Doing the world tour... stopping off here for a few weeks. We never take them without experience.’

‘What about elsewhere? The restaurant maybe.’

‘Oh aye, there’s all sorts waiting tables. Even more in housekeeping.’

‘Housekeeping?’

‘Chambermaids.’

Rebus nodded at this clarification. ‘Look, this is strictly between us...’ Ted leaned in a little closer at these words. ‘Any chance illegals could work here?’

Ted looked askance at the suggestion. ‘All above board, Mr Rebus, management wouldn’t... couldn’t...’

‘Fair enough, Ted. Didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’

Ted seemed consoled by this. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I’m not saying other establishments are quite as choosy... Here, I’ll tell you a story. My local, I usually have a drink there on a Friday night. This group’s started coming in, dunno where they’re from. Two guys playing guitars... “Save All Your Kisses For Me”, songs like that. And an older guy toting a tambourine, using it to collect money round the tables.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Pound to a penny they’re refugees.’

Rebus lifted his glass. ‘It’s a whole other world,’ he said. ‘I never really thought about it before.’

‘Looks like you could use a refill.’ Ted gave a wink which creased his whole face. ‘On the house, if you’ll permit...’

The cold air hit Rebus when he left the bar. A turn to the right would send him in the direction of home, but instead he crossed the road and walked towards Leith Street, ending up on Leith Walk, passing Asian supermarkets, tattoo parlours, takeaways. He didn’t really know where he was headed. At the foot of the Walk, Cheyanne might be plying her trade. John and Alice Jardine might be cruising in their car, seeking a sighting of their daughter. All kinds of hunger out there in the dark. He had his hands in his pockets, jacket buttoned against the chill. Half a dozen motorbikes rumbled past, only to find their progress thwarted by a red light. Rebus decided to cross the road, but the lights were already changing. He stepped back as the leading bike roared away.

‘Minicab, sir?’

Rebus turned towards the voice. There was a man standing in the doorway of a shop. The shop was illuminated from within and had obviously become a minicab office. The man looked Asian. Rebus shook his head but then changed his mind. The driver led him to a parked Ford Escort well past its sell-by date. Rebus told him the address, and the man reached for an A to Z.

‘I’ll give you directions,’ Rebus said. The driver nodded and started the engine.

‘Been enjoying a few drinks, sir?’ The accent was local.

‘A few.’

‘Day off work tomorrow, is it?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

The man laughed at this, though Rebus couldn’t think why. They headed back along Princes Street and up Lothian Road, heading for Morningside. Rebus told the driver to pull over, said he’d only be a minute. He went into an all-night shop and emerged with a litre bottle of water, swigging from it as he got back into the passenger seat, using it to wash down a four-pack of aspirin.

‘Good idea, sir,’ the driver agreed. ‘Get your retaliation in first, eh? No hangover in the morning; no excuse for a sickie.’

Half a mile further on, Rebus told the driver they were taking a detour. Headed for Marchmont and stopped outside Rebus’s flat. He went inside, unlocked the door. Extracted a bulging folder from a drawer in the living room. Opened it, decided he’d take a few of the cuttings with him. Back downstairs and into the cab.

When they got to Bruntsfield, Rebus said to take a right, then another. They were in a dimly lit suburban street of large, detached houses, most of them hidden behind shrubbery and fencing. The windows were darkened or shuttered, the occupants safely asleep. But lights burned in one of them, and that was where Rebus told the driver to drop him. The gate opened noisily. Rebus found the doorbell and rang it. There was no response. He took a few steps back and peered at the upstairs windows. They were lit but curtained. There were larger windows at ground level, either side of the porch, but both had their wooden shutters firmly closed. Rebus thought he could hear music coming from somewhere. He peered through the letterbox, but saw no movement, and realised that the music was coming from behind the house. There was a gravel driveway to one side and he headed up it, security lights tripping as he passed them. The music was coming from the garden. It was dark, except for a strange reddish glow. Rebus saw a structure in the middle of the lawn, wooden decking leading to it from the glass conservatory. Steam was rising from the structure. And music, too, something classical. Rebus walked forward towards the jacuzzi.

That was what it was: a jacuzzi, open to the Scottish elements. And in it sat Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as ‘Big Ger’. He was wedged into one corner, arms stretched along the rim of the moulded tub. Jets of water streamed out from either side of him. Rebus looked around, but Cafferty was alone. There was some sort of light in the water, a coloured filter casting a red glow over everything. Cafferty’s head was tipped back, eyes closed, a look on his face of concentration rather than relaxation.

And then he opened his eyes, and was staring directly at Rebus. The pupils were small and dark, the face overfed. Cafferty’s short grey hair stuck damply to his skull. The upper half of his chest, visible above the surface of the water, was covered in a mat of darker, curled hair. He didn’t seem surprised to see someone standing in front of him, even at this time of night.

‘Have you brought your trunks?’ he asked. ‘Not that I’m wearing any...’ He glanced down at himself.

‘I heard you’d moved house,’ Rebus said.

Cafferty turned to a control panel by his left hand and pressed a button. The music faded. ‘CD player,’ he explained. ‘The speakers are inside.’ He rapped the tub with his knuckles. Pressing another button, the motor ceased, and the water became still.

‘Light show, too,’ Rebus commented.

‘Any colour you like.’ Cafferty jabbed a further button, changing the water from red to green, and from green to blue, then ice-white and back to red.

‘Red suits you,’ Rebus stated.

‘The Mephistopheles look?’ Cafferty chuckled. ‘I love it out here, this time of night. Hear the wind in the trees, Rebus? They’ve been here longer than any of us, those trees. Same with these houses. And they’ll still be here when we’ve gone.’

‘I think you’ve been in there too long, Cafferty. Your brain’s getting all wrinkled.’

‘I’m getting old, Rebus, that’s all... And so are you.’

‘Too old to bother with a bodyguard? Reckon you’ve buried all your enemies?’

‘Joe knocks off at nine, but he’s never too far away.’ A two-beat pause. ‘Are you, Joe?’

‘No, Mr Cafferty.’

Rebus turned to where the bodyguard was standing. He was bare-footed, dressed hurriedly in underpants and a T-shirt.

‘Joe sleeps in the room above the garage,’ Cafferty explained. ‘Off you go now, Joe. I’m sure I’m safe with the Inspector.’

Joe glowered at Rebus, then padded back across the lawn.

‘It’s a nice area this,’ Cafferty was saying conversationally. ‘Not much in the way of crime...’

‘I’m sure you’re doing your best to change that.’

‘I’m out of the game, Rebus, same as you’ll be pretty soon.’

‘Oh aye?’ Rebus held up the clippings he’d brought from home. Photos of Cafferty from the tabloids. They’d all been taken in the past year; all showed him with known villains from as far afield as Manchester, Birmingham, London.

‘Are you stalking me or something?’ Cafferty said.

‘Maybe I am.’

‘I don’t know whether to be flattered...’ Cafferty stood up. ‘Hand me that robe, will you?’

Rebus was glad to. Cafferty climbed over the edge of the tub on to a wooden step, wrapping himself in the white cotton gown and sliding his feet into a pair of flip-flops. ‘Help me put the cover on,’ Cafferty said. ‘Then we’ll go indoors and you’ll tell me whatever the hell it is you want from me.’

Again, Rebus obliged.

At one time, Big Ger Cafferty had run practically every criminal aspect of Edinburgh, from drugs and saunas to business scams. Since his last stretch of jail-time, however, he’d kept his head down. Not that Rebus believed the crap about retirement: people like Cafferty didn’t ever jack it in. To Rebus’s mind, Cafferty had just grown wilier with age — and wiser to the ways police might go about investigating him.

He was around sixty now, and had known most of the well-known gangsters from the 1960s on. There were stories that he’d worked with the Krays and Richardson in London, as well as some of the better-known Glasgow villains. Past inquiries had tried linking him to drug gangs in Holland and the sex-slavers of Eastern Europe. Very little had ever stuck. Sometimes it was down to a lack of either resources or evidence compelling enough to persuade the Procurator Fiscal into a prosecution. Sometimes it was because witnesses vanished from the face of the earth.

Following Cafferty into the conservatory, and from there to the limestone-floored kitchen, Rebus stared at the broad back and shoulders, wondering not for the first time how many executions the man had ordered, how many lives he’d wrecked.

‘Tea, or something stronger?’ Cafferty said, shuffling across the floor in his flip-flops.

‘Tea’s fine.’

‘Christ, it must be serious...’ Cafferty smiled a little smile to himself as he switched the kettle on and dropped three tea bags into the pot. ‘I suppose I better put some clothes on,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the drawing room.’

It was one of the rooms at the front, with a large bay window and a dominating marble fireplace. An assortment of canvases hung from the picture rails. Rebus didn’t know much about art, but the frames looked expensive. Cafferty had headed upstairs, giving Rebus the opportunity to browse, but there was precious little to attract his attention: no books or hi-fi, no desk... not even any ornaments on the mantelpiece. Just a sofa and chairs, a huge Oriental rug, and the exhibits. It wasn’t a room for living in. Maybe Cafferty held meetings there, impressing with his collection. Rebus placed his fingers against the marble, hoping against hope that it would prove fake.

‘Here you go,’ Cafferty said, carrying two mugs into the room. Rebus took one from him.

‘Milk, no sugar,’ Cafferty informed him. Rebus nodded. ‘What are you smiling at?’

Rebus nodded towards the corner of the ceiling above the door, where a small white box was emitting a blinking red light. ‘You’ve got a burglar alarm,’ he explained.

‘So?’

‘So... that’s funny.’

‘You think nobody’d break in here? It’s not like there’s a big sign on the wall saying who I am...’

‘I suppose not,’ Rebus said, trying to be agreeable.

Cafferty was dressed in grey jogging bottoms and a V-neck sweater. He seemed tanned and relaxed; Rebus wondered if there was a sunbed somewhere on the premises. ‘Sit down,’ Cafferty said.

Rebus sat. ‘I’m interested in someone,’ he began. ‘And I think you might know him: Stuart Bullen.’

Cafferty’s top lip curled. ‘Wee Stu,’ he said. ‘I knew his old man better.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But what do you know about the son’s recent activities?’

‘He been a naughty boy then?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus took a sip of tea. ‘You know he’s in Edinburgh?’

Cafferty nodded slowly. ‘Runs a strip club, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And as if that wasn’t hard enough work, now he’s got you digging at his scrotum.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘All it is, a girl’s run off from home and her mum and dad got the idea she might be working for Bullen.’

‘And is she?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘But you went to see Wee Stu and he got up your nose?’

‘I just came away with a few questions...’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as what’s he doing in Edinburgh?’

Cafferty smiled. ‘You telling me you don’t know any west-coast hard men who’ve made the move east?’

‘I know a few.’

‘They come here because in Glasgow they can’t walk ten yards without someone having a go at them. It’s the culture, Rebus.’ Cafferty gave a theatrical shrug.

‘You’re saying he wants a clean break?’

‘Through there, he’s Rab Bullen’s son, always will be.’

‘Which means someone somewhere just might have put a price on his head?’

‘He’s not running scared, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Stu’s not the type. He wants to prove himself... stepping out from his old man’s shadow... you know what it’s like.’

‘And running a lap bar’s going to do that?’

‘Maybe.’ Cafferty studied the surface of his drink. ‘Then again, maybe he’s got other plans.’

‘Such as.’

‘I don’t know him well enough to answer that. I’m an old man, Rebus: people don’t tell me as much as they used to. And even if I did know something... why the hell would I bother to tell you?’

‘Because you nurse a grudge.’ Rebus placed his half-empty mug on the varnished wooden floor. ‘Didn’t Rab Bullen rip you off on one occasion?’

‘Mists of time, Rebus, mists of time.’

‘So as far as you know, the son’s clean?’

‘Don’t be stupid — nobody’s clean. Have you looked around you recently? Not that there’s much to see from Gayfield Square. Can you still smell the drains in the corridors?’ Cafferty smiled at Rebus’s silence. ‘Some people still tell me stuff... just now and again.’

‘Which people?’

Cafferty’s smile widened. ‘“Know thine enemy”, that’s what they say, isn’t it? I dare say it’s why you keep all my press cuttings.’

‘It’s not for your pop-star looks, that’s for sure.’

Cafferty’s mouth gaped in a huge yawn. ‘Hot tub always does that to me,’ he said by way of apology, fixing Rebus with a stare. ‘Something else I hear is that you’re working the Knoxland stabbing. Poor sod had... what? Twelve? Fifteen wounds? What do Messrs Curt and Gates think of that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Looks to me like a frenzy... someone out of control.’

‘Or just very, very angry,’ Rebus countered.

‘Same thing in the end. All I’m saying is, it might have given them a taste.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know something, don’t you?’

‘Not me, Rebus... I’m happy just sitting here and growing old.’

‘Or heading down to England to meet your scumbag friends.’

‘Sticks and stones... sticks and stones.’

‘The Knoxland victim, Cafferty... what is it you’re not telling me?’

‘Think I’m going to sit here and do your job for you?’ Cafferty shook his head slowly, then grasped the arms of the chair and started to rise to his feet. ‘But now it’s time for bed. Next time you come, bring that nice DS Clarke with you, and tell her to pack her bikini. In fact, if you’re sending her, you can stay at home.’ Cafferty laughed longer and louder than was merited as he led Rebus towards the front door.

‘Knoxland,’ Rebus said.

‘What about it?’

‘Well, since you brought it up... remember a few months back, we had the Irish trying to muscle in on the drugs scene there?’ Cafferty made a noncommittal gesture. ‘Seems they could be back... Would you happen to know anything about that?’

‘Drugs are for losers, Rebus.’

‘That’s an original line.’

‘Maybe I don’t think you merit any of my better ones.’ Cafferty held the front door open. ‘Tell me, Rebus... all those stories about me, do you keep them in a scrapbook with little hearts doodled on the front?’

‘Daggers, actually.’

‘And when they make you retire, that’s what you’ll have waiting for you... a few final years alone with your scrapbook. Not much of a legacy, is it?’

‘And what exactly are you leaving behind, Cafferty? Any hospitals out there named after you?’

‘Amount I give to charity, there might well be.’

‘All that guilt money, it doesn’t change who you are.’

‘It doesn’t need to. Thing you have to realise is, I’m happy with my lot.’ He paused. ‘Unlike some I could name.’

Cafferty was chuckling softly as he closed the door on Rebus.