Fleshmarket Close

15

The first Siobhan heard of it was on the morning news.

Muesli with skimmed milk; coffee; multivitamin juice. She always ate at the kitchen table, wrapped in her dressing gown — that way, if she spilled anything, she didn’t have to worry. A shower afterwards, and then her clothes. Her hair took only a few minutes to dry, which was why she was keeping it short. Radio Scotland was usually just background noise, a babble of voices to fill the silence. But then she picked up the word ‘Banehall’, and turned the volume up. She’d missed the gist, but the studio was handing over to an outside broadcast:

Siobhan unhooked her phone from its charger, but then couldn’t remember the number for Livingston police station. And who did she know there anyway? Only DC Davie Hynds, and he’d been there less than a fortnight: another casualty of the changes at St Leonard’s. She headed to the bathroom, checked her face and hair in the mirror. A splash and a wet comb might do for once. She didn’t have time for anything else. Decided, she dashed into the bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe doors.

Less than an hour later, she was in Banehall. Drove past the Jardines’ old house. They’d moved so they wouldn’t be so close to Tracy’s rapist. Donny Cruikshank, whose age Siobhan calculated as twenty-two...

There were a couple of police vans parked in the next street. The milling crowd had grown. A guy with a microphone was doing a vox pop — she guessed he was the same radio reporter she’d been listening to. The house at the centre of all the attention was flanked by two others. All three doors stood open. She saw Steve Holly disappear into the right-hand one. Doubtless money had changed hands and Holly was being given access to the rear garden, where he might have a better view of things. Siobhan double-parked and approached the uniform standing guard at the blue-and-white tape. She showed her warrant card and he raised the tape for her so she could duck beneath.

‘Body been ID-d?’ she asked.

‘Probably the guy who lived there,’ he said.

‘Pathologist been?’

‘Not yet.’

She nodded and moved on, pushing open the gate, walking up the path towards the shadowy interior. She took a few deep breaths, releasing them slowly; needed to look casual when she stepped indoors, needed to be professional. The lobby was narrow. Downstairs there appeared to be only a cramped living room and an equally small kitchen. A door led from the kitchen to the back garden. The stairs were steep to the only other floor: four doors here, all of them open. One was a hall cupboard, filled with cardboard boxes, spare duvets and sheets. Through another she could see part of a pale pink bath. Two bedrooms then: one a single, unused. Which left the larger, facing the front of the house. This was where all the activity was: scene-of-crime officers; photographers; a local GP consulting with a detective. The detective noticed her.

‘Can I help you?’

‘DS Clarke,’ she said, showing him her ID. So far, she hadn’t as much as glanced at the body, but it was there all right: no mistaking it. Blood soaking into the biscuit-coloured carpet beneath it. Face twisted, mouth sagging as though in an effort to suck in a final lungful of life. The shaven head crusted with blood. The SOCOs were running detectors over the walls, seeking spatters which would give them a pattern, the pattern in turn giving clues to the ferocity and nature of the attack.

The detective handed back her ID. ‘You’re a ways from home, DS Clarke. I’m DI Young, officer in charge of this inquiry... and I don’t remember asking for any help from the big city.’

She tried a winning smile. DI Young was just that — young; younger than her anyway, and already above her in rank. A sturdy face above a sturdier body. Probably played rugby, maybe came from farming stock. He had red hair and fairer eyelashes, a few burst blood vessels either side of his nose. If someone had told her he wasn’t long out of school, she’d probably have believed them.

‘I just thought...’ She hesitated, trying to find the right combination of words. Looking around, she noticed the pictures stuck to the walls — soft porn, blondes with their mouths and legs open.

‘Thought what, DS Clarke?’

‘That I might be able to help.’

‘Well, that’s a very kind thought, but I think we can manage, if that’s all right with you.’

‘But the thing is...’ And now she stared down at the corpse. Her stomach felt as though it had been replaced by a punchbag, but her face showed only professional interest. ‘I know who he is. I know quite a bit about him.’

‘Well, we know who he is too, so thanks again...’

Of course they knew him. With his reputation and his scarred face. Donny Cruikshank, lifeless on the floor of his bedroom.

‘But I know things you don’t,’ she persisted.

Young’s eyes narrowed, and she knew she was in.

‘Plenty more porn in here,’ one of the SOCOs was saying. He meant the living room: the floor beside the TV stacked with pirate DVDs and videos. There was a computer, too, another officer sitting in front of it, busy with the mouse. He had a lot of floppies and CD-ROMs to get through.

‘Remember: this is work,’ Young reminded them. He decided the room was still too busy, so led Siobhan into the kitchen.

‘I’m Les, by the way,’ he said, softening now that she had something to offer him.

‘Siobhan,’ she replied.

‘So...’ He leaned against a worktop, arms folded. ‘How did you come to know Donald Cruikshank?’

‘He was a convicted rapist — I worked that case. His victim committed suicide. She lived locally... parents still do. They came to me a few days back because their other daughter’s run off.’

‘Oh?’

‘They said they talked to someone at Livingston about it...’ Siobhan tried to sound anything but judgemental.

‘Any reason to think...?’

‘What?’

Young shrugged. ‘That this might have something to do with... I mean, connect in some way?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering. It’s why I decided to come here.’

‘If you could write this up as a report...?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘I’ll do it today.’

‘Thanks,’ Young eased himself away from the worktop, readying to head back upstairs. But he paused in the doorway. ‘You busy in Edinburgh?’

‘Not really.’

‘Who’s your boss?’

‘DCI Macrae.’

‘Maybe I could have a word with him... see if he can spare you for a few days.’ He paused. ‘Always supposing you’re agreeable?’

‘I’m all yours,’ Siobhan said. She could have sworn he was blushing as he left the room.

She was walking back through to the living room when she almost collided with a new arrival: Dr Curt.

‘You do get around, DS Clarke,’ he said. He looked to left and right to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘Any progress on Fleshmarket Close?’

‘A little. I bumped into Judith Lennox.’

Curt winced at the name. ‘You didn’t tell her anything?’

‘Of course not... your secret’s safe with me. Any plans to put Mag Lennox back on display?’

‘I should think so.’ He moved aside to let a SOCO past. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better...’ He motioned to the stairs.

‘Don’t worry — he’s not going anywhere.’

Curt stared at her. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Siobhan,’ he drawled, ‘that remark says much about you.’

‘Such as?’

‘You’ve been around John Rebus for far too long...’ The pathologist started climbing the stairs, taking his black leather medical case with him. Siobhan could hear his knees clicking with each step.

‘What’s the interest, DS Clarke?’ someone outside was shouting. She looked towards the cordon, saw Steve Holly there, waving his notebook at her. ‘Bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?’

She muttered something under her breath and walked down the path, opening the gate again, ducking under the cordon. Holly was at her shoulder as she made for her car.

‘You worked on the case, didn’t you?’ he was saying. ‘The rape case, I mean. I remember trying to ask you...’

‘Buzz off, Holly.’

‘Look, I’m not going to quote you or anything...’ He was in front of her now, walking backwards so he could make eye contact. ‘But you must be thinking the same as me... same as lots of us...’

‘And what’s that?’ she couldn’t help asking.

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish. I mean, whoever did this, they deserve a medal.’

‘I know limbo-dancers that couldn’t go as low as you.’

‘Your mate Rebus said much the same thing.’

‘Great minds think alike.’

‘But, come on, you must...’ He broke off as he backed into her car, losing his balance and falling into the road. Siobhan got in and started the engine before he could climb to his feet again. He was brushing himself down as she reversed down the street. He made to pick up his biro, but noticed that she’d crushed it under her wheels.

She didn’t drive far, just to the junction with Main Street and across it. Found the Jardines’ house easily enough. Both were at home, and ushered her inside.

‘You’ve heard?’ she said.

They nodded, looking neither pleased nor displeased.

‘Who could have done it?’ Mrs Jardine asked.

‘Just about anyone,’ her husband replied. His eyes were on Siobhan. ‘Nobody in Banehall wanted him back, not even his own family.’

Which explained why Cruikshank had lived alone.

‘Is there any news?’ Alice Jardine asked, trying to press Siobhan’s hands between her own. It was as if she’d already dismissed the murder from her mind.

‘We went to the club,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Nobody seemed to know Ishbel. Still no word from her?’

‘You’re the first person we’d tell,’ John Jardine assured her. ‘But we’re forgetting our manners — you’ll take a cup of tea?’

‘I really don’t have time.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Something I did want, though...’

‘Yes?’

‘A sample of Ishbel’s handwriting.’

Alice Jardine’s eyes widened. ‘What for?’

‘It’s nothing really... might just come in handy later on.’

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ John Jardine said. He went upstairs, leaving the two women alone. Siobhan had pushed her hands into her pockets, safe from Alice.

‘You don’t think we’ll find her, do you?’

‘She’ll let herself be found... when she’s ready,’ Siobhan said.

‘You don’t think anything’s happened to her?’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m guilty of thinking the worst,’ Alice Jardine said, rubbing her hands together as though washing them clean of something.

‘You know we’ll want to interview you?’ Siobhan spoke softly. ‘There’ll be questions about Cruikshank... about how he died.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You’ll be asked about Ishbel, too.’

‘Gracious me, they can’t think...?’ The woman’s voice had risen.

‘It’s just something that has to be done.’

‘And will it be you asking the questions, Siobhan?’

Siobhan shook her head. ‘I’m too close. It might be a man called Young. He seems okay.’

‘Well, if you say so...’

Her husband was returning. ‘There’s not much, to be honest,’ he said, handing over an address book. It listed names and phone numbers, most of them in green felt-tip. Inside the cover, Ishbel had written her own name and address.

‘Might do it,’ Siobhan said. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.’

Alice Jardine had grabbed her husband’s elbow. ‘Siobhan says the police will want to talk to us about...’ She couldn’t bring herself to use his name. ‘About him.’

‘Will they?’ Mr Jardine turned to Siobhan.

‘It’s routine,’ she said. ‘Turning the victim’s life into a pattern...’

‘Yes, I see.’ Though he sounded unsure. ‘But they can’t... they won’t think Ishbel had anything to do with it?’

‘Don’t be so stupid, John!’ his wife hissed. ‘Ishbel wouldn’t do something like that!’

Maybe not, Siobhan thought, but then Ishbel was by no means the only member of the family who’d be regarded as a suspect...

Tea was offered again, and politely refused. She managed to get out of the door, escaping to her car. As she drove off, she looked in her rearview mirror and saw Steve Holly striding along the pavement, checking house numbers. For a moment, she considered stopping — heading back and warning him off. But that sort of thing would only pique his curiosity. However he acted, whatever he asked, the Jardines would have to survive without her help.

She turned along Main Street and stopped outside the Salon. Inside, the place smelled of perms and hairspray. Two customers sat beneath driers. They had magazines open on their laps, but were busy talking, voices raised above the machines.

‘... and the best of British luck to them, I say.’

‘No great loss, that’s for sure...’

‘It’s Sergeant Clarke, isn’t it?’ This last came from Angie. She spoke even more loudly than her clients, and they heeded her warning, falling silent, eyes on Siobhan.

‘What can we do for you?’ Angie said.

‘It’s Susie I want to see.’ Siobhan smiled at the young assistant.

‘Why? What’ve I done?’ Susie protested. She was taking a cup of instant cappuccino to one of the women beneath the driers.

‘Nothing,’ Siobhan reassured her. ‘Unless, of course, you murdered Donny Cruikshank.’

The four women looked horrified. Siobhan held up her hands. ‘Bad joke,’ she said.

‘No shortage of suspects,’ Angie admitted, lighting a cigarette for herself. Her nails were painted blue today, with tiny spots of yellow, like stars in the sky.

‘Care to name your favourites?’ Siobhan asked, trying to make light of the question.

‘Look around you, sweetheart.’ Angie blew smoke ceilingwards. Susie was taking another drink over to the driers — a glass of water this time.

‘It’s one thing to think about doing someone in,’ she said.

Angie nodded. ‘It’s like an angel heard us and decided for once to do the right thing.’

‘An avenging angel?’ Siobhan ventured.

‘Read your Bible, sweetheart: they weren’t all just feathers and haloes.’ The women under the driers shared a smile at this. ‘You expect us to help you put whoever did that behind bars? It’s the patience of Job you’ll be needing.’

‘Sounds like you know your Bible, which means you also know murder’s a sin against God.’

‘Depends on your God, I suppose.’ Angie took a step closer. ‘You’re a friend of the Jardines — I know, they’ve told me. So come on now, you tell me straight out...’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Tell me you’re not glad the bastard’s dead.’

‘I’m not.’ She held the hairdresser’s gaze.

‘Then you’re not an angel, you’re a saint.’ Angie went to check how the women’s hair was progressing. Siobhan seized the chance to talk to Susie.

‘It’s really just that I could do with your details.’

‘My details?’

‘Your vital statistics, Susie,’ Angie said, the two customers laughing with her.

Siobhan managed to smile. ‘Just your full name and address, maybe your phone number. In case I need to write up a report.’

‘Oh, right...’ Susie looked flustered. She went to the till, found a notepad next to it, started writing. She tore off the sheet and handed it to Siobhan. The writing was in capitals, but that didn’t worry Siobhan: so was most of the graffiti in the Bane’s ladies’ lavatory.

‘Thanks, Susie,’ she said, slipping the note into her pocket, next to Ishbel’s address book.

There were a few more drinkers in the Bane than on her previous visit. They moved aside to give her some room at the bar. The barman recognised her, nodded something that could have been either a greeting or an apology for Cruikshank’s behaviour last time round.

She ordered a soft drink.

‘On the house,’ he said.

‘Aye, aye,’ said one of the drinkers, ‘Malky’s trying some foreplay for a change.’

Siobhan ignored this. ‘I don’t usually get free drinks until after I’ve identified myself as a detective.’ She held up her warrant card as proof.

‘Good choice, Malky,’ a man said. ‘I suppose it’s about young Donny?’ Siobhan turned to the speaker. He was in his sixties, a flat cap perched above a shiny dome of a head. He held a pipe in one hand. There was a dog lying at his feet, fast asleep.

‘That’s right,’ she admitted.

‘The lad was a bloody idiot, we all know that... Didn’t deserve to die for it, though.’

‘No?’

The man shook his head. ‘Lassies cry rape too quick these days.’ He held up a hand to stifle the barman’s protest. ‘No, Malky, I’m just saying, though... put a bit of drink in a girl, she’ll walk into trouble. Look at the way they dress when they parade up and down Main Street. Go back fifty years, women covered themselves up a bit... and you didn’t read about indecent assaults every day in your paper.’

‘Here it comes,’ someone called out.

‘Things have changed...’ The drinker almost relished the groans all around him. Siobhan realised that this was a regular performance, unscripted but dependable. She glanced at Malky, but he shook his head, telling her it wasn’t worth fighting her corner. The drinker would relish such a prospect. Instead she excused herself and headed to the loo. Inside the cubicle, she sat down, placing Ishbel’s address book and Susie’s note on her lap, comparing the writing to the messages on the wall. Nothing new had been added since her last visit. She was pretty sure that ‘Donny Pervo’ had been done by Susie, ‘Cook the Cruik’ by Ishbel. But there were other hands at work. She thought of Angie, and even the women under the driers.

Claimed in blood...

Dead Man Walking...

Neither Ishbel nor Susie had written those, but someone had.

The solidarity of the hair salon.

A town full of suspects...

Flicking through the address book, she noticed that under the letter C there was an address that looked familiar — HMP Barlinnie. E Wing, which was where they kept the sex offenders. Written there in Ishbel’s hand, filed under C for Cruikshank. Siobhan went through the rest of the book but found nothing else of note.

All the same, did this mean Ishbel had written to Cruikshank? Were there ties between them Siobhan didn’t yet know of? She doubted the parents would know — they’d be horrified at the thought. She walked back into the bar, lifted her drink, fixed her eyes on those of Malky the barman.

‘Do Donny Cruikshank’s parents still live locally?’

‘His dad comes in here,’ one of the drinkers said. ‘He’s a good man, Eck Cruikshank. Near did for him when Donny was put away...’

‘Donny didn’t live at home, though,’ Siobhan added.

‘Not once he came out of jail,’ the drinker said.

‘Mum wouldn’t have him in the house,’ Malky chipped in. Soon, the whole bar was talking about the Cruikshanks, forgetting they had a detective in their midst.

‘Donny was aye a terror...’

‘Dated my lassie for a couple of months, never said boo to a goose...’

‘Dad works at a machine-tool place in Falkirk...’

‘Didn’t deserve an end like that...’

‘No one does...’

Siobhan stood there taking sips of her drink, adding the occasional comment or question. When her glass was empty, two of the drinkers offered to buy her another, but she shook her head.

‘My shout,’ she said, reaching into her bag for money.

‘I won’t have a lass buying me drinks,’ one of the men tried to protest. But he allowed the fresh pint to be placed in front of him anyway. Siobhan started putting her change away.

‘What about since he got out?’ she asked casually. ‘Been catching up with any old mates?’

The men fell silent, and she realised she hadn’t been casual enough. She offered a smile. ‘Someone else will come round, you know... asking the self-same questions.’

‘Doesn’t mean we have to answer,’ Malky said sternly. ‘Careless talk and all that...’

The drinkers nodded their agreement.

‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ Siobhan reminded him. There was a chill in the pub now, all goodwill frozen.

‘Maybe so, but we’re not grasses.’

‘I’m not asking you to be.’

One of the men slid his pint back towards Malky. ‘I’ll buy my own,’ he said. The man beside him did the same.

The door opened and two uniforms walked in. One of them carried a clipboard.

‘You’ll have heard about the fatality?’ he asked. Fatality: a nice euphemism, but also accurate. It wouldn’t be murder until the pathologist gave his verdict. Siobhan decided to leave. The uniform with the clipboard said he’d need to take down her details. She showed him her warrant card instead.

Outside, a car horn sounded. It was Les Young. He came to a stop and waved her over, winding down his window as she approached.

‘Has the sleuth from the big city broken the case?’ he asked.

She ignored this, instead filling him in on her visits to the Jardines, the Salon, and the Bane.

‘So it’s not that you’ve got a drink problem then?’ he asked, gazing past her to the door of the bar. When she said nothing, he seemed to decide the time for teasing was past. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘We’ll maybe get someone to study the handwriting, see who else Donny Cruikshank might have considered an enemy.’

‘He’s got a few champions, too,’ Siobhan countered. ‘Men who think he shouldn’t have gone to jail in the first place.’

‘Maybe they’re right...’ Young saw the look on her face. ‘I don’t mean he was innocent. It’s just... when a rapist goes to jail, they end up segregated for their own safety.’

‘And the only people they mix with are other rapists?’ Siobhan guessed. ‘You think one of them might’ve killed Cruikshank?’

Young shrugged. ‘You saw the amount of porn he had — pirate stuff, CD-ROMs...’

‘So?’

‘So his computer wasn’t up to making them. Not the right software or processor. He must have got them from somewhere.’

‘Mail order? Sex shops?’

‘Possibly...’ Young gnawed at his bottom lip.

Siobhan hesitated before speaking. ‘There’s something else.’

‘What?’

‘Ishbel Jardine’s address book — looks like she was writing to Cruikshank when he was in prison.’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘Found her letters in a drawer in Cruikshank’s bedroom.’

‘What did they say?’

Young reached over to the passenger seat. ‘Take a look, if you like.’ Two sheets of paper, with an envelope for each, encased in polythene evidence bags. Ishbel wrote in angry capitals.

WHEN YOU RAPED MY SISTER, YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE KILLED ME, TOO...

MY LIFE’S GONE, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME...

‘You can see why we’re suddenly keen to speak to her,’ Young said.

Siobhan just nodded. She thought she could understand why Ishbel had written the letters — the need for Cruikshank to feel guilt. But why had he kept them? To gloat over? Did her anger fuel something within him? ‘How come the prison censor let them through?’ she asked.

‘I wondered the same thing...’

She looked at him. ‘You called Barlinnie?’

‘Spoke to the censor,’ Young confirmed. ‘He let them through because he thought they might make Cruikshank face up to his guilt.’

‘And did they?’

Young shrugged.

‘Did Cruikshank ever write back to her?’

‘Censor says not.’

‘And yet he kept her letters...’

‘Maybe he planned to tease her about them.’ Young paused. ‘Maybe she took the teasing to heart...’

‘I don’t see her as a killer,’ Siobhan stated.

‘Problem is, we don’t see her at all. Finding her is going to be your priority, Siobhan.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Meantime, we’re setting up a murder room.’

‘Where?’

‘Apparently there’s a space we can use at the library.’ He nodded down the road. ‘Next to the primary school. You can help us set up if you like.’

‘We need to let my boss know where I am first.’

‘Hop in then.’ Young reached for his mobile. ‘I’ll let him know you’ve been poached.’

16

Rebus and Ellen Wylie were back at Whitemire.

An interpreter had been brought in from Glasgow’s Kurdish community. She was a small, bustling woman who spoke with a broad west-coast accent and wore a lot of gold and layers of bright clothing. To Rebus’s eyes, she looked as if she should be reading palms in a fairground caravan. Instead, she was sitting at a table in the cafeteria with Mrs Yurgii, the two detectives, and Alan Traynor. Rebus had told Traynor that they’d be fine on their own, but he’d insisted on being present, sitting a little apart from the group, arms folded. There were staff in the cafeteria — cleaners and cooks. Pots occasionally clanked on to metal surfaces, causing Mrs Yurgii to jump every time. Her children were being looked after in their room. She carried a handkerchief with her, rolled around the fingers of her right hand.

It was Ellen Wylie who had found the interpreter; and it was Wylie who asked the questions.

‘Did she never hear from her husband? Never try contacting him?’

The translated question would follow, and then the answer, translated back into English again.

‘How could she? She didn’t know where he was.’

‘Inmates are allowed to make phone calls out,’ Traynor clarified. ‘There’s a pay-phone... they’re welcome to use it.’

‘If they have the money,’ the interpreter snapped.

‘He never tried contacting her?’ Wylie persisted.

‘It’s always possible he heard things from those on the outside,’ the interpreter answered, without posing the question to the widow.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m assuming people do actually leave this place?’ Again she glared at Traynor.

‘Most are sent home,’ he retorted.

‘To be disappeared,’ she spat back.

‘Actually,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘it’s true that some people are bailed out of here, aren’t they, Mr Traynor?’

‘That’s right. If someone stands as a referee...’

‘And that’s how Stef Yurgii might have heard news of his family — from people he met who’d been in here.’

Traynor looked sceptical.

‘Do you have a list?’ Rebus asked.

‘A list?’

‘Of people who’ve been bailed.’

‘Of course we do.’

‘And the addresses they’re staying at?’ Traynor nodded. ‘So it would be easy to say how many of them are in Edinburgh, maybe even in Knoxland itself?’

‘I don’t think you understand the system, Inspector. How many people in Knoxland do you think would give shelter to an asylum-seeker? I admit I don’t know the place, but from what I’ve seen in the newspapers...’

‘You’ve got a point,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But all the same, maybe you could pull those records for me?’

‘They’re confidential.’

‘I don’t need to see all of them. Just the ones living in Edinburgh.’

‘And just the Kurds?’ Traynor added.

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Well, that’s feasible, I suppose.’ Traynor still sounded less than enthusiastic.

‘Maybe you could do it now, while we’re talking to Mrs Yurgii?’

‘I’ll do it later.’

‘Or one of your staff...?’

‘Later, Inspector.’ Traynor had firmed up his voice. Mrs Yurgii was talking. The interpreter nodded when she’d finished.

‘Stef could not go home. They would kill him. He was a human rights journalist.’ She frowned. ‘I think that’s correct.’ She checked with the widow, nodded again. ‘Yes, he worked on stories of state corruption, of campaigns against the Kurdish people. She tells me he was a hero, and I believe her...’

The interpreter sat back, as if daring them to doubt her.

Ellen Wylie leaned forward. ‘Was there anyone on the outside... anyone he knew? Someone he might have gone to?’

The question was asked and answered.

‘He did not know anyone in Scotland. The family did not want to leave Sighthill. They were beginning to be happy there. The children made friends... they found places in a school. And then they were thrown into a van — a police van — and brought to this place in the middle of the night. They were terrified.’

Wylie touched the interpreter on the forearm. ‘I don’t know how best to phrase this... maybe you can help me.’ She paused. ‘We’re pretty sure Stef had at least one “friend” on the outside.’

It took the interpreter a moment to realise. ‘You mean a woman?’

Wylie nodded slowly. ‘We need to find her.’

‘How can his widow help?’

‘I’m not sure...’

‘Ask her,’ Rebus said, ‘what languages her husband spoke.’

The interpreter looked at him as she asked the question. Then: ‘He spoke a little English, and some French. His French better than his English.’

Wylie was looking at him too. ‘The girlfriend speaks French?’

‘It’s a possibility. Got any French-speakers in here, Mr Traynor?’

‘From time to time.’

‘What countries are they from?’

‘Africa, mostly.’

‘Do you think any of them might have been given bail?’

‘Can I assume you’d like me to check?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’ Rebus’s lips formed a smile of sorts. Traynor just sighed. The translator was talking again. Mrs Yurgii answered by bursting into tears, burying her face in her handkerchief.

‘What did you say to her?’ Wylie asked.

‘I asked if her husband was faithful.’

Mrs Yurgii wailed something. The translator wrapped an arm around her.

‘And now we have her answer,’ she said.

‘Which is...?’

‘“Until death”,’ the translator quoted.

The silence was broken by a blast from Traynor’s walkie-talkie. He placed it to his ear. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. Then, having listened: ‘Oh Christ... I’ll be right there.’

He left without a word. Rebus and Wylie exchanged a look, and Rebus rose to his feet, readying to follow.

It wasn’t hard to keep his distance: Traynor was in a hurry, not quite running exactly but doing everything but. Down one corridor, and then left into another, until, at the far end, he pulled open a door. This led to a shorter corridor dead-ended by a fire exit. There were three small rooms — isolation cells. From inside one, someone was thumping the locked door. Thumping and kicking and yelling in a language Rebus didn’t recognise. But this wasn’t what interested Traynor. He’d entered another room, its door held open by a guard. There were further guards inside, crouched around the prone figure of a near-skeletal man, dressed only in underpants. The rest of his clothing had been removed to form a make-shift noose. It was still tied tight around his throat, his head purple and swollen, tongue bursting from his mouth.

‘Every ten bloody minutes,’ Traynor was saying angrily.

‘We checked every ten minutes,’ a guard was stressing.

‘I’ll bet you did...’ Traynor looked up, saw Rebus standing in the doorway. ‘Get him out of here!’ he roared. The nearest guard started pushing Rebus back into the corridor. Rebus held up both hands.

‘Easy, pal, I’m going.’ He was backing away, the guard following. ‘Suicide watch, eh? Sounds like his neighbour’s going to be next, judging by the uproar he’s making...’

The guard said nothing. He just closed the door on Rebus and stood there, watching through its glass panel. Rebus held his hands up again, then turned and walked away. Something told him that his requests to Traynor would have slipped a little down the man’s list of priorities...

The session at the cafeteria was ending, Wylie shaking hands with the interpreter, who then guided the widow in the direction of the family unit.

‘So,’ Wylie asked Rebus, ‘where was the fire?’

‘No fire, but some poor sod topped himself.’

‘Bloody hell...’

‘Let’s get out of here.’ He started walking ahead of her towards the exit.

‘How did he do it?’

‘Turned his clothes into a kind of tourniquet. He couldn’t hang himself: there was nothing up high for him to swing from...’

‘Bloody hell,’ she repeated. When they were out in the fresh air, Rebus lit a cigarette. Wylie unlocked her Volvo. ‘We’re getting nowhere with this, are we?’

‘It was never going to be easy, Ellen. The girlfriend’s the key.’

‘Unless she did it,’ Wylie offered.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Listen to her phone call... she knows why it happened, and that “why” leads to the “who”.’

‘That’s a bit metaphysical, coming from you.’

He shrugged again, flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the ground. ‘I’m a renaissance man, Ellen.’

‘Oh aye? Spell it for me then, Mr Renaissance Man.’

As they drove out of the compound, he looked towards the site of Caro Quinn’s camp. When they’d arrived, she hadn’t been there, but she was there now, standing by the roadside, drinking from a thermos. Rebus asked Wylie to stop the car.

‘I’ll only be a minute,’ he said, getting out.

‘What are you...?’ He closed his door on her question. Quinn smiled when she recognised him.

‘Hello, there.’

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘do you know any friendly media people? I mean, friendly to what you’re trying to accomplish here?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘One or two.’

‘Well, you could slip them an exclusive: one of the inmates has just committed suicide.’ As soon as the words were out, he knew he’d made a mistake. Could have phrased that better, John, he told himself as tears welled in Caro Quinn’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He could see Wylie watching in the wing mirror. ‘I just thought you could do something with it... There’ll be an inquiry... the more press interest there is, the worse it is for Whitemire...’

She was nodding. ‘Yes, I can see that. Thanks for telling me.’ The tears were pouring down her face. Wylie sounded the horn. ‘Your friend’s waiting,’ Quinn said.

‘Are you going to be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She rubbed her face with the back of her free hand. The other hand still held a cup, though most of the tea inside was dribbling on to the ground unnoticed.

‘Sure?’

She nodded. ‘It’s just... so... barbaric.’

‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Look... have you got a phone with you?’ She nodded. ‘You’ve got my number, right? Can I take yours?’ She reeled it off, and he jotted it down in his notebook.

‘You better go,’ she said.

Rebus nodded, backing away towards the car. He waved before getting into the passenger seat.

‘I hit the horn by accident,’ Wylie lied. ‘So you know her then?’

‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘She’s an artist — paints portraits.’

‘So it’s true then...’ Wylie put the car into first gear. ‘You really are a renaissance man.’

‘One “n”, two “s”s, right?’

‘Right,’ she said. Rebus angled the rearview mirror so he could watch Caro Quinn recede as the car gathered pace.

‘So how do you know her?’

‘I just do, all right?’

‘Sorry I asked. Do your friends always burst into tears when you talk to them?’

He gave her a look, and they drove in silence for a few moments.

‘Want to drop into Banehall?’ Wylie eventually asked.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just to take a look.’ They’d talked about the murder on the outward journey.

‘What’ll we see?’

‘We’ll see F Troop at work.’

F Troop because Livingston was ‘F Division’ of the Lothian and Borders Police, and few in Edinburgh really rated them. Rebus was forced to concede a smile.

‘Why not?’ he said.

‘That’s decided then.’

Rebus’s mobile sounded. He wondered if it might be Caro Quinn, thought maybe he should have stayed a bit longer, kept her company. But it was Siobhan.

‘I’ve just been on the phone to Gayfield,’ she said.

‘Oh aye?’

‘DCI Macrae’s got the pair of us marked down as AWOL.’

‘What’s your excuse?’

‘I’m in Banehall.’

‘Funny, we’ll be there in two minutes...’

‘We?’

‘Me and Ellen. We’ve been out to Whitemire. You still looking for that girl?’

‘There’s been a bit of lateral movement... you heard they found a body?’

‘I thought it was a bloke.’

‘It’s the guy who raped her sister.’

‘I can see that would change things. So now you’re helping F Troop with their inquiries?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

Rebus snorted. ‘Jim Macrae must think there’s something about Gayfield we don’t like.’

‘He’s not too thrilled... And he told me to give you another message.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Someone else who’s fallen out of love with you...’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Is that sad bastard still after me for the torch?’

‘He’s talking about an official complaint.’

‘Christ’s sake... I’m buying him a new one.’

‘Apparently it’s specialist kit — over a hundred quid’s worth.’

‘You could buy a chandelier for that!’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, John.’

The car was passing the sign into town: BANEHALL had become BANEHELL.

‘That’s inventive,’ Wylie muttered. Then: ‘Ask her where she is.’

‘Ellen wants to know where you are,’ Rebus said into the phone.

‘There’s a room at the library... we’re using it as a base.’

‘Good idea: F Troop can see if there are any reference books to help them. My Big Book of Murders, maybe...’

Wylie smiled at this, but Siobhan sounded anything but amused. ‘John, don’t bring that attitude here...’

‘Only a bit of fun, Shiv. See you in a few minutes.’

Rebus told Wylie where they were headed. The library’s narrow car park was already full. Uniformed officers were carrying computers into the single-storey pre-fabricated building. Rebus held the door open for one, then followed, Wylie waiting outside while she checked her phone for messages. The room set aside for the investigation was only about fifteen feet by twelve. Two folding tables had been appropriated from somewhere, along with a couple of chairs.

‘We don’t have space for all these,’ Siobhan was telling one of the uniforms, as he crouched to deposit an oversized computer screen at her feet.

‘Orders,’ he said, breathing hard.

‘Can I help you?’ This question was directed at Rebus from a young man in a suit.

‘DI Rebus,’ Rebus said.

Siobhan stepped forward. ‘John, this is DI Young. He’s in charge.’

The two men shook hands. ‘Call me Les,’ the young man said. He was already losing interest in this new visitor: he had a murder room to get ready.

‘Lester Young?’ Rebus mused. ‘Like the jazz musician?’

‘Leslie, actually — like the town in Fife.’

‘Well, good luck, Leslie,’ Rebus offered. He walked back into the body of the library, Siobhan following. A few retired people were peering at newspapers and magazines, seated at a large circular table. In the kids’ corner, a mother lay on a bean-bag, apparently dozing, while her toddler, dummy in mouth, pulled books off the shelves and piled them on the carpet. Rebus found himself in the history aisle.

‘Les, eh?’ he said in an undertone.

‘He’s a good guy,’ Siobhan whispered back.

‘You’re a quick judge of character.’ Rebus picked a book off the shelf. It seemed to be saying that the Scots had invented the modern world. He looked around to make sure they weren’t in the fiction section. ‘So what happens about Ishbel Jardine?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. That’s one reason I’m sticking around.’

‘Do the parents know about the murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Party time tonight then...’

‘I went to see them... they weren’t celebrating.’

‘And was either of them caked in blood?’

‘No.’

Rebus placed the title back on its shelf. The toddler sent up a squeal as the tower of books toppled over. ‘And the skeletons?’

‘A dead end, as you might say. Alexis Cater says the chief suspect was a guy who came to a party with a friend of Cater’s. Only the friend barely knew him, wasn’t even sure of his name. Barry or Gary, I think she said.’

‘So that’s it then? The bones can lie in peace?’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘What about you? Any luck with the stabbing?’

‘Inquiries are continuing...’

‘... a police spokesman said today. I take it you’re floundering?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. A break would be nice though.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re doing here — having a break?’

‘Not the kind I meant...’ He looked around. ‘You reckon F Troop are up to this?’

‘No shortage of suspects.’

‘I suppose not. How was he killed?’

‘Whacked with something not unlike a hammer.’

‘Where?’

‘On the head.’

‘I meant where in the house.’

‘His bedroom.’

‘So it was probably someone he knew?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Reckon Ishbel could swing a hammer hard enough to kill someone?’

‘I don’t think she did it.’

‘Maybe you’ll get the chance to ask her.’ Rebus patted her on the arm. ‘But with F Troop on the case, you may have to work that wee bit harder...’

Outside, Wylie was finishing a call. ‘Anything worth looking at indoors?’ she asked. Rebus shook his head. ‘Back to base then,’ she guessed.

‘With just one more detour along the way,’ Rebus informed her.

‘Where’s that then?’

‘The university.’

17

They parked in a pay-bay on George Square and walked through the gardens, emerging in front of the university library. Most of the buildings here had gone up in the 1960s, and Rebus hated them: blocks of sand-coloured concrete replacing the square’s original eighteenth-century town houses. Rows of treacherous steps, and a notorious wind-tunnel effect which could blow over the unwary on the wrong day. Students walked between the buildings, hugging books and folders in front of them. Some stood and chatted in groups.

‘Bloody students,’ was Wylie’s concise summing-up of the situation.

‘Didn’t you used to go to college yourself, Ellen?’ Rebus asked.

‘That’s why I’m entitled to say it.’

A Big Issue vendor stood beside the George Square Theatre. Rebus approached him.

‘All right, Jimmy?’

‘Not so bad, Mr Rebus.’

‘Are you going to survive another winter?’

‘It’s that or die in the trying.’

Rebus handed over a couple of coins, but refused to take one of the magazines. ‘Anything I should know?’ he asked, dropping his voice a little.

Jimmy looked thoughtful. He wore a frayed baseball cap over long grey matted hair. A green cardigan hung down almost to his knees. There was a Border collie — or a version thereof — asleep at his feet. ‘Nothing much,’ he eventually said, voice coarsened by the usual vices.

‘Sure?’

‘You know I keep my eyes and ears open...’ Jimmy paused. ‘Price of blaw is falling, if that’s any use.’

Blaw: cannabis. Rebus smiled. ‘Sadly, I’m not in the market. My drugs of choice, prices only ever seem to rise.’

Jimmy laughed loudly, causing the dog to open one eye. ‘Aye, the fags and the booze, Mr Rebus, the most pernicious drugs known to man!’

‘Take care of yourself,’ Rebus said, moving away again. Then, to Wylie: ‘This is the building we want.’ He pulled open the door for her.

‘You’ve been here before then?’

‘There’s a linguistics department — we’ve used them in the past for voice tests.’ A grey-uniformed servitor sat in a glass reception booth.

‘Dr Maybury,’ Rebus said.

‘Room two-twelve.’

‘Thanks.’

Rebus led Wylie to the lifts. ‘Do you know everyone in Edinburgh?’ she asked.

He looked at her. ‘This is the way it used to be done, Ellen.’ He ushered her into the lift and punched the button for the second floor. Knocked on the door of 212 but there was no one home. A frosted-glass window to the side of the door showed no movement within. Rebus tried the next office along, and was told he might find Maybury in the basement language lab.

The language lab was at the end of a corridor, through a set of double doors. Four students sat in a row of booths, unable to see each other. They wore headphones, and spoke into microphones, repeating a set of random-seeming words:

They looked up as Rebus and Wylie entered. A woman was facing them, seated at a large desk with what looked like a switchboard attached to it, and a large cassette recorder hooked up to that. She made an impatient sound and switched off the recorder.

‘What is it?’ she snapped.

‘Dr Maybury, we’ve met before. I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus.’

‘Yes, I think I remember: threatening phone calls... you were trying to identify the accent.’

Rebus nodded and introduced Wylie. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Just wondered if you might spare a few minutes.’

‘I’ll be finished here at the top of the hour.’ Maybury checked her watch. ‘Why don’t you go up to my office and wait for me? There’s a kettle and stuff.’

‘A kettle and stuff sounds great.’

She fished in her pocket for the key. By the time they’d turned to leave, she was already telling the students to prepare for the next set of words.

‘What do you think she was up to?’ Wylie asked as the lift took them back to the second floor.

‘Christ knows.’

‘Well, I suppose it keeps them off the streets...’

Dr Maybury’s room was a clutter of books and papers, videos and audio cassettes. The computer on her desk was well camouflaged by more paperwork. A table meant to accommodate tutorial groups was laden with books borrowed from the library. Wylie found the kettle and plugged it in. Rebus stepped outside and headed to the toilets, where he took out his mobile and called Caro Quinn.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘I called a reporter on the Evening News. The story might make the final edition this evening.’

‘What’s been happening?’

‘A lot of comings and goings...’ She broke off. ‘Is this another interrogation?’

‘Sorry if it looks that way.’

She paused. ‘Do you want to come round later on? To the flat, I mean.’

‘What for?’

‘So my team of highly trained anarcho-syndicalists can start the indoctrination process.’

‘They like a challenge then?’

She managed a short laugh. ‘I’m still wondering what makes you tick.’

‘Apart from my wristwatch, you mean? Best be careful, Caro. I’m the enemy, after all.’

‘Don’t they say it’s best to know your enemy?’

‘Funny, someone told me that just recently...’ He paused. ‘I could buy you dinner.’

‘Thus propping up the masculine hegemony?’

‘I’ve no idea what that means, but I’m probably guilty as charged.’

‘It means we split the bill,’ she told him. ‘Come to the flat at eight o’clock.’

‘See you then.’ Rebus ended the call, and almost at once wondered how she would get home from Whitemire. He hadn’t thought to ask. Did she hitch? He was halfway through calling her number again when he stopped himself. She wasn’t a kid. She’d been holding her vigil for months. She could get home without his help. Besides, she would only accuse him of propping up the masculine hegemony.

Rebus went back into Maybury’s office and took a cup of coffee from Wylie. They sat at opposite ends of the table.

‘Weren’t you ever a student, John?’ she asked.

‘Could never be bothered,’ he answered. ‘Plus I was a lazy sod at school.’

‘I hated it,’ Wylie said. ‘Never seemed to know what to say. I sat in rooms much like this one, year after year, keeping my mouth shut so nobody’d notice I was thick.’

‘How thick were you exactly?’

Wylie smiled. ‘Turned out the other students thought I never spoke because I already knew it all.’

The door opened and Dr Maybury shuffled in, squeezing behind Wylie’s chair. She muttered an apology and reached the safety of her own desk. She was tall and thin and seemed self-conscious. Her hair was a mass of thick dark waves, pulled back into something resembling a ponytail. She wore old-fashioned glasses, as if these could disguise the classical beauty of her face.

‘Can I get you a coffee, Dr Maybury?’ Wylie asked.

‘I’m awash with the stuff,’ Maybury said briskly. Then she uttered another apology, thanking Wylie for the offer.

Rebus remembered this about her: that she was easily flustered, and she always apologised more than was necessary.

‘Sorry,’ she said again, for no apparent reason, as she shuffled together some of the papers in front of her.

‘What was happening downstairs?’ Wylie asked.

‘You mean reeling off those lists?’ Maybury’s mouth twitched. ‘I’m doing some research into elision...’

Wylie held up a hand, like a pupil in class. ‘While you and I know what that means, Doctor, maybe you could explain it for DI Rebus?’

‘I think, when you came in, the word I was interested in was “properly”. People have started pronouncing it with part of its middle missing — that’s what elision is.’

Rebus had to stop himself from asking what the point of such research was. Instead, he tapped the table in front of him with his fingertips. ‘We’ve got a tape we’d like you to listen to,’ he said.

‘Another anonymous caller?’

‘In a manner of speaking... It was a 999 call. We need to establish nationality.’

Maybury slid her glasses back up the steep slope of her nose and held out a hand, palm upwards. Rebus rose from his seat and gave her the tape. She slid it into a cassette deck on the floor beside her and pressed ‘play’.

‘You might find it a bit distressing,’ Rebus warned her. She gave a nod, listened to the message all the way through.

‘Regional accents are my field, Inspector,’ she said after a few moments’ silence. ‘Regions of the United Kingdom. This woman is non-native.’

‘Well, she’s a native of somewhere.’

‘But not these shores.’

‘So you can’t help? Not even a guess?’

Maybury tapped her finger against her chin. ‘African, maybe Afro-Caribbean.’

‘She probably speaks some French,’ Rebus added. ‘Might even be her first language.’

‘One of my colleagues in the French department might be able to say with more certainty... Hang on a minute.’ When she smiled, the whole room seemed to light up. ‘There’s a postgraduate student... she’s done a bit of work on French influences in Africa... I wonder...’

‘We’ll settle for anything you can give us,’ Rebus said.

‘Can I keep the tape?’

Rebus nodded. ‘There is a certain amount of urgency...’

‘I’m not sure where she is.’

‘Maybe you could try calling her at home?’ Wylie asked.

Maybury peered at her. ‘I think she’s somewhere in south-west France.’

‘That could be a problem,’ Rebus offered.

‘Not necessarily. If I can contact her by phone, I could play the tape down the line to her.’

It was Rebus’s turn to smile.

‘Elision,’ Rebus said, leaving the word to hang there.

They were back at Torphichen Place. The police station was quiet, the Knoxland squad wondering what the hell to do next. When a case wasn’t solved within the first seventy-two hours, it started to feel as if everything slowed down. The initial adrenalin rush was long gone; the doorstepping and interviews had come and gone; everything conspiring to wear down appetite and application both. Rebus had cases that still weren’t closed twenty years after the fact. They gnawed away at him because he couldn’t shrug off the man-hours spent labouring on them to no effect whatsoever, knowing throughout that you were one phone call — one name — away from a solution. The culprits might have been interviewed and dismissed, or ignored altogether. Some clue might be loitering amidst the mouldering pages of each case file... And you were never going to find it.

‘Elision,’ Wylie agreed, nodding. ‘Good to know research is being done into it.’

‘And done “proply”.’ Rebus snorted to himself. ‘You ever study geography, Ellen?’

‘I did it at school. You reckon it’s more important than linguistics?’

‘I was just thinking of Whitemire... some of the nationalities there — Angola, Namibia, Albania — I couldn’t point to them on a map.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Yet half of them are probably better educated than the people guarding them.’

‘What’s your point?’

He stared at her. ‘Since when does a conversation need a point?’

She gave a long sigh and shook her head.

‘Seen this?’ Shug Davidson asked. He was standing in front of them, holding up a copy of the city’s daily evening newspaper. The front-cover headline was WHITEMIRE HANGING.

‘Nothing if not direct,’ Rebus said, taking the paper from Davidson and starting to read.

‘I’ve had Rory Allan on the blower, asking for a quote for tomorrow’s Scotsman. He’s planning a spread about the whole problem — Whitemire to Knoxland and all points between.’

‘That should stir the pot,’ Rebus said. The story itself was thin. Caro Quinn was quoted on the inhumanity of the detention centre. There was a paragraph about Knoxland, and a few old photos of the original Whitemire protests. Caro’s face had been circled. She was one among many, toting placards and shouting at the staff as they arrived for the centre’s opening day.

‘Your friend again,’ Wylie commented, reading over his shoulder.

‘What friend?’ Davidson asked, suspicious.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Wylie said quickly. ‘Just the woman who’s holding vigil at the gates.’

Rebus had reached the end of the story, which directed him towards a ‘comment’ piece elsewhere in the paper. He flicked pages and perused the editorial: inquiry needed... time for politicians to stop turning a blind eye... intolerable situation for all concerned... backlogs... appeals... future of Whitemire itself left hanging by this latest tragedy...

‘Mind if I keep this?’ he asked, knowing Caro might be heartened by it.

‘Thirty-five pence,’ Davidson said, hand outstretched.

‘I can get a new one for that!’

‘But this one’s been cherished, John, and only one careful owner.’ The hand was still outstretched; Rebus paid up, reasoning that it was still cheaper than a box of chocolates. Not that he reckoned Caro Quinn had much of a sweet tooth... But there he was, pre-judging her again. His job had taught him prejudice at the most basic ‘us and them’ level. Now, he wanted to see what lay beyond.

So far, all it had cost him was thirty-five pence.

Siobhan was back at the Bane. This time, she’d brought a police photographer with her, plus Les Young.

‘Could do with a drink anyway,’ he’d sighed, having found that three out of the four computers in the murder room had software problems, and none of them would connect successfully to the library’s telephone system. He ordered a half of Eighty-Shilling.

‘Lime and soda for the lady?’ Malky guessed. Siobhan nodded. The photographer was sitting at a table next to the toilets, attaching a lens to his camera. One of the drinkers approached and asked him how much he wanted for it.

‘Settle down, Arthur,’ Malky called. ‘They’re cops.’

Siobhan sipped her drink while Young handed over the money. She stared at Malky as he placed Young’s change on the bar. ‘It’s not what I’d call a typical reaction,’ she said.

‘What?’ Les Young asked, wiping the thin line of foam from his top lip.

‘Well, Malky here knows we’re CID. And we’ve got a man over there setting up a camera... And Malky hasn’t asked why.’

The barman offered a shrug. ‘Doesn’t bother me what you do,’ he muttered, turning away to wipe one of the beer taps.

The photographer seemed almost ready. ‘DS Clarke,’ he said, ‘maybe you should go first, check no one’s in there.’

Siobhan smiled. ‘How many women do you think come in here?’

‘All the same...’

Siobhan turned to Malky. ‘Anyone in the ladies’?’

Malky gave another shrug. Siobhan turned to Young. ‘See? He’s not even surprised we’re taking photos in the loo...’ Then she walked to the door and pushed it open. ‘All clear,’ she told the photographer. But then, peering into the cubicle, she saw that changes had been made. The various pieces of graffiti had been gone over with a thick black marker-pen, rendering them almost illegible. Siobhan let out a hiss of air and told the photographer to do his best. She strode back to the bar. ‘Nice work, Malky,’ she said coldly.

‘What?’ Les Young asked.

‘Malky here’s as sharp as a tack. Saw me using the toilet both times I was here, and it dawned on him why I was so interested. So he decided to cover over the messages as best he could.’

Malky said nothing, but raised his jaw-line a little, as if to show that he felt no guilt.

‘You don’t want to give us any leads, is that it, Malky? You’re thinking: Banehall’s well shot of Donny Cruikshank, good luck to whoever did it. Am I right?’

‘I’m saying nothing.’

‘You don’t need to... there’s still ink on your fingers.’

Malky looked down at the black smudges.

‘Thing is,’ Siobhan went on, ‘first time I came in here, you and Cruikshank were having a falling-out.’

‘I was sticking up for you,’ Malky retorted.

Siobhan nodded. ‘But after I left, you slung him out. Bit of bad blood between the two of you?’ She leaned her elbows on the bar and stood on tiptoe, stretching towards him. ‘Maybe we need to take you in for a proper interview... What do you say, DI Young?’

‘Sounds good to me.’ He put down his empty glass. ‘You can be our first official suspect, Malky.’

‘Get stuffed.’

‘Or...’ Siobhan paused, ‘you can tell us whose work the graffiti is. I know some belongs to Ishbel and Susie, but who else?’

‘Sorry, I don’t frequent the ladies’ lavs.’

‘Maybe not, but you knew about the graffiti.’ Siobhan smiled again. ‘So you must go in there sometimes... maybe when the bar’s shut?’

‘Got a bit of a perv thing going, Malky?’ Young prodded. ‘That why you didn’t get on with Cruikshank... too much alike?’

Malky pushed a finger towards Young’s face. ‘You’re talking pish!’

‘Seems to me,’ Young said, ignoring the proximity of Malky’s forefinger to his left eye, ‘we’re talking straight common sense. Case like this, one connection’s sometimes all you need to make...’ He straightened up. ‘Would you be okay to come with us just now, or do you need a minute to close up the bar?’

‘You’re having a laugh.’

‘That’s right, Malky,’ Siobhan said. ‘You can see it in our faces, can’t you?’

Malky looked from one to the other. Their faces were stern, serious.

‘I’m guessing you only work here,’ Young pressed on. ‘Best phone the owner and tell him you’re being taken in for questioning.’

Malky had allowed the finger to retreat back into his fist, the fist to fall to his side. ‘Come on...’ he said, hoping to make them see sense.

‘Can I just remind you,’ Siobhan told him, ‘that interfering with the course of a murder inquiry is a big no-no... judges tend to pounce on it.’

‘Christ, all I...’ But he clamped shut his mouth. Young sighed and pulled out his mobile, called a number.

‘Can I get a couple of uniforms to the Bane? Suspect to be detained...’

‘All right, all right,’ Malky said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘Let’s sit down and have a talk. Nothing we can’t do here, eh?’ Young snapped shut his phone.

‘We’ll let you know once we’ve heard what you’ve got to say,’ Siobhan informed the barman. He looked around, making sure none of the regulars needed a refill, then helped himself to a whisky from the optic. Opened the serving hatch and came out, nodding towards the table with the camera bag on it.

The photographer was just emerging from the toilets. ‘Did what I could,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Billy,’ Les Young said. ‘Let me have them by close of play.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Digital camera, Billy... take you five minutes to do me some prints.’

‘Depends.’ Billy had packed his bag, slipped it on to his shoulder. He gave a general nod of farewell and headed for the door. Young sat with arms folded, businesslike. Malky had drained his drink in one go.

‘Tracy was well liked,’ he began.

‘Tracy Jardine,’ Siobhan said, for Young’s benefit. ‘The girl Cruikshank raped.’

Malky nodded slowly. ‘She was never the same afterwards... when she topped herself, it didn’t surprise me.’

‘And then Cruikshank came back home?’ Siobhan prompted.

‘Bold as brass, like he owned the place. Figured we should all be scared of him because he’d done prison time. Fuck that...’ Malky examined his empty glass. ‘Anyone for another?’

They shook their heads, so he headed back behind the bar and fetched himself a refill. ‘This is my last today,’ he told himself.

‘Bit of a drink problem in the past?’ Young asked, sounding sympathetic.

‘I used to put a bit away,’ Malky admitted. ‘I’m fine now.’

‘Good to hear it.’

‘Malky,’ Siobhan said, ‘I know Ishbel and Susie wrote some of those things in the toilet, but who else?’

Malky took a deep breath. ‘I’d guess a pal of theirs called Janine Harrison. She was more a pal of Tracy’s, to be honest, but after Tracy died, she started going around with Ishbel and Susie.’ He leaned back, staring at the glass as if willing himself to eke it out. ‘She works at Whitemire.’

‘Doing what?’

‘She’s one of the guards.’ He paused. ‘Did you hear what happened? Someone hanged himself. Christ, if they shut that place...’

‘What?’

‘Banehall was built on coalfields. Only there’s no coal left. Whitemire’s the only employer round here. Half the folk you see — the ones with new cars and satellite dishes — they’ve got something to do with Whitemire.’

‘Okay, so that’s Janine Harrison. Anyone else?’

‘There’s another friend of Susie’s. Right quiet, she is, until the drink hits her...’

‘Name?’

‘Janet Eylot.’

‘And does she work at Whitemire too?’

He nodded. ‘I think she’s one of the secretaries.’

‘They live locally, Janine and Janet?’

He nodded again.

‘Well,’ Siobhan said, having jotted the names down, ‘I don’t know, DI Young...’ She looked at Les Young. ‘What do you think? Do we still need to take Malky in for questioning?’

‘Not right this moment, DS Clarke. But we need his surname and a contact address.’

Malky was happy to provide both.

18

They took Siobhan’s car to Whitemire. Young admired the interior.

‘This is a bit sporty.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Good, probably...’

A tent had been pitched next to the access road, and its owner was being interviewed by a TV crew, more reporters listening in, hoping for a few useable quotes. The guard at the gate told them it was ‘an even bigger bloody circus’ inside.

‘Don’t worry,’ Siobhan assured him, ‘we’ve brought our leotards.’

Another uniformed guard was there to meet them at the car park. He greeted them coolly.

‘I know this isn’t the best of days,’ Young said consolingly, ‘but we’re working a murder inquiry, so you can appreciate that it couldn’t wait.’

‘Who is it you need to see?’

‘Two members of staff — Janine Harrison and Janet Eylot.’

‘Janet’s gone home,’ the guard said. ‘She was a bit upset at the news...’ He saw Siobhan raise an eyebrow. ‘News of the suicide,’ he clarified.

‘And Janine Harrison?’ she asked.

‘Janine works the family wing... I think she’s on duty till seven.’

‘We’ll talk to her then,’ Siobhan said. ‘And if you could give us Janet’s home address...’

Inside, the corridors and public areas were empty. Siobhan guessed that the inmates were being kept corralled until the fuss had died down. She caught glimpses of meetings behind doors left only slightly ajar: men in suits with grim looks on their faces; women in white blouses and half-moon glasses, pearls around their necks.

Officialdom.

The guard led them to an open-plan office and put in a call to Officer Harrison. While they were waiting, a man walked past, back-tracking so he could ask the guard what was going on.

‘Police, Mr Traynor. About a murder in Banehall.’

‘Have you told them all our clients are accounted for?’ He sounded profoundly irritated by this latest news.

‘It’s just background, sir,’ Siobhan piped up. ‘We’re talking to anyone who knew the victim...’

This seemed to satisfy him. He made a grunting noise and moved off.

‘Brass?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Second-in-command,’ the guard confirmed. ‘Not having a good day.’

The guard left the room when Janine Harrison appeared. She was in her mid-twenties with short dark hair. Not tall, but with some muscle beneath the uniform. Siobhan would guess she worked out, maybe did martial arts or the like.

‘Sit down, will you?’ Young offered, having introduced himself and Siobhan.

She stayed standing, hands behind her back. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s about the suspicious death of Donny Cruikshank,’ Siobhan said.

‘Somebody nailed him — what’s suspicious about that?’

‘You weren’t a fan of his?’

‘A man who rapes a drunk teenager? No, you couldn’t call me a fan.’

‘The local pub,’ Siobhan prompted, ‘graffiti in the ladies’ loo...’

‘What about it?’

‘You contributed a little something of your own.’

‘Did I?’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Might’ve done, I suppose... female solidarity and all that.’ She gave Siobhan a look. ‘He raped a young girl, beat her up. And now you’re going to knock yourself out trying to pin someone down for getting rid of him?’ She gave a slow shake of her head.

‘No one deserves to be murdered, Janine.’

‘No?’ Harrison sounded doubtful.

‘So which one did you write? “Dead Man Walking” maybe? Or how about “Claimed in blood”?’

‘I honestly don’t remember.’

‘We might ask for a specimen of your writing,’ Les Young interrupted.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘When did you last see Cruikshank?’

‘About a week ago in the Bane. Playing pool by himself, because no one would give him a game.’

‘I’m surprised he drank there, if he was such a hate figure.’

‘He liked it.’

‘The pub?’

Harrison shook her head. ‘All the attention. Didn’t seem to bother him what kind it was, as long as he was at the centre...’

From the little Siobhan had seen of Cruikshank, she could accept this. ‘You were a friend of Tracy’s, weren’t you?’

Harrison wagged a finger. ‘I know who you are now. You hung around with Tracy’s mum and dad, went to her funeral.’

‘I didn’t really know her.’

‘But you saw what she’d been through.’ Again the tone was accusatory.

‘Yes, I saw,’ Siobhan said quietly.

‘We’re police officers, Janine,’ Young interrupted. ‘It’s our job.’

‘Fine... so go and do your job. Just don’t expect too much help.’ She brought her arms out from behind her back and folded them across her chest, creating a picture of hardened resolve.

‘If there’s anything you can tell us,’ Young persisted, ‘best we should hear it from your own lips.’

‘Then hear this — I didn’t kill him, but I’m glad he’s dead all the same.’ She paused. ‘And if I had killed him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.’

A few seconds of silence followed, then Siobhan asked: ‘How well do you know Janet Eylot?’

‘I know Janet. She works here... That’s her chair you’re sitting in.’ She nodded towards Young.

‘What about socially?’

Harrison nodded.

‘You go out drinking?’ Siobhan prompted.

‘Occasionally.’

‘Was she with you in the Bane the last time you saw Cruikshank?’

‘Probably.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I hear she gets a bit daft with a drink in her.’

‘Have you seen her? She’s five-foot-nothing in high heels.’

‘You’re saying she wouldn’t have attacked Cruikshank?’

‘I’m saying she wouldn’t have succeeded.’

‘On the other hand, you look pretty fit, Janine.’

Harrison gave a glacial smile. ‘You’re not my type.’

Siobhan paused. ‘Have you any idea what might have happened to Ishbel Jardine?’

Harrison was thrown momentarily by the change of subject. ‘No,’ she said at last.

‘She never talked about running away?’

‘Never.’

‘She must have spoken about Cruikshank, though.’

‘Must have.’

‘Care to elaborate?’

Harrison shook her head. ‘Is that what you do when you’re stuck? Pin the blame on someone who’s not around to stick up for herself?’ She fixed her eyes on Siobhan. ‘Some friend you are.’ Young started to say something, but she cut him off. ‘It’s your job, I know... Just a job... like working in this place... Someone dies in our care, we all feel it.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Young said.

‘Speaking of which, I’ve got checks I need to make before I clock off... Are we finished here?’

Young looked to Siobhan, who had one final question. ‘Did you know Ishbel had written to Cruikshank while he was in prison?’

‘No.’

‘Does it surprise you?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you think you did.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Thanks for talking to us.’

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Young added. Then, as she started to leave: ‘We’ll be in touch about that sample of your handwriting...’

After she’d gone, Young leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. ‘If it wasn’t so politically incorrect, I’d call her a ball-breaker.’

‘Probably comes with the job she does.’

The guard who’d brought them in appeared suddenly in the doorway, as though he’d been waiting within earshot.

‘She’s fine once you get to know her,’ he said. ‘Here’s Janet Eylot’s address.’ As Siobhan took the note from him, she saw that he was studying her. ‘And by the way... for what it’s worth, you’re exactly Janine’s type...’

Janet Eylot lived in a new-build bungalow on the edge of Banehall. For now, the view from her kitchen window was of fields.

‘Won’t last,’ she said. ‘Developer’s got his eye on it.’

‘Enjoy it while you can, eh?’ Young said, accepting the mug of tea. The three of them sat down around the small square table. There were two young kids in the house, struck dumb by a noisy video game.

‘I limit them to an hour,’ Eylot explained. ‘And only once the homework’s done.’ Something about the way she said it told Siobhan that Eylot was a single mum. A cat jumped on to the table, Eylot sweeping it off with her arm. ‘I’ve bloody told you!’ she shouted, as the cat retreated into the hall. Then she put a hand to her face. ‘Sorry about that...’

‘We realise you’re upset, Janet,’ Siobhan said softly. ‘Did you know the man who hanged himself?’

Eylot shook her head. ‘But he did it fifty yards from where I was sitting. It just makes you think about all the horrible things that could be happening around you, and you don’t know about it.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Young said.

She looked at him. ‘Well, in your job... you see things all the time.’

‘Like Donny Cruikshank’s body,’ Siobhan said. She’d noticed the neck of an empty wine bottle jutting out from beneath the lid of the kitchen bin; a single wine glass drying on the draining board. Wondered how much Janet Eylot put away of an evening.

‘He’s the reason we’re here,’ Young was telling Eylot. ‘We’re looking at his lifestyle, people who might have known him, maybe even harboured a grudge.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Didn’t you know him?’

‘Who’d want to?’

‘We just thought... after what you wrote about him on the wall of the Bane...’

‘I wasn’t the only one!’ Eylot snapped.

‘We know that.’ Siobhan’s voice had grown even quieter. ‘We’re not accusing anyone, Janet. We’re just filling in the background.’

‘This is all the thanks I get,’ Eylot said, shaking her head. ‘Bloody typical...’

‘How do you mean?’

‘That asylum-seeker... the one who got himself stabbed. It was me phoned you lot. You’d never have known who he was otherwise. And this is how I’m paid back.’

‘You gave us Stef Yurgii’s name?’

‘That’s right — and if my boss ever hears that, I’ll be for the high jump. Two of your lot came to Whitemire: big hefty bloke and a younger woman...’

‘DI Rebus and DS Wylie?’

‘Couldn’t tell you their names. I was keeping my head down.’ She paused. ‘But instead of solving that poor sod’s murder, you’d rather focus on a sleazebag like Cruikshank.’

‘Everyone’s equal under the law,’ Young said. She stared at him so hard, he started to blush, disguising the fact by lifting the mug to his lips.

‘See?’ she said accusingly. ‘You say the words, but you know it’s all crap.’

‘All DI Young means,’ Siobhan interrupted, ‘is that we have to be objective.’

‘But that’s not true either, is it?’ Eylot rose to her feet, the chair legs scraping across the floor. She opened the fridge door, realised what she’d done and slammed it shut again. Three bottles of wine chilling on the middle shelf.

‘Janet,’ Siobhan said, ‘is Whitemire the problem? You don’t like working there?’

‘I hate it.’

‘Then leave.’

Eylot laughed harshly. ‘And where’s the other job coming from? I’ve two kids, I need to provide for them...’ She sat down again, staring out at the view. ‘Whitemire’s what I’ve got.’

Whitemire, two kids, and a fridge...

‘What was it you wrote on the toilet wall, Janet?’ Siobhan asked quietly.

There were sudden tears in Eylot’s eyes. She tried blinking them back. ‘Something about him being claimed,’ she said, voice cracking.

‘Claimed in blood?’ Siobhan corrected her. The woman nodded, tears trickling down either cheek.

They didn’t stay much longer. Both found themselves taking lungfuls of fresh air when they emerged.

‘You got kids, Les?’ Siobhan asked.

He shook his head. ‘I’ve been married, though. Lasted a year; we split up eleven months ago. How about you?’

‘Never even come close.’

‘She’s coping, though, isn’t she?’ He risked a glance back at the house.

‘I don’t think we need to phone social services just yet.’ She paused. ‘Where to now?’

‘Back to base.’ He checked his watch. ‘Nearly time to knock off. I’m buying, if you’re interested.’

‘As long as you’re not suggesting the Bane.’

He gave a smile. ‘I’m heading into Edinburgh, actually.’

‘I thought you lived in Livingston.’

‘I do, but I’m in this bridge club...’

‘Bridge?’ She couldn’t completely suppress a smile.

He shrugged. ‘I started playing years ago in college.’

‘Bridge,’ she repeated.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ He tried a laugh, but sounded defensive all the same.

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just trying to picture you in a dinner jacket and bow tie...’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Then we’ll meet for a drink in town and you can tell me all about it. The Dome on George Street... six thirty?’

‘Six thirty it is,’ he said.

Maybury was as good as gold: called Rebus back at five fifteen. He jotted the time down so it could be added to the case notes... One of the truly great Who songs, he thought to himself. Out of my brain on the five fifteen...

‘I’ve played her the tape,’ Maybury was saying.

‘You didn’t waste any time.’

‘I found her mobile number. Extraordinary how they seem to work anywhere these days.’

‘She’s in France then?’

‘Bergerac, yes.’

‘So what did she say?’

‘Well, the sound quality wasn’t brilliant...’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘And the connection kept breaking up.’

‘Yes?’

‘But after I’d played it back to her a few times, she came up with Senegal. She’s not a hundred per cent sure, but that’s her best guess.’

‘Senegal?’

‘It’s in Africa, French-speaking.’

‘Okay, well... thanks for that.’

‘Good luck, Inspector.’

Rebus put the phone down, found Wylie working at her computer. She was typing a report of the day’s activities, to be added to the Murder Book.

‘Senegal,’ he told her.

‘Where’s that?’

Rebus sighed. ‘In Africa, of course. French-speaking.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Maybury just told you that, didn’t she?’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’

‘Little faith, but big resources.’ She closed down her document and logged on to the Web, typed Senegal into a search engine. Rebus pulled a chair up next to her.

‘Just there,’ she said, pointing to an onscreen map of Africa. Senegal was on the continent’s north-west coast, dwarfed by Mauritania to the north and Mali to the east.

‘It’s tiny,’ Rebus commented.

Wylie clicked on an icon and a reference page opened up. ‘Just the seventy-six thousand square miles,’ she said. ‘I think that’s three-quarters the size of Britain. Capital: Dakar.’

‘As in the Dakar rally?’

‘Presumably. Population: six and a half million.’

‘Minus one...’

‘She’s sure the caller was from Senegal?’

‘I think we’re talking best guess.’

Wylie’s finger ran down the list of statistics. ‘No sign here that the country’s in turmoil or anything.’

‘Meaning what?’

Wylie shrugged. ‘She might not be an asylum-seeker... maybe not even an illegal.’

Rebus nodded, said he might know someone who’d know, and called Caro Quinn.

‘You’re crying off?’ she guessed.

‘Far from it — I’ve even bought you a present.’ For Wylie’s information, he patted his jacket pocket, from which jutted the folded newspaper. ‘Just wondering if you can shed any light on Senegal?’

‘The country in Africa?’

‘That’s the one.’ He peered at the screen. ‘Mostly Muslim and an exporter of ground nuts.’

He heard her laugh. ‘What about it?’

‘Do you know of any refugees from there? Maybe in Whitemire?’

‘Can’t say I do... Refugee Council might help.’

‘That’s a thought.’ But as he said it, Rebus was having another thought entirely. If anyone would know, Immigration would.

‘See you later,’ he said, ending the call.

Wylie had her arms folded, a smile on her face. ‘Your friend from outside Whitemire?’ she guessed.

‘Her name’s Caro Quinn.’

‘And you’re meeting her later.’

‘So?’ Rebus twitched his shoulders.

‘So what was she able to tell you about Senegal?’

‘Just that she doesn’t think there are any Senegalese in Whitemire. She says we should talk to the Refugee Council.’

‘What about Mo Dirwan? He seems the sort who might know.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Why don’t you give him a call?’

Wylie pointed at herself. ‘Me? You’re the one he seems to worship.’

Rebus’s face creased. ‘Give me a break, Ellen.’

‘But then I forgot... you’ve got a date tonight. You probably want to nip home for a facial.’

‘If I hear that you’ve been blabbing about this...’

She raised both hands in a show of surrender. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Don Juan. Now skedaddle... I’ll see you after the weekend.’

Rebus stared at her, but she fluttered her hands, shooing him off. He’d gone three steps towards the door when she called out his name. He turned his head towards her.

‘Take a tip from one who knows.’ She gestured towards the newspaper in his pocket. ‘A bit of gift-wrapping goes a long way...’

19

That evening, fresh from a bath and a shave, Rebus arrived at Caro Quinn’s flat. He looked around, but there seemed no sign of mother and child.

‘Ayisha’s gone to visit friends,’ Quinn explained.

‘Friends?’

‘She’s allowed to have friends, John.’ Quinn was bending over to hook a low-heeled black shoe on to her left foot.

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ he said defensively.

She straightened up. ‘Yes you did, but don’t worry about it. Did I tell you Ayisha was a nurse back in her homeland?’

‘Yes.’

‘She wanted work here, doing the same thing... but asylum-seekers aren’t allowed to work. Still, she made friends with some nurses. One of them’s having a get-together.’

‘I brought something for the baby,’ Rebus said, sliding a rattle from his pocket. Quinn came towards him, took the rattle and tried it out. She looked at him and smiled.

‘I’ll put it in her room.’

Left on his own, Rebus realised he was sweating, his shirt clinging to his back. He thought of removing his jacket, but feared the stain would be visible. It was the jacket’s fault: hundred per cent wool, too warm for indoors. He visualised himself at dinner, beads of perspiration falling into his soup...

‘You haven’t told me how nicely I scrub up,’ Quinn said, coming back into the room. She still had only the one shoe on. Her feet were covered in black tights, which disappeared beneath a knee-length black skirt. Her top was mustard-coloured, with a wide neckline stretching almost to both shoulders.

‘You look great,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She slipped the other shoe on.

‘I’ve got you a present, too.’ He handed over the newspaper.

‘And here I was, thinking you’d brought it along in case you got bored of my company.’ Then she saw that he’d tied a narrow red bow around it. ‘Nice touch,’ she added, removing it.

‘Reckon the suicide will make any difference?’

She seemed to consider this, patting the newspaper against the palm of her left hand. ‘Probably not,’ she finally conceded. ‘As far as the government’s concerned, they have to be kept somewhere. Might as well be Whitemire.’

‘The newspaper talks about a “crisis”.’

‘That’s because the word “crisis” sounds like news.’ She’d opened the paper to the page with her photograph. ‘That circle around my head makes me look like a target.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘John, I’ve been a radical all my life. Nuclear subs at Faslane, the Torness power station, Greenham Common... You name it, I’ve been there. Is my phone tapped right this second? I couldn’t tell you. Has it been tapped in the past? Almost certainly.’

Rebus stared at the telephone apparatus. ‘Do you mind if I...?’ Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the receiver, pressed the green button and listened. Then he closed the connection, opened it and closed it again. Looked at her and shook his head, replacing the handset.

‘You reckon you could tell?’ she asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?’

‘Wouldn’t mean you don’t have a reason.’

‘I’m betting you’ve bugged phones in the past — during the miners’ strike maybe?’

‘Now who’s the one doing the interrogating?’

‘That’s because we’re enemies, remember?’

‘Are we?’

‘Most of your lot would see me that way, with or without the combat jacket.’

‘I’m not like most of my lot.’

‘I’d say that’s true. Otherwise I’d never have let you over the threshold.’

‘Why did you? It was to show me those photos, right?’

She eventually nodded. ‘I wanted you to see them as human beings rather than problems.’ She brushed down the front of her skirt, took a deep breath to indicate a change of subject. ‘So where are we gracing with our custom tonight?’

‘There’s a good Italian on Leith Walk.’ He paused. ‘You’re probably vegetarian, right?’

‘God, you’re just full of assumptions, aren’t you? But as it happens, this time you’re right. Italian’s good, though: plenty of pasta and pizza.’

‘Italian it is then.’

She took a step towards him. ‘You know, you’d probably put your foot in your mouth less often if you could try and relax.’

‘This is about as relaxed as I get without the demon alcohol.’

She slipped her arm into his. ‘Then let’s go find your demons, John...’

‘... and then there were those three Kurds, you must have seen it on the news, they sewed their mouths shut in protest, and another asylum-seeker sewed his eyes shut... his eyes, John... most of these people are desperate by anyone’s standards, most don’t speak English, and they’re fleeing the most dangerous places on earth — Iraq, Somalia, Afghanistan... a few years back, they had a good chance of being allowed to stay, but the restrictions now are crippling... some of them resort to desperate measures, tearing up any ID, thinking it means they can’t be sent home, but instead they’re sent to prison or end up on the streets... and now we’ve got politicians arguing that the country’s already too diverse... and I... well, I just feel there must be something we can do about it.’

Finally she stopped for a breath, picking up the wine glass which Rebus had just refilled. Though flesh and fowl were off Caro Quinn’s menu, alcohol, it appeared, was not. She’d eaten only half her mushroom pizza. Rebus, having demolished his own calzone, was restraining himself from reaching over for one of her remaining slices.

‘I was under the impression,’ he said, ‘that Britain takes more refugees than anywhere else.’

‘That’s true,’ she conceded.

‘Even more than the United States?’

She nodded with the wine glass at her lips. ‘But what’s important is the number who are allowed to stay. The world’s number of refugees is doubling every five years, John. Glasgow has more asylum-seekers than any other council in Britain — more than Wales and Northern Ireland combined — and do you know what’s happened?’

‘More racism?’ Rebus guessed.

‘More racism. Racial harassment is up; race attacks are growing by half each year.’ She shook her head, sending her long silver earrings flying.

Rebus checked the bottle. It was three-quarters empty. Their first bottle had been Valpolicella; this one was Chianti.

‘Am I talking too much?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Not at all.’

Her elbows were on the table. She rested her chin on her hands. ‘Tell me a bit about you, John. What made you join the police?’

‘A sense of duty,’ he offered. ‘Wanting to help my fellow human beings.’ She stared at him and he smiled. ‘Only joking,’ he said. ‘I just wanted a job. I’d been in the Army for a few years... maybe I still had a thing for uniforms.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I can’t see you as the bobby-on-the-beat type... So what is it exactly that you get out of the job?’

Rebus was saved from answering by the appearance of the waiter. Being Friday night, the restaurant was busy. Their table was the smallest in the place, and situated in a dark corner between the bar and the door to the kitchen.

‘You enjoy?’ the waiter asked.

‘It was fine, Marco, but I think we’re finished.’

‘Dessert for the lady?’ Marco suggested. He was small and round and had not lost his Italian accent, despite having lived in Scotland for the best part of forty years. Caro Quinn had quizzed him on his roots when they’d first entered the restaurant, realising later that Rebus knew Marco of old.

‘Sorry if I sounded like I was interrograting him,’ she’d said by way of apology.

Rebus had just shrugged and told her she’d make a good detective.

She was shaking her head now, as Marco reeled off a list of desserts, each of which, apparently, was a particular speciality of the house.

‘Just coffee,’ she said. ‘A double espresso.’

‘Same for me, thanks, Marco.’

‘And a digestif, Mr Rebus?’

‘Just coffee, thanks.’

‘Not even for the lady?’

Caro Quinn leaned forward. ‘Marco,’ she said, ‘no matter how drunk I get, there’s no way I’m sleeping with Mr Rebus, so don’t put yourself out trying to aid and abet, okay?’

Marco just shrugged and held up his hands, then turned sharply towards the bar and barked out the order for coffees.

‘Was I a bit hard on him?’ Quinn asked Rebus.

‘A bit.’

She leaned back again. ‘Does he often help you in your seductions?’

‘You might find this hard to fathom, Caro, but seduction had never entered my mind.’

She looked at him. ‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’

He laughed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. I was just trying to be...’ He sought the right word. ‘Gentlemanly,’ was the one he came up with.

She seemed to think about this, then shrugged and pushed her glass away. ‘I shouldn’t drink so much.’

‘We haven’t even finished the bottle yet.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough. I get the feeling I’ve been guilty of speechifying... probably not what you had in mind for a Friday night.’

‘You’ve filled in a few gaps for me... I didn’t mind listening.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He could have added that this was partly down to the fact that he would rather listen to her than talk about himself any day.

‘So how’s the work going?’ he asked.

‘It’s fine... when I get time to do any.’ She studied him. ‘Maybe I should do a portrait of you.’

‘You want to scare small children?’

‘No... but there’s something about you.’ She angled her head. ‘It’s hard to see what’s going on behind your eyes. Most people try to hide the fact that they’re calculating and cynical... with you, that’s what seems to be on the surface.’

‘But I’ve got a soft, romantic centre?’

‘I’m not sure I’d go that far.’

They leaned back in their chairs as the coffees arrived. Rebus started to unwrap his amaretto biscuit.

‘Have mine, too, if you want,’ Quinn said, getting to her feet. ‘I need to pay a visit...’ Rebus rose an inch from his chair, the way he’d seen actors do in old films. She seemed to realise that this was new to his repertoire and gave another smile. ‘Quite the gentleman...’

Once she’d gone, he searched his pockets for his mobile, switched it on to check for messages. There were two: both from Siobhan. He called her number, heard background noise.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Hang on a sec...’ Her voice was breaking up. He heard a door swinging open and then shut again, muting the background voices.

‘You at the Ox?’ he guessed.

‘That’s right. I was at the Dome with Les Young, but he had a prior engagement, so I drifted along here. What about you?’

‘Dining out.’

‘Alone?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Her name’s Caro Quinn. She’s an artist.’

‘The Whitemire one-woman crusade?’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s right.’

‘I read the papers, too, you know. What’s she like?’

‘She’s fine.’ His eyes looked up to where Quinn was returning to the table. ‘Look, I’d better ring off...’

‘Wait a second. The reason I was calling... well, two reasons actually...’ Her voice was drowned out by a vehicle as it rumbled past her. ‘... and I wondered if you’d heard.’

‘Sorry, I missed that. Heard what?’

‘Mo Dirwan.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s been beaten up. Happened around six.’

‘In Knoxland?’

‘Where else?’

‘How is he?’ Rebus’s eyes were on Quinn. She was playing with her coffee spoon, making a show of not listening.

‘He’s okay, I think. Cuts and bruises.’

‘Is he in hospital?’

‘Recuperating at home.’

‘Do we know who did it?’

‘I’m guessing racists.’

‘I mean anyone in particular.’

‘It’s Friday night, John.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning it’ll wait till Monday.’

‘Fair enough.’ He thought for a second. ‘So what was your other reason for calling? You said there were two.’

‘Janet Eylot.’

‘I know the name.’

‘She works at Whitemire. Says she gave you Stef Yurgii’s name.’

‘She did. What about it?’

‘Just wanted to check she was on the level.’

‘I told her she wouldn’t get into trouble.’

‘She’s not.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Not yet, at any rate. Any chance we’ll be seeing you at the Ox?’

‘I might manage along later.’

Quinn’s eyebrows rose at this. Rebus ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

‘A girlfriend?’ she teased.

‘Colleague.’

‘And where is it you might “manage along” to?’

‘Just a place we sometimes drink.’

‘The bar with no name?’

‘It’s called the Oxford.’ He picked up his cup. ‘Someone got a doing tonight, a lawyer called Mo Dirwan.’

‘I know him.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Thought you might.’

‘He often visits Whitemire. Likes to stop and talk to me afterwards, letting off steam.’ She seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Seems to be.’

‘He calls me his “Lady of the Vigils”...’ She broke off. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Rebus lowered the cup on to its saucer.

‘You can’t be his white knight every time.’

‘It’s not that...’

‘What then?’

‘He was attacked in Knoxland.’

‘So?’

‘It was me who asked him to stick around, knock on doors.’

‘And that makes it your fault? If I know Mo Dirwan, he’ll bounce back stronger and more bolshy than ever.’

‘You’re probably right.’

She drained her coffee. ‘You should go to your pub. Might be the only place you can relax.’

Rebus signalled to Marco for the bill. ‘I’ll see you home first,’ he told Quinn. ‘Got to keep up the pretence of being a gentleman.’

‘I don’t think you understand, John... I’m coming with you.’ He stared at her. ‘Unless you don’t want me to.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What then?’

‘I’m just not sure it’s your kind of place.’

‘But it’s yours, and that’s what I’m curious about.’

‘You think my choice of watering-hole will tell you something about me?’

‘It might.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what you’re afraid of?’

‘Who said I’m afraid?’

‘I can see it in your eyes.’

‘Maybe I’m just worried about Mo Dirwan.’ He paused. ‘Remember when you said you’d been run out of Knoxland?’ The nod she gave was exaggerated, affected by the wine. ‘Could be the same guys.’

‘Meaning I was lucky to get away with a warning?’

‘No chance of you remembering what they looked like...?’

‘Baseball caps and hooded tops.’ The shrug she gave was exaggerated too. ‘That’s just about all I saw of them.’

‘And their accents?’

She slapped a hand down on the tablecloth. ‘Switch off for the night, will you? Just for the rest of tonight.’

Rebus raised his hands in surrender. ‘How can I refuse?’

‘You can’t,’ she told him, as Marco arrived with the bill.

Rebus tried to hide his annoyance. It wasn’t just that Siobhan was in the front bar — standing where he usually stood. But she seemed to’ve taken the place over, a crowd of men around her, listening to her stories. As Rebus pushed the door open, there was a blast of laughter to accompany the end of another anecdote.

Caro Quinn followed hesitantly. There were probably only a dozen or so bodies in the front bar, but this made for a crowd in the cramped space. She fanned her face with her hand, commenting either on the heat or the fug of cigarette smoke. Rebus realised he hadn’t lit up now for the best part of two hours; reckoned he could manage another thirty or forty minutes...

Tops.

‘The prodigal returns!’ one of the regulars barked, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. ‘What’re you having, John?’

‘No, ta, Sandy,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m getting these.’ Then, to Quinn: ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Just an orange juice.’ During the short taxi ride, she’d seemed to doze off for a moment, her head leaning against Rebus’s shoulder. He’d kept his body rigid, not wanting to disturb her, but a pothole had brought her upright again.

‘Orange juice and a pint of IPA,’ Rebus told Harry the barman. Siobhan’s circle of admirers had broken up just enough to make room for the new arrivals. Introductions were made, hands shaken. Rebus paid for the drinks, noting that Siobhan appeared to be on the gin and tonics.

Harry was channel-hopping with the TV remote, dismissing the various sports channels and ending up with the Scottish news. There was a photo of Mo Dirwan behind the announcer, a head-and-shoulders shot, showing him with a huge grin. The announcer became just a voice, as the picture changed to some video footage of Dirwan outside what appeared to be his house. He sported a black eye and some grazes, a pink plaster sitting awkwardly on his chin. He held up a hand to show that it was bandaged.

‘That’s Knoxland for you,’ one of the drinkers commented.

‘You’re saying it’s a no-go zone?’ Quinn asked lightly.

‘I’m saying you don’t go there if your face doesn’t fit.’

Rebus could see Quinn begin to bristle. He touched her elbow. ‘How’s your drink?’

‘It’s fine.’ She looked at him and seemed to see what he was doing. Nodded just enough to let him know she wouldn’t rise... not this time.

Twenty minutes later, Rebus had given in and was smoking. He looked towards where Siobhan and Quinn were in conversation, heard Caro’s question:

‘So what’s he like to work with?’

Excused himself from a three-way argument about the parliament and squeezed between two drinkers to get to the women.

‘Did anyone remember to put a pair of ear-muffs in the fridge?’ he asked.

‘What?’ Quinn looked genuinely perplexed.

‘He means his ears are burning,’ Siobhan explained.

Quinn laughed. ‘I was just trying to find out a little bit more about you.’ She turned to Siobhan. ‘He won’t tell me anything.’

‘Don’t worry: I know all John’s dirty little secrets...’

As happened on a good night in the Ox, conversations ebbed and flowed, people joining in two discussions at once, bringing them together only for them to splinter again after a few minutes. There were bad jokes and worse puns, Caro Quinn becoming upset because ‘nobody seems to take anything seriously any more’. Someone else agreed that it was a dumbed-down culture, but Rebus whispered what he felt to be the truth into her ear:

‘We’re never more serious than when we seem to be joking...’

And later still, the back room now filled with noisy tables of drinkers, Rebus queued at the bar for more drinks and noticed that both Siobhan and Caro were missing. He frowned at one of the regulars, who angled his head towards the women’s toilet. Rebus nodded and paid for the drinks. He was having one tot of whisky before calling it a night. One tot of Laphroaig and a third... no, fourth cigarette... and that would be him. Soon as Caro came back, he’d ask if she wanted to share a taxi. Voices were rising from the top of the steps which led to the toilets. Not a full-blown fight as yet, but getting there. People were stopping their own conversations the better to appreciate the argument.

‘All I’m saying is, those people need jobs, same as anyone else!’

‘You don’t think the guards in the concentration camps said the same thing?’

‘Christ’s sake, you can’t compare the two!’

‘Why not? They’re both morally abhorrent...’

Rebus left the drinks where they were and started pushing through the throng. Because he’d recognised the voices now: Caro and Siobhan.

‘I’m just trying to say that there’s an economic argument,’ Siobhan was telling the whole bar. ‘Because whether you like it or not, Whitemire’s the only game in town if you happen to live in Banehall!’

Caro Quinn raised her eyes to heaven. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘You had to hear it some time — not everyone out here in the real world can afford the moral high ground. There are single mums working in Whitemire. How easy is it going to be for them if you get your way?’

Rebus was at the top of the steps. The two women were inches apart, Siobhan slightly taller, Caro Quinn standing on tiptoe the better to lock eyes with her opponent.

‘Whoah there,’ Rebus said, trying for a placatory smile. ‘I think I can hear the drink talking.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’ Quinn growled. Then, to Siobhan: ‘What about Guantanamo Bay? I don’t suppose you see anything wrong with locking people up without the barest human rights?’

‘Listen to yourself, Caro — you’re all over the place! The point I was making was specific to Whitemire...’

Rebus looked at Siobhan and saw the whole working week raging within her; saw the need to let all that pressure out. He guessed the same could be said for Caro. The argument could have come at any time, involved any topic.

He should have seen it sooner; decided to try again.

‘Ladies...’

Now both of them glowered at him.

‘Caro,’ he said, ‘your taxi’s outside.’

The glower became a frown. She was trying to remember making the arrangement. He locked eyes with Siobhan, knew she could see he was lying. He watched as her shoulders relaxed.

‘We can pick this up again another time,’ he continued to cajole Caro. ‘But for tonight, I think we should call it a day...’

Somehow, he managed to manoeuvre Caro down the steps and through the crowd, miming the making of a phone call to Harry, who nodded back: a taxi would be ordered.

‘We’ll see you later, Caro,’ one of the regulars called.

‘Watch out for him,’ another warned her, jabbing Rebus in the chest.

‘Thanks, Gordon,’ Rebus said, slapping the hand away.

Outside, she sank to the pavement, feet by the roadside, head in her hands.

‘You okay?’ Rebus asked.

‘I think I lost it a bit in there.’ She took her hands away from her face, breathed the night air. ‘It’s not that I’m drunk or anything. I just can’t believe anyone could stick up for that place!’ She turned to stare at the door of the pub, as if considering rejoining the fray. ‘I mean... tell me you don’t feel that way.’ Now her eyes were on his. He shook his head.

‘Siobhan likes to play devil’s advocate,’ he explained, crouching down beside her.

It was Caro’s turn to shake her head. ‘That’s not it at all... she really believed what she was saying. She can see Whitemire’s good points.’ She looked at him to fathom his reaction to those words, words he guessed were quoted verbatim from Siobhan’s argument.

‘It’s just that she’s been spending some time in Banehall,’ Rebus continued to explain. ‘Not a lot of jobs going begging out that way...’

‘And that justifies the whole ugly enterprise?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’m not sure anything justifies Whitemire,’ he said quietly.

She took his hands in hers and squeezed them. He thought he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. They sat in silence like that for a few minutes, groups of revellers passing them on each side of the road, some of them staring, saying nothing. Rebus thought back to a time when he, too, had harboured ideals. They’d been knocked out of him early on: he’d joined the Army at sixteen. Well, not knocked out of him exactly, but replaced with other values, mostly less concrete, less passionate. By now, he was almost inured to the idea. Faced with someone like Mo Dirwan, his first instinct was to look for the con, the hypocrite, the money-making ego. And faced with someone like Caro Quinn...?

Initially, he’d thought her the typical spoilt middle-class conscience. All that affordable liberal suffering — so much more palatable than the real thing. But it took more than that to drive someone out to Whitemire day after day, sneered at by the workforce, unthanked by the inmates. It took a large measure of guts.

He could see, right now, the toll it was taking. She’d leaned her head against his shoulder again. Her eyes were still open, staring at the building across the narrow lane. It was a barber’s shop, complete with red-and-white striped pole. Red and white meaning blood and bandages, Rebus seemed to think, though he couldn’t remember why. And now there was the sound of a diesel engine chugging towards them, the taxi bathing them in its headlights.

‘Here’s the cab,’ Rebus said, helping Caro to her feet.

‘I still don’t remember asking for one,’ she confessed.

‘That’s because you didn’t,’ he said with a smile, holding open the door for her.

She told him ‘coffee’ meant just that: no euphemisms. He nodded, wanting to see her safely indoors. Then he reckoned he would walk all the way home, burn some of the alcohol out of his system.

Ayisha’s bedroom door was closed. They tiptoed past it and into the living room. The kitchen was through another doorway. While Caro filled the kettle, he took a look at her record collection — all vinyl, no CDs. There were albums he hadn’t seen in years: Steppenwolf, Santana, Mahavishnu Orchestra... Caro came back through holding a card.

‘This was on the table,’ she said, handing it to him. It was a thank-you for the rattle. ‘Decaf all right? It’s either that or mint tea...’

‘Decaf ’s fine.’

She made tea for herself, its aroma filling the small square room. ‘I like it at night,’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘Sometimes I work for a few hours...’

‘Me too.’

She gave a sleepy smile and sat down on the chair opposite him, blowing across the surface of her cup. ‘I can’t decide about you, John. Most people, we know within half a minute of meeting them whether they’re on the same wavelength.’

‘So am I FM or medium wave?’

‘I don’t know.’ They were keeping their voices low so as not to wake mother and child. Caro tried stifling a yawn.

‘You should get some sleep,’ Rebus told her.

She nodded. ‘Finish your coffee first.’

But he shook his head, placing the mug on the bare floorboards and rising to his feet. ‘It’s late.’

‘I’m sorry if I...’

‘What?’

She shrugged. ‘Siobhan’s your friend... the Oxford’s your pub...’

‘Both are pretty thick-skinned,’ he assured her.

‘I should have left you to it. I was in the wrong mood.’

‘Will you be going to Whitemire this weekend?’

She gave a shrug. ‘That depends on my mood, too.’

‘Well, if you get bored, give me a call.’

She was on her feet now too. Walked over to him and pushed up with her toes so she could plant a kiss on his left cheek. When she stepped back, her eyes widened suddenly and a hand flew to her mouth.

‘What’s wrong?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ve just remembered... I let you pay for dinner!’

He smiled and headed for the door.

He walked back up Leith Walk, checking his mobile to see if Siobhan had left a message. She hadn’t. Midnight was chiming. He reckoned it would take him half an hour to get home. There’d be plenty of drunks on South Bridge and Clerk Street, stoking up on whatever was left under the chip shops’ heat lamps, then maybe heading down the Cowgate to the two a.m. bars. There were some railings on South Bridge, and you could stop there and peer down on to the Cowgate, like watching exhibits in a zoo. This time of night, traffic was banned from the street — too many drinkers falling into the road and being side-swiped by cars. He knew he could probably still get a drink at the Royal Oak, but the place would be heaving. No, he was headed straight home, and at as brisk a pace as he could manage: sweating off tomorrow’s hangover. He wondered if Siobhan was back in her flat. He could call her, try to clear the air. Then again, if she was drunk... Better to wait till morning.

Everything would look better in the morning: streets hosed down, bins emptied, broken glass swept away. All the ugly energy of the night earthed for a few hours. Crossing Princes Street, Rebus saw that a fight was taking place in the middle of North Bridge, taxis slowing and veering around the two young men. They held one another by the backs of their shirt collars, so that only the tops of their heads were showing. Swinging with their free hands and their feet. No sign of weapons. It was a dance to which Rebus knew all the steps. He kept walking, passing the girl for whose affections they were vying.

‘Marty!’ she was yelling. ‘Paul! Dinnae be sae fuckn daft!’

Of course, she didn’t really mean what she was saying. Her eyes were alight at the spectacle — and all of it for her! Friends were trying to comfort her, arms embracing her, wanting to be close to the drama’s core.

Further along, someone was singing to the effect that they were too sexy for their shirt, which went some way towards explaining why they’d ditched it somewhere along the route. A patrol car cruised by to jeers and V-signs. Someone kicked a bottle into the road, eliciting cheers when it exploded under a wheel. The patrol car didn’t seem to mind.

A young woman appeared suddenly in Rebus’s path, hair falling in dirty ringlets, eyes hungry as she asked him first for money, then for a cigarette, and finally whether he wanted to do ‘a bit of business’. The phrase sounded curiously old-fashioned. He wondered if she’d learned it from a book or film.

‘Bugger off home before I arrest you,’ he told her.

‘Home?’ she mouthed, as though this were some new and alien concept. She sounded English. Rebus just shook his head and moved on. He cut through to Buccleuch Street. Things were quieter here, and quieter still as he crossed the expanse of the Meadows, its name reminding him that at one time much of this had been farmland. As he entered Arden Street, he looked up at the tenement windows. There were no signs of student parties, nothing to keep him awake. He heard car doors open behind him, spun round expecting to confront Felix Storey. But these two men were white, dressed in black from their polonecks to their shoes. It took him a moment to place them.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he said.

‘You owe us a torch,’ the leader said. His colleague was younger and scowling. Rebus recognised him as Alan, the man whose torch he had borrowed in the first place.

‘It got stolen,’ Rebus told them with a shrug.

‘It was an expensive piece of kit,’ the leader said. ‘And you promised to return it.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never lost stuff before.’ But the man’s face told Rebus that he was unlikely to be won over by any argument, any appeal to a spirit of camaraderie. The Drugs Squad saw itself as a force of nature, independent from other cops. Rebus held his hands up in surrender. ‘I can write you a cheque.’

‘We don’t want a cheque. We want a torch identical to the one we gave you.’ The leader held out a slip of paper, which Rebus took. ‘That’s the make and model number.’

‘I’ll nip down Argos tomorrow...’

The leader was shaking his head. ‘Think you’re a good detective? Tracking that down will be the proof.’

‘Argos or Dixon’s — I’ll let you have what I find.’

The leader took a step closer, chin jutting. ‘You want us off your back, you’ll find that torch.’ He stabbed a finger at the piece of paper. Then, satisfied he’d made his point, he pivoted and headed for the car, followed by his young colleague.

‘Look after him, Alan,’ Rebus called. ‘Bit of TLC and he’ll be right as rain.’

He waved the car off, then climbed the steps to his flat and unlocked the door. The floorboards creaked underfoot, as though in complaint. Rebus switched on the hi-fi: a Dick Gaughan CD, just audible. Then he collapsed on to his favoured chair, searching his pockets for a cigarette. He inhaled and closed his eyes. The world seemed to be tilting, taking him with it. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair, feet pressed solidly to the floor. When the phone rang, he knew it would be Siobhan. He reached down and picked up the receiver.

‘You’re home then,’ her voice said.

‘Where did you expect me to be?’

‘Do I need to answer that?’

‘You’ve got a dirty little mind.’ Then: ‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to.’

‘Apologise?’ Her voice had risen. ‘What in God’s name is there to apologise about?’

‘You’d had a bit too much to drink.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’ She sounded grimly sober.

‘If you say so.’

‘I admit I don’t quite see the attraction...’

‘You sure you want us to have this conversation?’

‘Will it be taken down and used in evidence?’

‘Hard to take things back once they’re said out loud.’

‘Unlike you, John, I’ve never been good at bottling things up.’

Rebus had spotted a mug on the carpet. Cold coffee, half full. He took a mouthful, swallowed. ‘So you don’t approve of my choice of companion...’

‘It’s not up to me who you go out with.’

‘That’s generous of you.’

‘But the two of you just seem so... different.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’

She gave a loud sigh, which rumbled like static down the line. ‘Look, all I’m trying to say... We don’t just work together, do we? There’s more to us than that — we’re... pals.’

Rebus smiled to himself, smiled at the pause before ‘pals’. Had she considered ‘mates’, discarding it because of its other, more awkward meaning?

‘And as a pal,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to see me make a bad decision?’

Siobhan was silent for a moment, long enough for Rebus to drain the mug. ‘Why are you so interested in her anyway?’ she asked.

‘Maybe because she is different.’

‘You mean because she holds to a set of woolly ideals?’

‘You don’t know her well enough to be able to say that.’

‘I think I know the type.’

Rebus closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking: that’s pretty much what I’d have said before this case came along. ‘We’re back on thin ice, Shiv. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll call you in the morning.’

‘You think I’m going to change my mind, don’t you?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘I can assure you I’m not.’

‘Your prerogative. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

She paused so long, Rebus feared she’d already drifted off. But then: ‘What’s that you’re listening to?’

‘Dick Gaughan.’

‘He sounds angry about something.’

‘That’s just his style.’ Rebus had taken out the slip of paper with the torch’s details.

‘A Scottish trait maybe?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Good night, then, John.’

‘Before you go... if you didn’t phone to apologise, then why exactly did you phone?’

‘I didn’t want us falling out.’

‘And are we falling out?’

‘I hope not.’

‘So you weren’t just checking that I was safely tucked up on my lonesome?’

‘I’m going to ignore that.’

‘Night, Shiv. Sleep tight.’

He put down the receiver, rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes again.

Not mates... just pals.