Fleshmarket Close

20

Saturday morning the first thing he did was call Siobhan’s number. When her machine picked up, he left a brief message — ‘This is John, keeping that promise from last night... talk to you soon’ — then tried her mobile, and was forced to leave one there, too.

After breakfast, he dug in the hall cupboard, and in the boxes beneath his bed, and emerged with dust and cobwebs clinging to him, clasping packets of photographs to his chest. He knew he didn’t have many family snaps — his ex-wife had taken most of them with her. But he did retain a few photos she hadn’t felt able to claim right to — members of his family, his mother and father, uncles and aunts. Again, there weren’t many of these. He reckoned either his brother had the majority, or they’d been lost over time. Years back, his daughter Sammy would want to play with them, staring at them for long periods, running fingers over their ribbed edges, touching sepia faces, studio poses. She would ask who people were, and Rebus would turn the photo over, hoping to find clues pencilled on the back, then offering a shrug.

His grandfather — his father’s father — had arrived in Scotland from Poland. Rebus didn’t know why he’d emigrated. It had been before the rise of fascism, so he could only guess that it had been for economic reasons. He’d been a young man, and single, marrying a woman from Fife a year later or thereabouts. Rebus was sketchy on that whole period of his family’s history. He didn’t think he’d ever really asked his father. If he had, then his father either hadn’t wanted to answer or simply didn’t know. There could have been things his grandfather hadn’t wanted to remember, far less share and discuss.

Rebus held a photo now. He thought it was his grandfather: a middle-aged man, thinning black hair combed close to the skull, a wry smile on his face. He was dressed in Sunday best. It was a studio shot, showing a painted background of hayfield and bright sky. On the back was printed the photographer’s address in Dunfermline. Rebus turned the photo over again. He was searching for something of himself in his grandfather — the way the facial muscles worked, or the posture when at rest. But the man was a stranger to him. His whole family history was a collection of questions asked too late: photos with no names attached, no hint of year or provenance. Blurry, smiling mouths, the pinched faces of workers and their families. Rebus considered his own remaining family: daughter Sammy; brother Michael. He phoned them infrequently, usually after one drink too many. Maybe he’d call both of them later on, making sure he hadn’t been drinking first.

‘I don’t know anything about you,’ he said to the man in the photograph. ‘I can’t even be a hundred per cent sure that you are who I think you are...’ He wondered if he had any relatives in Poland. There could be whole villages of them, a clan of cousins who would speak no English but be pleased to see him all the same. Maybe Rebus’s grandfather hadn’t been the only one to leave. The family might well have spread to America and Canada, or east to Australia. Some could have ended up assassinated by the Nazis, or aiding that self-same cause. Untold histories, criss-crossing with Rebus’s own life...

He thought again of the refugees and asylum-seekers, the economic migrants. The mistrust and resentment they brought with them, the way tribes feared anything new, anything from outside the camp’s tight confines. Maybe that explained Siobhan’s reaction to Caro Quinn, Caro not part of the gang. Multiply that mistrust and you got a situation like Knoxland.

Rebus didn’t blame Knoxland itself: the estate was a symptom rather than anything else. He realised he wasn’t going to glean anything from these old photographs, representing as they did his own lack of roots. Besides, he had a trip to take.

Glasgow had never been his favourite place. It seemed all teeming concrete and high-rise. He got lost there, and always had trouble finding landmarks to navigate by. There were areas of the city which felt as if they could swallow up Edinburgh wholesale. The people were different, too; he couldn’t say what it was exactly — accent or mind-set. But the place made him uncomfortable.

Even with an A to Z, he managed to take an apparent wrong turning almost as soon as he left the motorway. He’d come off too soon, and found himself not far from Barlinnie prison, working his way slowly towards the centre of the city, through a sludge of Saturday shopping traffic. It didn’t help that the fine mist had developed into rain, blurring street names and road signs. Mo Dirwan had said that Glasgow was the murder capital of Europe; Rebus wondered if the traffic system might have something to do with it.

Dirwan lived in Calton, between the Necropolis and Glasgow Green. It was a pleasant enough area, with plenty of green spaces and mature trees. Rebus found the house, but there was nowhere to park nearby. He did a circuit, and eventually ended up jogging the hundred yards from the car to the front door. It was a solidly built red-stone semi, with a small front garden. The door was new: glazed with leaded diamonds of frosted glass. Rebus rang the bell and waited, only to find that Mo wasn’t home. His wife, however, knew who Rebus was and tried to pull him inside.

‘I really just wanted to check he’s okay,’ Rebus argued.

‘You must wait for him. If he finds out I pushed you away...’

Rebus glanced down at the grip she had on his arm. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re doing much pushing.’

She relented, smiling in embarrassment. She was probably ten or fifteen years younger than her husband, with lustrous waves of black hair framing her face and neck. Her make-up had been applied liberally, but with great care, turning her eyes dark and her mouth crimson. ‘I am sorry,’ she told Rebus.

‘Don’t be, it’s nice to feel wanted. Will Mo be back soon?’

‘I’m not sure. He had to go to Rutherglen. There has been some trouble recently.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nothing serious, we hope, just gangs of young men fighting each other.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sure the Asians are just as much to blame as the others.’

‘So what’s Mo doing there?’

‘Attending a residents’ meeting.’

‘You know where it’s being held?’

‘I have the address.’ She motioned indoors, Rebus nodding to let her know she should retrieve it. She left no hint of perfume in her wake. He stood just inside the doorway, sheltering from the rain. It was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it — ‘smirr’. He wondered if other cultures had similar vocabularies. When she returned and handed him the slip of paper, their fingers brushed and Rebus felt a momentary spark.

‘Static,’ she explained, nodding towards the hall carpet. ‘I keep telling Mo we need to change it to all-wool.’

Rebus nodded and thanked her, jogging back to his car. He checked in his A to Z for the address she’d given him. It looked like a fifteen-minute drive, most of it south on the Dalmarnock Road. Parkhead wasn’t far away, but Celtic weren’t at home today, meaning less chance of finding his route closed or diverted. The rain, however, had forced shoppers and travellers into their vehicles. Ignoring his map for a few minutes, he found that he’d managed to take yet another wrong turn and was heading for Cambuslang. Pulling over, prepared to wait until he could execute a U-turn, he was startled when the back doors were yanked open and two men fell in.

‘Good on ye,’ one of them said. He smelled of beer and cigarettes. His hair was a mess of soaked curls, which he shook free of raindrops much as a dog would.

‘What the hell is this?’ Rebus asked, voice rising. He’d turned in his seat, the better to let both men examine the expression on his face.

‘You no’ our minicab?’ the other man said. His nose was like a strawberry, breath soured and teeth blackened by dark rum.

‘Bloody right I’m not!’ Rebus shouted.

‘Sorry, pal, sorry... genuine misunderstanding.’

‘Aye, no offence meant,’ his companion added. Rebus looked out of the passenger-side window, saw the pub they’d just raced from. Breeze blocks and a solid door — no windows. They were preparing to exit the car.

‘Not headed to Wardlawhill by any chance, gents?’ Rebus asked, voice suddenly calmer.

‘We’d usually hike it, but wi’ the rain an’ that...’

Rebus nodded. ‘Tell you what, then... how about I drop you at the community centre there?’

The men looked at one another, then at him. ‘And how much do you plan to charge?’

Rebus waved the mistrust aside. ‘Just playing the Good Samaritan.’

‘You going to try and convert us or something?’ The first man’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

Rebus laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to “show you the way” or anything.’ He paused. ‘In fact, quite the opposite.’

‘Eh?’

‘I want you to show me.’

By the end of the short twisty drive through the housing scheme, the three were on first-name terms, Rebus asking if neither of his passengers had thought to attend the residents’ meeting.

‘Best keep your head down, that’s always been my philosophy,’ he was told.

The rain had eased by the time they arrived outside the single-storey building. Like the pub, it, too, seemed to have no windows on first appraisal. However, it was just that they were tucked away high on the front elevation, almost at the eaves. Rebus shook hands with his guides.

‘Getting you in here’s one thing...’ they offered with a laugh. Rebus nodded and smiled. He, too, had been wondering if he’d ever find the motorway back to Edinburgh. Neither passenger had asked why a visitor might be interested in the residents’ meeting. Rebus put this down to that philosophy of life again: keeping your head down. If you didn’t ask questions, no one could accuse you of sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. In some ways it was sound advice, but he’d never lived like that and never would.

There were figures huddled around the building’s main entrance doors. Having waved goodbye to his passengers, Rebus parked as close to those doors as he could, worrying that the meeting had already broken up, meaning he’d missed Mo Dirwan. But as he approached, he saw he’d been wrong. A middle-aged white man in a suit, tie and black coat was holding a leaflet out to him. The man’s head was shaven, gleaming with droplets of rainwater. His face looked pale and doughy, the neck composed of rolls of fat.

‘BNP,’ he said in what sounded to Rebus like a London accent. ‘Let’s make Britain’s streets safe again.’ The front of the leaflet showed a photo of an elderly woman, looking terrified as a blur of coloured youths charged towards her.

‘All pictures posed by models?’ Rebus guessed, mashing the dampened leaflet in his fist. The other men on the scene, keeping in the background but flanking the man in the suit, were considerably younger and scruffier, wearing what had almost become rabble chic: trainers, jogging bottoms and windcheaters, baseball caps low on their foreheads. Their jackets were zipped tight, so that the bottom half of each face disappeared into the collar. It meant they were harder to identify from photographs.

‘All we want is fair rights for British people.’ The word ‘British’ almost came out as a bark. ‘Britain for the British — you tell me what’s wrong with that.’

Rebus dropped the leaflet and kicked it aside. ‘I get the feeling your definition might be a bit narrower than most.’

‘You won’t know unless you give us a try.’ The man’s lower jaw jutted forward. Christ, Rebus thought, and this is him trying to be nice... It was like watching a gorilla’s first attempt at flower-arranging. From inside, he could hear a mixture of handclaps and boos.

‘Sounds lively,’ Rebus said, pulling open the doors.

There was a reception area, with another set of double doors leading to the main hall. There was no stage as such, but someone had provided a PA system, meaning that whoever held the microphone should have the advantage. But some in the audience had other ideas. Men were standing up, trying to shout down opponents, fingers stabbing the air. Women were on their feet, too, screaming with equal gusto. There were rows of chairs, most of them full. Rebus saw that these chairs faced a trestle table at which sat five glum-looking figures. He guessed this table comprised a mix of local worthies. Mo Dirwan was not among them, but Rebus saw him nevertheless. He was standing up in the front row, flapping his arms as if trying to emulate flight, but actually gesturing for the audience to settle. His hand was still bandaged, the pink sticking plaster still covering his chin.

One of the worthies, however, had had enough. He flung some paperwork into a satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and marched towards the exit. More booing erupted. Rebus couldn’t tell if this was because he was chickening out, or because he’d been forced to withdraw.

‘You’re a wanker, McCluskey,’ someone called out. This failed to clarify things for Rebus. But now others were following their leader. A small, plump woman at the table held the mike, but her innate good manners and reasonable tone of voice were never going to restore order. Rebus saw that the audience comprised a melting-pot: it wasn’t white faces on one side of the room, coloureds on the other. The age range was mixed, too. One woman had brought her baby-stroller with her. Another was waving her walking-cane wildly in the air, causing those in the vicinity to duck. Half a dozen uniformed police officers had been trying to melt into the background, but now one of them was on his walkie-talkie, almost certainly summoning reinforcements. Some kids had decided that the uniforms should be the focus of their own complaints. The two groups stood only eight or ten feet apart, and that gap was closing with each moment that passed.

Rebus could see that Mo Dirwan didn’t know what to do next. There was a look of consternation on his face, as if he were realising that he was a human rather than a superman. This situation was beyond even his control, because his powers depended on the willingness of others to listen to his arguments, and no one here was going to listen to anything. Rebus reckoned Martin Luther King could have been standing there with a bullhorn and gone unheeded. One young man seemed bewildered by it all. His eyes rested on Rebus’s for a moment. He was Asian, but wore the same clothes as the white kids. There was a single hooped earring through one of his lobes. His bottom lip was puffy and crusted with old blood, and Rebus saw that he stood awkwardly, as though trying to keep the weight off his left leg. That leg was hurting. Was this the reason for his bewilderment? Was he the latest victim, the one who’d led to the meeting being called? If he looked anything, it was scared... scared that a single act could escalate so ceaselessly.

Rebus would have tried for reassurance if he’d known how, but the doors were bursting open, more uniforms crowding in. There was a senior face there: more silver on his lapels and cap than any of the others. Silver, too, in the hair that emerged from below his cap.

‘Let’s have some order!’ he yelled, marching confidently towards the front of the hall and the microphone, which he snatched without ceremony from the now mumbling woman.

‘A bit of order, please, people!’ The voice booming through the loudspeakers. ‘Let’s try and calm things down.’ He looked down at one of the figures seated at the table. ‘I think this meeting’s probably best adjourned for now.’ The man he’d been looking towards nodded just perceptibly. Maybe the local councillor, Rebus guessed; certainly someone the policeman had to pretend to defer to.

But there was only one man in charge now.

When a hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder, he flinched, but it was a grinning Mo Dirwan, who’d somehow spotted him and made his approach unseen.

‘My very good friend, what in God’s name brings you here at this time?’

Close up, Rebus saw that Dirwan’s injuries were no more serious than would be sustained during a weekend brawl between drunks: just a minimum of scrapes and nicks. He was suddenly dubious of the plaster and the bandage, wondering if they were for show.

‘Wanted to see how you were.’

‘Ha!’ Dirwan pounded his shoulder again. The fact that he was using his bandaged hand reinforced Rebus’s suspicions. ‘You were feeling perhaps a little bit of guilt?’

‘I also want to know how it happened.’

‘Bloody hell, that’s easily told — I was jumped. Didn’t you read your newspaper this morning? Whichever one you chose, I was in them all.’

And Rebus didn’t doubt those papers would be spread across the floor of Dirwan’s living room...

But now the lawyer’s attention was diverted by the fact that everyone was being ushered from the hall. He squeezed through the crowd until he met the senior uniform, whose hand he shook, sharing a few words. Then it was on to the councillor, whose expression told Rebus that one more wasted, thankless Saturday like this and he’d be tapping out that letter of resignation. Dirwan had strong words for this man, but when he attempted to grip his arm, it was shrugged off with a force which had probably been building for the whole length of the meeting. Dirwan wagged a finger instead, then patted the man’s shoulder and headed back towards Rebus.

‘Bloody hell, isn’t this an absolute mêlée?’

‘I’ve seen worse.’

Dirwan stared at him. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’d say that whatever the circumstances in front of you?’

‘Happens to be true,’ Rebus told him. ‘So... can I have that word now?’

‘What word?’

But Rebus said nothing. Instead, it was his turn to slap a hand down on Dirwan’s shoulder, holding it there as he steered the lawyer out of the building. A scuffle was taking place, one of the BNP man’s minions having come to blows with a young Asian. Dirwan looked ready to step in, but Rebus held him back, and the uniforms waded in. The BNP man was standing on a grassy bank across the road, hand held high in what looked like a Nazi salute. To Rebus’s mind, he seemed ridiculous, which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

‘Shall we go to my house?’ Dirwan was suggesting.

‘My car,’ Rebus said, shaking his head. They got in, but there was too much still happening all around. Rebus started the ignition, figuring he’d drive into one of the side streets, the better to talk without distractions. As they made to pass the BNP man, he pushed his foot a little harder on the accelerator, and steered the car close to the kerb, sending up a spray which doused the man, much to Mo Dirwan’s delight.

Rebus reversed into a tight kerbside space, switched off the ignition, and turned to face the lawyer.

‘So what happened?’ he asked.

Dirwan shrugged. ‘It is quickly told... I was doing as you asked, questioning as many of Knoxland’s incomers as would speak with me...’

‘Some refused?’

‘Not everyone trusts a stranger, John, not even when he boasts the same colour of skin.’

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘So where were you when they jumped you?’

‘Waiting for one of the lifts in Stevenson House. They came from behind, maybe four or five of them, faces hidden.’

‘Did they say anything?’

‘One of them did... right at the end.’ Dirwan looked uncomfortable, and Rebus was reminded that he was dealing with the victim of an assault. No matter how minor the injuries, it was unlikely to be the sort of memory the lawyer would cherish.

‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘I should have said right at the start — I’m sorry this had to happen.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, John. I should have been better prepared.’

‘I’m assuming you were targeted?’

Dirwan nodded slowly. ‘The one who spoke, he told me to get out of Knoxland. He said I’d be dead otherwise. He held a knife to my cheek as he spoke.’

‘What sort of knife?’

‘I can’t be sure... You’re thinking of the murder weapon?’

‘I suppose so.’ And, he could have added, the knife found on Howie Slowther. ‘You didn’t recognise any of them?’

‘I spent most of my time on the ground. Fists and shoes were about the only things I saw.’

‘What about the one who spoke. Did he sound local?’

‘As opposed to what?’

‘I don’t know... Irish maybe.’

‘I find Irish and Scots hard to tell apart sometimes.’ Dirwan shrugged an apology. ‘Shocking, I know, in someone who has spent some years here...’

Rebus’s mobile sounded from deep within one of his pockets. He dug it out and studied the screen. It was Caro Quinn. ‘I have to take this,’ he told Dirwan, opening the car door. He walked a few paces along the pavement and held the phone to his ear.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘How could you do that to me?’

‘What?’

‘Let me drink like that,’ she groaned.

‘Nursing a sore head, are we?’

‘I’m never touching alcohol again.’

‘An excellent proposition... maybe we could discuss it over dinner?’

‘I can’t tonight, John. I’m off to the Filmhouse with a mate.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

She seemed to consider this. ‘I’m supposed to be doing some work this weekend... and thanks to last night I’m already losing today.’

‘You can’t work with a hangover?’

‘Can you?’

‘I’ve turned it into an art form, Caro.’

‘Look, let’s see how tomorrow pans out... I’ll try to give you a call.’

‘Is that the best I can hope for?’

‘Take it or leave it, chum.’

‘Then I’ll take it.’ Rebus had turned and was heading back towards the car. ‘Bye, Caro.’

‘Bye, John.’

Off to the Filmhouse with a mate... A mate, not a ‘pal’. Rebus got in behind the steering wheel. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Business or pleasure?’ Mo Dirwan asked.

Rebus didn’t answer; he had a question of his own. ‘You know Caro Quinn, don’t you?’

Dirwan frowned, trying to place the name. ‘Our Lady of the Vigils?’ he guessed. Rebus nodded. ‘Yes, she is quite a character.’

‘A woman of principles.’

‘My goodness, yes. She has given a room in her home to an asylum-seeker — did you know that?’

‘I did, as it happens.’

The lawyer’s eyes widened. ‘She was the one you were speaking to just now?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that she, too, was chased out of Knoxland?’

‘She told me.’

‘We share a common thread, she and I...’ Dirwan studied him. ‘Perhaps you are part of that thread too, John.’

‘Me?’ Rebus started the engine. ‘More likely I’m one of those knots you come across from time to time.’

Dirwan chuckled. ‘I’m quite sure you think of yourself that way.’

‘Can I give you a lift home?’

‘If it’s not any trouble.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘It might actually help me get back to the motorway.’

‘So the offer masked an ulterior motive?’

‘I suppose you could put it like that.’

‘And if I accept, will you allow me to offer some hospitality?’

‘I really need to be getting back...’

‘I am being snubbed.’

‘It’s not that...’

‘Well, that is exactly how it looks.’

‘Bloody hell, Mo...’ Rebus gave a loud sigh. ‘All right then, a quick cup of coffee.’

‘My wife will insist that you eat something.’

‘A biscuit then.’

‘And some cake perhaps.’

‘Just a biscuit.’

‘She will prepare a little bit more... you will see.’

‘All right, cake then. Coffee and cake.’

The lawyer’s face broke open in a grin. ‘You are new to the bartering method, John. Had I been selling carpets, your credit card would now be maxing out.’

‘What makes you think it’s not there already?’

Besides, Rebus could have added, he really was hungry...

21

On a bright, blustery Sunday morning, Rebus walked to the bottom of Marchmont Road and headed across the Meadows. Teams were already gathering for pre-arranged football games. Some of the sides wore uniform strips in emulation of professional sides. Others were more ragged affairs, denims and trainers in place of shorts and boots. Traffic cones were the favoured replacements for proper goalposts, and the lines marking the boundary of each pitch were invisible to all but the players.

Further on, a game of frisbee saw a panting dog playing piggy-in-the-middle, while a couple on one of the benches made hard work of trying to turn the pages of their Sunday newspapers, each gust of wind threatening to turn the many supplements into airborne kites.

Rebus had spent a quiet evening at home, but only after a saunter down Lothian Road had established that the movies showing at the Filmhouse were not his kind of thing. He now had a little bet with himself about which of the offerings had received Caro’s custom. He also wondered what excuse he’d have used if she’d happened to bump into him in the foyer...

Nothing I like better than a good Hungarian family saga...

Home had seen him demolish an Indian takeaway (his fingers still redolent, even after a morning shower) and a double helping of videos he’d watched before: Rock ’n’ Roll Circus and Midnight Run. While he’d smiled throughout the De Niro, it was Yoko Ono’s performance in the former which had sent him into hoots of laughter.

Just the four bottles of IPA to wash it all down, which meant he’d awakened early and clear-headed, breakfast consisting of half a leftover nan and a mug of tea. Now it was approaching lunchtime and Rebus was walking. The old Infirmary was surrounded by hoardings, doing nothing to mask the building work within. Last he’d heard, the compound would become a mix of retail and housing. He wondered who would pay to move into a reconfigured cancer ward. Would the place be haunted by a century of distress? Maybe they’d end up running ghost tours, same as they did with places like Mary King’s Close, said to be home to the spirits of plague victims, or Greyfriars Kirkyard, where covenanters had perished.

He’d often thought of moving from Marchmont; had gone as far as quizzing a solicitor on a likely asking price. Two hundred K, he’d been told... probably not enough to buy even half a cancer ward, but with money like that in his pocket he could jack the job in on full pension and do some travelling.

Problem was, nowhere appealed. He’d be far more likely to piss it all away. Was this the fear that kept him working? The job was his whole life; over the years, he’d let it push aside everything else: family, friends, pastimes.

Which was why he was working now.

He walked up Chalmers Street, passing the new school, and crossed the road at the art college, heading down Lady Lawson Street. He didn’t know who Lady Lawson had been, but doubted she’d be impressed by the road named in her honour — and probably less so by the huddle of pubs and clubs adjoining it. Rebus was back in the pubic triangle. Not that much was happening. It was probably only seven or eight hours since some of the premises had closed for the night. People would be sleeping off Saturday’s excesses: dancers with the best pay packet of the week; owners like Stuart Bullen dreaming of their next expensive car; businessmen wondering how to explain that forthcoming credit card statement to their spouses...

The street had been cleaned, the neon turned off. Church bells in the distance. Just another Sunday.

A metal bar held the Nook’s doors closed, fixed by a heavy-duty padlock. Rebus came to a stop, hands in pockets, staring at the empty shop opposite. If there was no answer, he was prepared to walk the extra mile to Haymarket, drop in on Felix Storey at his hotel. He doubted they’d be at work this early. Wherever Stuart Bullen was, he wasn’t in the Nook. Despite which, Rebus crossed the road and rapped his knuckles against the shop window. He waited, looking to left and right. There was no one in the vicinity, no passing traffic, no heads at any of the windows above street level. He knocked again, then noticed a dark green van. It was parked kerbside, fifty feet further along. Rebus strolled towards it. Whoever had owned it originally, their name had been painted out, the shapes of the letters just about discernible beneath the paint-job. There was no one visible inside. Around the back, the windows had been painted over. Rebus remembered the surveillance van at Knoxland, Shug Davidson ensconced within. He took another look up and down the street, then pounded his fist on the van’s back doors, placing his face to one of the windows before walking away. He didn’t look back, but did pause as if to examine the small ads in a newsagent’s window.

‘You trying to endanger our operation?’ Felix Storey asked. Rebus turned. Storey stood with hands in pockets. He wore green combat trousers and an olive T-shirt.

‘Nice disguise,’ Rebus commented. ‘You must be keen.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Working a Sunday shift — the Nook doesn’t open till two.’

‘Doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.’

‘No, but the bolts on the door give a pretty big clue...’

Storey slid his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m after a favour actually.’

‘And you couldn’t just leave a message at my hotel?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Not my style, Felix.’ He studied the Immigration man’s clothing again. ‘So what are you supposed to be? Urban guerrilla or something?’

‘A clubber at repose,’ Storey admitted.

Rebus snorted. ‘Still... the van’s not a bad idea. I dare say the shop’s too risky of a daytime — people might spot someone sitting atop a stepladder.’ Rebus looked to left and right. ‘Shame the street’s so quiet: you stick out like a sore thumb.’

Storey just glowered. ‘And you thumping the van doors... that was supposed to look natural, was it?’

Rebus shrugged again. ‘It got your attention.’

‘That it did. So go ahead and ask your favour.’

‘Let’s do it over coffee.’ Rebus gestured with his head. ‘There’s a place not two minutes’ walk away.’ Storey thought for a moment, glancing towards the van. ‘I’m assuming you’ve got someone covering for you,’ Rebus said.

‘I just need to tell them...’

‘On you go then.’

Storey pointed down the street. ‘You walk on ahead, I’ll catch you up.’

Rebus nodded. He turned and started to leave, turned back to see that Storey was watching over his shoulder as he made his way to the van.

‘What do you want me to order?’ Rebus called.

‘Americano,’ the Immigration man called back. Then, when Rebus had turned to face the other way, he quickly opened the van doors and jumped in, closing them after him.

‘He wants a favour,’ he said to the person within.

‘I wonder what it is.’

‘I’m going with him to find out. Will you be all right here?’

‘Bored to tears, but I’ll manage somehow.’

‘I’ll be ten minutes at most...’ Storey broke off as the door was yanked open from outside. Rebus’s head appeared.

‘Hiya, Phyl,’ he said with a smile. ‘Want us to fetch you anything?’

Rebus felt better for knowing. Ever since he’d been clocked going into the Nook, he’d wondered who Storey’s source was. Had to be someone who knew him; knew Siobhan, too.

‘So Phyllida Hawes is working with you,’ he said as the two men sat down with their coffees. The café was on the corner of Lothian Road. They got the table only because a couple were leaving as they arrived. People were immersed in reading: newspapers and books. A woman nursed a small baby as she sipped from her mug. Storey busied himself peeling open the sandwich he’d bought.

‘It’s none of your business,’ he growled, working hard at keeping his voice low, not wanting to be overheard. Rebus was trying to place the background music: sixties-style, California-style. He doubted very much it was original; plenty of bands out there trying to sound like the past.

‘None of my business,’ Rebus agreed.

Storey slurped from his mug, wincing at the near-molten temperature. He bit into the refrigerated sandwich to ease the shock.

‘Making any headway?’ Rebus was asking.

‘Some,’ Storey said through a mouthful of lettuce.

‘But nothing you’d care to share?’ Rebus blew across the surface of his own mug: he’d been here before, knew the contents would be super-heated.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m thinking this whole operation of yours must be costing a fortune. If I was blowing money like that on a surveillance, I’d be sweating a result.’

‘Do I look like I’m sweating?’

‘That’s what interests me. Someone somewhere is either desperate for a conviction, or else scarily confident of getting one.’ Storey was ready with a comeback, but Rebus held up a hand. ‘I know, I know... it’s none of my business.’

‘And that’s the way it’s going to stay.’

‘Scout’s honour.’ Rebus raised three fingers in mock-salute. ‘Which brings me to my favour...’

‘A favour I’m not inclined to help with.’

‘Not even in a spirit of cross-border cooperation?’

Storey pretended to be interested only in his sandwich, flecks of which he was brushing from his trousers.

‘You suit those combats, by the way,’ Rebus flattered him. Finally, this produced the ghost of a smile.

‘Ask your favour,’ the Immigration man said.

‘The murder I’m working on... the one in Knoxland.’

‘What of it?’

‘Looks like there was a girlfriend, and I’ve got word she’s from Senegal.’

‘So?’

‘So I’d like to find her.’

‘Do you have a name?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t even know if she’s here legally.’ He paused. ‘That’s where I thought you could help.’

‘Help how?’

‘The Immigration Service must know how many Senegalese there are in the UK. If they’re here legally, you’ll know how many of them live in Scotland...’

‘I think, Inspector, you may be mistaking us for a fascist state.’

‘You’re telling me you don’t keep records?’

‘Oh, there are records all right, but only of registered migrants. They wouldn’t show up an illegal, or even a refugee.’

‘The thing is, if she’s here illegally, she’d probably try to find other people from her home country. They’d be most likely to help her, and those are the ones you’d have records of.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but all the same...’

‘You’ve got better things to occupy your time?’

Storey took a tentative sip of his drink, brushed the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not even sure the information exists, not in a form you’d find useful.’

‘Right now I’d settle for anything.’

‘You think this girlfriend is involved in the murder?’

‘I think she’s running scared.’

‘Because she knows something?’

‘I won’t know that until I ask her.’

The Immigration man went quiet, making milky circles on the tabletop with the bottom of his mug. Rebus bided his time, watched the world outside the window. People were heading down to Princes Street; maybe with shopping in mind. There was a queue now at the counter, people looking around for a table they could share. There was a spare chair between Rebus and Storey, which he hoped no one would ask to use: refusal could often offend...

‘I can authorise an initial search of the database,’ Storey said at last.

‘That would be great.’

‘I’m not promising anything, mind.’

Rebus nodded his understanding.

‘Have you tried students?’ Storey added.

‘Students?’

‘Overseas students. There may be some around town from Senegal.’

‘That’s a thought,’ Rebus said.

‘Glad to be of service.’ The two men sat in silence until their drinks were finished. Afterwards, Rebus said he’d walk back to the van with Storey. He asked how Stuart Bullen had first appeared on Immigration’s radar.

‘I thought I already told you.’

‘My memory’s not what it was,’ Rebus apologised.

‘It was a tip-off — anonymous. That’s how it often starts: they want to stay anonymous until we get a result. After that, they want paying.’

‘So what was the tip-off?’

‘Just that Bullen’s dirty. People-smuggling.’

‘And you set this whole thing in motion on the evidence of one phone call?’

‘This same tipster, he’s come good before — a cargo of illegals coming into Dover in the back of a lorry.’

‘I thought you had all this high-tech stuff at the ports these days.’

Storey nodded. ‘We do. Sensors that can pick up body-heat... electronic sniffer dogs...’

‘So you’d have picked these illegals up anyway?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Storey stopped and faced Rebus. ‘What exactly is it you’re implying, Inspector?’

‘Nothing at all. What is it you think I’m implying?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Storey echoed. But his eyes gave the lie to his words.

That evening, Rebus sat by his window with the telephone in his hand, telling himself there was still time for Caro to call. He’d gone through his record collection, pulling out albums he hadn’t played in years: Montrose, Blue Oyster Cult, Rush, Alex Harvey... None of them lasted more than a couple of tracks until he reached Goat’s Head Soup. It was a stew of sounds, ideas stirred into the pot with only half the ingredients improving the flavour. Still, it was better — more melancholy — than he remembered. Ian Stewart played on a couple of tracks. Poor Stu, who’d grown up not far from Rebus in Fife and been a fully fledged member of the Stones until the manager decided he didn’t have the right image, the band keeping him around for sessions and touring.

Stu hanging in there, even though his face didn’t fit.

Rebus could sympathise.