Fleshmarket Close

22

Monday morning, Banehall Library. Beakers of instant coffee, sugar doughnuts from a bakery. Les Young was wearing a three-button grey suit, white shirt, dark blue tie. There was a faint aroma of shoe polish. His team sat at desks and on desks, some scratching at bleary faces; others sucking on the bitter coffee as though it were elixir. There were posters on the walls advertising children’s authors: Michael Morpurgo; Francesca Simon; Eoin Colfer. Another poster depicted a cartoon hero called Captain Underpants, and for some reason this had become Young’s nickname, Siobhan overhearing an exchange to that effect. She didn’t think he would be flattered.

Having somehow run out of sensible trousers, Siobhan was wearing a skirt and tights — a rare outfit for her. The skirt came to her knees, but she kept tugging at it in the hope that it might magically transform into something a few inches longer. She’d no idea whether her legs were ‘good’ or ‘bad’ — she just didn’t like the idea that people were studying them, maybe even judging her by them. Moreover, she knew that before the end of the day the tights would have contrived to ladder themselves. As a precaution, she’d stuffed a second pair into her bag.

Laundry had failed to be part of her weekend. She’d driven to Dundee on Saturday, spending the day with Liz Hetherington, the two of them swapping work stories as they sat in a wine bar, then hitting a restaurant, the flicks, and a couple of clubs, Siobhan sleeping on Liz’s sofa, then driving home again in the afternoon, still groggy.

She was now on her third cup of coffee.

One reason she’d gone to Dundee was to escape Edinburgh and the possibility that she might bump into or be cornered by Rebus. She hadn’t been so drunk on Friday night; didn’t regret the stance she’d taken or the ensuing shouting-match. It was bar-room politics, that was all. But even so, she doubted Rebus would have forgotten, and she knew whose side he’d be on. She was conscious, too, that Whitemire was less than two miles away, and that Caro Quinn was probably back on sentry duty there, struggling to become the conscience of the place.

Sunday night she’d drifted into the city centre, climbing Cockburn Street, passing through Fleshmarket Close. On the High Street, a group of tourists had huddled around their guide, Siobhan recognising her by her hair and voice — Judith Lennox.

‘... in Knox’s day, of course, rules were much stricter. You could be punished for plucking a chicken on the Sabbath. No dancing, no theatre or gambling. Adultery carried a death sentence, while lesser crimes could be punished by the likes of the branks. This was a padlocked helmet which forced a metal bar into the mouth of liars and blasphemers... At the end of the tour, there’ll be a chance for you to enjoy a drink in the Warlock, a traditional inn celebrating the grisly end of Major Weir...’

Siobhan had wondered whether Lennox was being paid for her endorsement.

‘... and in conclusion,’ Les Young was saying now, ‘blunt trauma’s what we’re looking at. A couple of good whacks, fracturing the skull and causing bleeding in the brain-pan. Death almost certainly instantaneous...’ He was reading from the autopsy notes. ‘And according to the pathologist, circular indentations would indicate that something like an everyday hammer was used... sort of thing you’d find in DIY stores, diameter of two-point-nine centimetres.’

‘What about the force of the blow, sir?’ one of the team asked.

Young gave a wry smile. ‘The notes are a bit coy, but reading between the lines I think we can safely say we’re dealing with a male attacker... and more likely to be right- than left-handed. The pattern of the indents makes it look as though the victim was struck from behind.’ Young walked over to where a room-divider had become a makeshift noticeboard, crime-scene photos pinned to it. ‘We’ll be getting close-ups from the autopsy later today.’ He was pointing to a photo from Cruikshank’s bedroom, the head helmeted in blood. ‘It was the back of the skull that took most damage... that’s hard to do if you’re standing in front of the person you’re attacking.’

‘It definitely happened in the bedroom?’ someone else asked. ‘He wasn’t moved afterwards?’

‘He died where he fell, best as we can tell.’ Young looked around the room. ‘Any more questions?’ There were none. ‘Right then...’ He turned to a roster of the day’s workload, started assigning tasks. The focus seemed to be on Cruikshank’s porn collection, its provenance and who might have been party to it. Officers were being sent to Barlinnie to ask the warders about any friends Cruikshank had made while serving his sentence. Siobhan knew that sex offenders were kept in a separate wing from other prisoners. This stopped them being attacked on a daily basis, but also meant that they tended to form friendships with each other, which only made matters worse on release: a lone offender might be introduced to a whole network of similar-minded individuals, completing a circle which led to further offending and future brushes with the law.

‘Siobhan?’ She focused her eyes on Young, realising he’d been speaking to her.

‘Yes?’ She looked down, saw her cup was once again empty, craved another refill.

‘Did you get round to interviewing Ishbel Jardine’s boyfriend?’

‘You mean her ex?’ Siobhan cleared her throat. ‘No, not yet.’

‘You didn’t think he might know something?’

‘They’d split amicably.’

‘Yes, but all the same...’

Siobhan could feel her face reddening. Yes, she’d been too preoccupied elsewhere, concentrating her efforts on Donny Cruikshank.

‘He was on my list,’ was all she could think to say.

‘Well, would you like to see him now?’ Young checked his watch. ‘I’m due to talk to him as soon as we’re finished here.’

Siobhan nodded her agreement. She could feel eyes on her, knew there were some ill-disguised grins around the room, too. In the team’s collective mind, she and Young were already linked, the DI smitten with this interloper.

Captain Underpants now had a sidekick.

‘Roy Brinkley’s his name,’ Young told her. ‘All I know is, he dated Ishbel for seven or eight months, then a couple of months back they split up.’ They were alone in the murder room, the others having set out with their assignments.

‘You see him as a suspect?’

‘There’s a link there we need to ask him about. Cruikshank does time for attacking Tracy Jardine... Tracy tops herself and her sister does a runner...’ Young gave a shrug, arms folded.

‘But he was Ishbel’s boyfriend, not Tracy’s... surely if anyone was going to have a go at Cruikshank, it’s more likely to’ve been one of Tracy’s boyfriends than one of Ishbel’s...’ Siobhan broke off, fixing her eyes on Young’s. ‘But then Roy Brinkley’s not the suspect, is he? You’re wondering what he knows about Ishbel’s disappearance... You think she did it!’

‘I don’t recall saying that.’

‘But it’s what you’re thinking. Didn’t I just hear you say the blows came from a man?’

‘And you’ll keep hearing me saying that.’

Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘Because you don’t want her to know. You’re scared she’d become even more invisible.’ Siobhan paused. ‘You think she’s close, don’t you?’

‘I’ve no proof of it.’

‘Is this what you’ve been doing all weekend, mulling it over?’

‘Actually, it came to me on Friday night.’ He unfolded his arms, started walking towards the door, Siobhan following.

‘While you were playing bridge?’

Young nodded. ‘Unfair on my partner — we hardly won a hand.’

They’d left the murder room now and were in the main library. Siobhan reminded him that he hadn’t locked the door.

‘Not necessary,’ he said, giving a half-smile.

‘I thought we were going to talk to Roy Brinkley.’

Young just nodded, making to pass the reception desk, where the morning’s first batch of returns were being run through a scanner by the male librarian. Siobhan had taken a few more steps before she realised Young had stopped. He was standing directly in front of the librarian.

‘Roy Brinkley?’ he said. The young man looked up.

‘That’s right.’

‘Any chance we could have a word?’ Young gestured towards the murder room.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing to worry about, Roy. We just need a little bit of background...’

As Brinkley emerged from behind his desk, Siobhan stepped up next to Les Young and poked him in the side with her finger.

‘Sorry,’ Young apologised to the librarian, ‘there’s nowhere else we can do this...’

He’d pulled out a chair for Brinkley. It gave a direct line of sight to the murder-scene photos. Siobhan knew he was lying; knew the interview was being conducted here because of those very photos. Try as he might to ignore them, the young man’s eyes were drawn towards them anyway. The look of horror on his face would have been defence enough in most juries’ minds.

Roy Brinkley was in his early twenties. He wore an open-necked denim shirt, his wavy mop of brown hair reaching the collar. There were thin threaded bracelets on his wrists, but no watch. Siobhan would have called him pretty rather than handsome. He could pass for seventeen or eighteen. She could see the attraction for Ishbel, but wondered how he had coped with her noisy ladette friends...

‘Did you know him?’ Young was asking. Neither detective was seated. Young leaned against a table, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. Siobhan stood at a distance to Brinkley’s left, so that he would be aware of her from the corner of his eye.

‘Didn’t so much know him as knew of him.’

‘Two of you at school together?’

‘But different years. He was never really a bully... more the class joker. I got the feeling he never found a way to fit in.’

Siobhan was reminded for a moment of Alf McAteer, playing jester for Alexis Cater.

‘But this is a small town, Roy,’ Young was protesting. ‘You must have known him to speak to, at the very least?’

‘If we happened to meet, I suppose we’d say hello.’

‘Maybe you always had your head in a book, eh?’

‘I like books...’

‘So what about you and Ishbel Jardine? How did that start?’

‘First time we met was at a club...’

‘You didn’t know her at school?’

Brinkley shrugged. ‘She was three years below me.’

‘So you met at this club and started going out?’

‘Not straight away... we had a few dances, but then I danced with her mates, too.’

‘And who were her mates, Roy?’ Siobhan asked. Brinkley looked from Young to Siobhan and back again.

‘I thought this was about Donny Cruikshank?’

Young made a noncommittal gesture. ‘Background, Roy,’ was all he said.

Brinkley turned to Siobhan. ‘There were two of them — Janet and Susie.’

‘Janet from Whitemire, Susie from the Salon?’ Siobhan clarified. The young man just nodded. ‘And which club was this?’

‘Somewhere in Falkirk... I think it closed down...’ He wrinkled his brow in concentration.

‘The Albatross?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘That’s the one, yes.’ Brinkley was nodding enthusiastically.

‘You know it?’ Les Young asked Siobhan.

‘It came up in connection with a recent case,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘Afterwards,’ she said in warning, nodding towards Brinkley, letting Young know this wasn’t the time. He twitched his head in agreement.

‘Ishbel and her friends were pretty close, weren’t they, Roy?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Sure.’

‘So why would she run off without so much as a word to them?’

He shrugged. ‘Have you asked them that?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘I don’t have an answer.’

‘Well, what about this then: why did the two of you split up?’

‘Just drifted apart, I suppose.’

‘Had to be a reason, though,’ Les Young added, taking a step towards Brinkley. ‘I mean, did she dump you or was it the other way round?’

‘It was more a mutual thing.’

‘Which is why you stayed friends?’ Siobhan guessed. ‘So what was your first thought when you heard she’d run off?’

He twisted in his chair, making it creak. ‘Her mum and dad turned up at my place, wanted to know if I’d seen her. To be honest...’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought it might be their fault. They never really got over Tracy’s suicide. Always talking about her, telling stories from the past.’

‘And Ishbel? Are you telling me she did get over it?’

‘She seemed to.’

‘So why did she dye her hair, style it so she looked more like Tracy?’

‘Look, I’m not saying they’re bad people...’ He squeezed his hands together.

‘Who? John and Alice?’

He nodded. ‘It’s just that Ishbel got the idea... the notion they really wanted Tracy back. I mean, Tracy rather than her.’

‘And that’s why she tried to look like Tracy?’

He nodded again. ‘I mean, it’s a lot to take on, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why she left...’ His head dropped disconsolately. Siobhan looked across to Les Young, whose lips formed a thoughtful pout. The silence lasted the best part of a minute, until broken by Siobhan.

‘Do you know where Ishbel is, Roy?’

‘No.’

‘Did you kill Donny Cruikshank?’

‘Part of me wishes I had.’

‘Who do you think did it? Has Ishbel’s dad crossed your mind?’

Brinkley raised his head. ‘Crossed my mind... yes. But only for a moment.’

She nodded as if in agreement.

Les Young had a question of his own. ‘Did you see Cruikshank after his release, Roy?’

‘I saw him.’

‘To speak to?’

He shook his head. ‘Saw him with a guy a couple of times, though.’

‘What guy?’

‘Must’ve been a mate of his.’

‘But you didn’t know him?’

‘No.’

‘Probably not local then.’

‘Might’ve been... I don’t know every single person in Banehall. Like you said yourself, too often I’ve got my head stuck in a book.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘You’ll know him if you see him,’ Brinkley said, half his mouth forming the beginnings of a smile.

‘How’s that then?’

‘Tattoo all across his neck.’ He touched his own throat to indicate the area. ‘A spider’s web...’

Not wanting to be overheard by Roy Brinkley, they sat in Siobhan’s car.

‘Spider’s-web tattoo,’ she commented.

‘Not the first time it’s come up,’ Les Young informed her. ‘One of the drinkers at the Bane mentioned it. Barman admitted he’d served the guy once, didn’t like the look of him.’

‘No name?’

Young shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we’ll get one.’

‘Someone he met in jail?’

Young didn’t answer; he had a question for her. ‘So what’s this about the Albatross?’

‘Don’t tell me you know the place too?’

‘When I was a teenager in Livingston, if you didn’t go to Lothian Road for your kicks, you might get lucky at the Albatross.’

‘It had a reputation then?’

‘A bad sound system, watered beer and sticky dance floor.’

‘But people still went?’

‘For a while it was the only game in town... some nights, there were more women there than men — women old enough to’ve known better.’

‘So it was a knocking-shop?’

He shrugged. ‘I never got the chance to find out.’

‘Too busy playing bridge,’ she teased.

He ignored this. ‘But I’m intrigued that you know about it.’

‘Did you read in the paper about those skeletons?’

He smiled. ‘I didn’t need to: plenty of gossip flying around the station. It’s not often Dr Curt screws up.’

‘He didn’t screw up.’ She paused. ‘And even if he did, they fooled me too.’

‘How so?’

‘I covered the baby with my jacket.’

‘The plastic baby?’

‘Half covered in earth and cement...’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I still don’t see the connection.’

‘It’s thin,’ she agreed. ‘The man who runs the pub, he used to own the Albatross.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But you’ll talk to him again, in case he knew Ishbel?’

‘Might do.’

Young sighed. ‘Leaving us with the tattooed man and not much else.’

‘It’s more than we had an hour ago.’

‘I suppose so.’ He stared out across the car park. ‘How come Banehall doesn’t have a decent café?’

‘We could nip up the M8 to Harthill.’

‘Why? What’s at Harthill?’

‘Motorway services.’

‘I did say decent, didn’t I?’

‘Just a suggestion...’ Siobhan decided to stare out through the windscreen too.

‘All right then,’ Young eventually conceded. ‘You drive, and the drinks are on me.’

‘Deal,’ she said, starting the car.

23

Rebus was back at George Square, standing outside Dr Maybury’s office. He could hear voices within, which didn’t stop him knocking.

‘Enter!’

He opened the door and peered in. It was a tutorial, eight sleepy-looking faces arranged around the table. He smiled at Maybury. ‘Mind if I speak to you for a minute?’

She let her spectacles slip from her nose, to dangle from a cord just above her chest. Stood up without saying anything, managed to squeeze through what gaps there were between chairs and wall. She closed the door behind her and exhaled loudly.

‘I’m really sorry to bother you again,’ Rebus began to apologise.

‘No, it’s not that.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘Bit of a dippy group?’

‘I’ll never know why we bother to hold tutorials this early on a Monday.’ She stretched her neck to left and right. ‘Sorry — not your problem. Any luck tracing the woman from Senegal?’

‘Well, that’s why I’m here...’

‘Yes?’

‘Our latest theory is that she might know some of the students.’ Rebus paused. ‘Actually, she could even be a student.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, what I was wondering was... how do I go about finding out for sure? I know it’s not your territory, but if you could point me in the right direction...’

Maybury thought for a moment. ‘Registry office would be your best bet.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Old College.’

‘Opposite Thin’s Bookshop?’

She smiled. ‘Been a while since you bought any books, Inspector? Thin’s went bust; it’s run by Blackwell’s now.’

‘But that’s where Old College is?’

She nodded. ‘Sorry for the pedantry.’

‘Will they talk to me, do you think?’

‘The only people they ever see down there are students who’ve lost their matric cards. You’ll be like some exotic new species to them. Walk across Bristo Square and take the underpass. You can get into Old College from West College Street.’

‘I think I knew that, but thanks anyway.’

‘You know what I’m doing?’ she seemed to realise. ‘I’m yacking away to postpone the inevitable.’ She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Forty minutes still to go...’

Rebus made a show of listening at the door. ‘Sounds like they’ve dropped off anyway. Be a shame to wake them.’

‘Linguistics waits for no man, Inspector,’ Maybury said, stiffening her spine. ‘Once more unto the fray.’ She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Disappeared inside.

As he walked, Rebus called Whitemire and asked to be put through to Traynor.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Traynor’s not available.’

‘Is that you, Janet?’ There was silence for a moment.

‘Speaking,’ Janet Eylot said.

‘Janet, it’s DI Rebus here. Look, I’m sorry you’ve had my colleagues bothering you. If I can help at all, just let me know.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘So what’s up with your boss? Don’t tell me he’s off with stress.’

‘He just doesn’t want any interruptions this morning.’

‘Fine, but can you try him for me? Tell him I wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

She took her time replying. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. A few moments later, Traynor picked up.

‘Look, I’m up to my eyes...’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Rebus sympathised. ‘I was just wondering if you’d run those checks for me.’

‘What checks?’

‘Kurds and French-speaking Africans, bailed from Whitemire.’

Traynor sighed. ‘There aren’t any.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. Now, was that all you were wanting?’

‘For now,’ Rebus said. The call was disconnected before the final word had died away. Rebus stared at his mobile, decided it wasn’t worth making a nuisance of himself. He had his answer after all.

He just wasn’t sure he believed it.

‘Highly unusual,’ the woman at the registry said, not for the first time. She had led Rebus across the quadrangle to another set of offices in Old College. Rebus seemed to remember that this had once been the medical faculty, a place where grave-robbers brought their wares to sell to inquisitive surgeons. And hadn’t the serial killer William Burke been dissected here after his hanging? He made the mistake of asking his guide. She peered at him over her half-moon glasses. If she thought him exotic, she was hiding it well.

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ she trilled. Her walk was brisk, feet kept close together. Rebus reckoned she was around the same age as him, but it was hard to imagine her ever having been younger. ‘Highly irregular,’ she said now, as if to herself, stretching her vocabulary.

‘Any help you can give would be appreciated.’ It was the same line he’d used during their initial conversation. She’d listened closely, then made a call to someone higher up the admin ladder. Assent had been given, but with a caution — personal data was a confidential matter. There would need to be a written request, a discussion, a good reason for the handing over of any information.

Rebus had agreed to all of this, adding that it would be irrelevant should there turn out to be no Senegalese students registered at the university.

As a result of which, Mrs Scrimgour was going to make a search of the database.

‘You could have waited in the office, you know,’ she said now. Rebus just nodded as they turned into an open doorway. A younger woman was working at a computer. ‘I’ll need to relieve you, Nancy,’ Mrs Scrimgour said, managing to make it sound like admonishment rather than request. Nancy almost tipped over the chair in her rush to comply. Mrs Scrimgour nodded to the other side of the desk, meaning for Rebus to stand there, where he couldn’t see the screen. He complied up to a point, leaning forward so his elbows rested against the edge of the desk, eyes at a level with Mrs Scrimgour’s own. She frowned at this, but Rebus just smiled.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

She was tapping keys. ‘Africa’s divided into five zones,’ she informed him.

‘Senegal’s in the north-west.’

She peered at him. ‘North or west?’

‘One or the other,’ he said with a shrug. She gave a little sniff and kept typing, eventually pausing with her hand on the mouse.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we do have one student from Senegal... so that’s that.’

‘But I’m not allowed to know name and whereabouts?’

‘Not without the procedures we discussed.’

‘Which just end up taking more time.’

‘Proper procedures,’ she intoned, ‘as laid down by law, if you need reminding.’

Rebus nodded slowly. His face had inched closer to hers. She pulled back in her seat.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think that’s as much as we can do today.’

‘And it’s unlikely that you’d absent-mindedly leave the screen showing when you walked away...?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that, Inspector.’ Saying which, she clicked twice with the mouse. Rebus knew that the information had disappeared, but that was all right. He’d seen just about enough from the reflection in her lenses. A smiling photo of a young woman with dark curly hair. He was pretty sure her name was Kawake, with an address at the university’s halls of residence on Dalkeith Road.

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he told Mrs Scrimgour.

She tried not to look too disappointed at this news.

Pollock Halls was sited at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, on the edge of Holyrood Park. A sprawling, maze-like compound which mixed old architecture with new, crow-stepped gables and turrets with boxy modernity. Rebus stopped his car at the gatehouse, getting out to meet the uniformed guard.

‘Hiya, John,’ the man said.

‘You’re looking well, Andy,’ Rebus offered, shaking the proffered hand.

Andy Edmunds had been a police constable from the age of eighteen, meaning he’d been able to retire on a full pension while still well shy of his fiftieth birthday. The guard’s job was part-time, a way of filling some of the hours in the day. The two men had been useful to one another in the past: Andy feeding Rebus info on any dealers attempting to sell to the students at Pollock; Andy feeling still part of the force as a result.

‘What brings you here?’ he asked now.

‘A bit of a favour. I’ve got a name — could be her first or last — and I know this is her most recent address.’

‘What’s she done?’

Rebus looked around, as if to emphasise the importance of what he was about to say. Edmunds took the bait, moved a step closer.

‘That murder at Knoxland,’ Rebus said under his breath. ‘There may be a tie-in.’ He placed his finger to his mouth, Edmunds nodding his understanding.

‘What’s said to me stays with me, John, you know that.’

‘I know, Andy. So... is there any way we can track her down?’

The ‘we’ seemed to galvanise Edmunds. He retreated to his glass box and made a call, then returned to Rebus. ‘We’ll go talk to Maureen,’ he said. Then he winked. ‘Wee thing going on between the two of us, but she’s married...’ It was his turn to place a finger to his mouth.

Rebus just nodded. He had shared a confidence with Edmunds, so a confidence had to be traded in return. Together, they walked the ten yards or so to the main admin building. This was the oldest structure on the site, built in the Scots baronial style, the interior dominated by a vast wooden staircase, the walls panelled with more slabs of dark-stained wood. Maureen’s office was on the ground floor, boasting an ornate green marble fireplace and a panelled ceiling. She wasn’t quite what Rebus had been expecting — small and plump, almost mousy. Hard to imagine her carrying on an illicit affair with a man in uniform. Edmunds was staring at Rebus, as though seeking some sort of appraisal. Rebus raised an eyebrow and gave a little nod, which seemed to satisfy the ex-cop.

Having shaken Maureen’s hand, Rebus spelled the name for her. ‘I might have the odd letter in the wrong place,’ he cautioned.

‘Kawame Mana,’ Maureen corrected him. ‘I’ve got her here.’ Her screen was showing the identical information to Mrs Scrimgour’s. ‘She’s got a room in Fergusson Hall... studying psychology.’

Rebus had flipped open his notebook. ‘Date of birth?’

Maureen tapped the screen and Rebus jotted down what was printed there. Kawame was a second-year student, aged twenty.

‘Calls herself Kate,’ Maureen added. ‘Room two-ten.’

Rebus turned to Andy Edmunds, who was already nodding. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.

The narrow, cream-coloured corridor was quieter than Rebus had expected.

‘Nobody playing hip-hop full blast?’ he queried. Edmunds snorted.

‘They’ve all got earphones these days, John, shuts them right away from the world.’

‘So even if we knock, she won’t hear us?’

‘Time to find out.’ They paused at the door marked 210. It boasted stickers of flowers and smiley faces, plus the name Kate picked out in tiny silver stars. Rebus made a fist and gave three hard thumps. The door across the corridor opened a fraction, male eyes gazing at them. The door closed again quickly and Edmunds made a show of sniffing the air.

‘One hundred per cent herbal,’ he said. Rebus’s mouth twitched.

When there was still no answer at the second attempt, he kicked the other door, causing it to rattle in its frame. By the time it opened, he already had his warrant card out. He reached forward and plucked at the tiny earphones, dislodging them. The student was in his late teens, dressed in baggy green combats and a shrunken grey T-shirt. A breeze was coming from a just-opened window.

‘What’s up?’ the boy asked in a lazy drawl.

‘You are, by the look of things.’ Rebus walked to the window and angled his head out. A thin wisp of smoke was coming from the bush immediately below. ‘Hope there wasn’t too much of it left.’

‘Too much of what?’ The voice was educated, Home Counties.

‘Whatever it is you call it — draw, blaw, wacky baccy, weed...’ Rebus smiled. ‘But the last thing I want to do is go back downstairs, retrieve the spliff, check the saliva on the cigarette papers for DNA, and come all the way back up here to arrest you.’

‘Didn’t you hear? Grass has been decriminalised.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Downgraded — there’s a difference. Still, you’ll be allowed a phone call to your parents — that’s one law they’ve yet to tinker with.’ He looked around the room: single bed, with a rumpled duvet on the floor beside it; shelves of books; a laptop computer on a desk. Posters advertising drama productions.

‘You like the theatre?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ve done a bit of acting — student productions.’

Rebus nodded. ‘You know Kate?’

‘Yeah.’ The student was switching off the machine attached to the earphones. Siobhan, Rebus guessed, would know what it was. All he could tell was that it was too small to play CDs.

‘Know where we could find her?’

‘What’s she done?’

‘She hasn’t done anything; we just need a word.’

‘She’s not here much... probably in the library.’

‘John...’ This from Edmunds, who was holding open the door, allowing a view of the corridor. A dark-skinned young woman, her tightly curled hair held back in a band, was unlocking the door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, curious about the scene in her neighbour’s room.

‘Kate?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Yes. What is the matter?’ Her accent gave each syllable equal stress.

‘I’m a police officer, Kate.’ Rebus had stepped into the corridor. Edmunds let the door swing shut on the male student, dismissing him. ‘Mind if we have a word?’

‘My God, is it my family?’ Her already wide eyes grew wider still. ‘Has something happened to them?’ The satchel slid from her shoulder to the ground.

‘It’s nothing to do with your family,’ Rebus assured her.

‘Then what...? I do not understand.’

Rebus reached into his pocket, produced the tape in its little clear box. He gave it a rattle. ‘Got a cassette player?’ he asked.

When the tape had finished playing, she raised her eyes towards his.

‘Why do you make me listen to this?’ she asked, voice trembling.

Rebus was standing against the wardrobe, hands behind his back. He’d asked Andy Edmunds to wait outside, which hadn’t pleased the security man. Partly, Rebus hadn’t wanted him to hear — this was a police inquiry, and Edmunds was no longer a cop, whatever he might like to think. Partly also — and this was the argument Rebus would use to Edmunds’s face — there simply wasn’t room for the three of them. Rebus didn’t want to make things any less comfortable for Kate. The cassette radio sat on her desk. Rebus leaned towards it, hitting ‘stop’ and then ‘rewind’.

‘Want to hear it again?’

‘I do not see what it is you want me to do.’

‘We think she’s from Senegal, the woman on the tape.’

‘From Senegal?’ Kate pursed her lips. ‘I suppose it is possible... Who told you such a thing?’

‘Someone in the linguistics department.’ Rebus ejected the tape. ‘Are there many Senegalese in Edinburgh?’

‘I’m the only one I know of.’ Kate stared at the cassette. ‘What has this woman done?’

Rebus was making a show of perusing her collection of CDs. There was a whole rack of them, plus further teetering piles on the windowledge. ‘You like your music, Kate.’

‘I like to dance.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I can see that.’ In fact, what he could see were the names of bands and performers completely unknown to him. He straightened up. ‘You don’t know anyone else from Senegal?’

‘I know there are some in Glasgow... What has she done?’

‘Just what you heard on the tape — made an emergency call. Someone she knew was murdered, and now we need to talk to her.’

‘Because you think she did it?’

‘You’re the psychologist here — what do you think?’

‘If she had killed him, why would she then make the call to police?’

Rebus nodded. ‘That’s pretty well what we think. All the same, she may have information.’ Rebus had taken note of everything, from Kate’s array of jewellery to the new-smelling leather satchel. He looked around for photos of the parents he presumed were paying for it all. ‘Family back in Senegal, Kate?’

‘Yes, in Dakar.’

‘That’s where the rally finishes, right?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And your family... you keep in touch with them?’

‘No.’

‘Oh? So you’re supporting yourself?’ She glared at him.

‘Sorry... nosiness is a hazard of the job. How are you liking Scotland?’

‘It’s a much colder place than Senegal.’

‘I’d imagine it is.’

‘I am not talking about the climate merely.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘So you can’t help me then, Kate?’

‘I am truly sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’ He placed a business card on the desk. ‘But if a stranger from home should suddenly cross your path...’

‘I will be sure to tell you.’ She’d risen from the bed, apparently eager to see him on his way.

‘Well, thanks again.’ Rebus stretched a hand towards her. When she took it, her own was cold and clammy. And as the door closed behind him, Rebus wondered about the look in her eyes, a look very much of relief.

Edmunds was sitting on the topmost stair, arms wrapped around his knees. Rebus apologised, giving his explanation. Edmunds didn’t say anything till they were back outside, making for the barrier and Rebus’s car. Eventually, he turned to Rebus.

‘Is that right, about DNA from cigarette papers?’

‘How the hell should I know, Andy? But it put the fear of God into that wee toerag, and that’s all that matters.’

The porn had gone to Divisional HQ in Livingston. There were three other women officers in the viewing room, and Siobhan saw that this made it an uncomfortable experience for the dozen or so men. The only available TV had an eighteen-inch screen, meaning they’d to cluster round it. The men stayed tight-lipped for the most part, or chewed on their pens, keeping jokes to a minimum. Les Young spent most of his time pacing the floor behind them, arms folded, peering down at his shoes, as if wanting to dissociate himself from the whole enterprise.

Some of the films were commercially made, bought in from America and the Continent. One was in German, another Japanese, the latter featuring school uniforms and girls who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen.

‘Kiddie porn,’ was one officer’s comment. He would ask for an occasional freeze-frame, using a digital camera to take a photo of the relevant face.

One of the DVDs was badly filmed and edited. It showed a suburban living room. One couple on the green leather sofa, another on the shag-pile carpet. Another woman, darker-skinned, crouched topless by the electric fire, appearing to masturbate as she watched. The camera was all over the place. At one point, the cameraman’s hand came into shot so he could squeeze one woman’s breast. The soundtrack, which until then had been a series of mumbles, grunts and wheezings, picked up his question.

‘All right there, big man?’

‘Sounds local,’ one of the officers commented.

‘Digital camera and some computer software,’ someone else added. ‘Anyone can direct their own porn film these days.’

‘Happily, not everyone would want to,’ a woman officer qualified.

‘Wait a second,’ Siobhan interrupted. ‘Go back a bit, will you?’

The officer holding the remote obliged, freezing the frame and backtracking moment by moment.

‘Is this you looking for tips, Siobhan?’ one of the men asked, to a few snorts.

‘That’s enough, Rod,’ Les Young called out.

An officer near Siobhan leaned in towards his neighbour. ‘That’s exactly what the woman on the rug just said,’ he whispered.

This produced another snort, but Siobhan’s mind was on the TV screen. ‘Freeze it there,’ she said. ‘What’s that on the back of the cameraman’s hand?’

‘Birthmark?’ someone guessed, angling their head for a better view.

‘Tattoo,’ one of the women offered. Siobhan nodded agreement. She slid from her chair, getting even closer to the screen. ‘I’d say if it’s anything, it’s a spider.’ She looked up at Les Young.

‘A spider tattoo,’ he said softly.

‘With maybe the web on his neck?’

‘Meaning the victim’s friend makes porn films.’

‘We need to know who he is.’

Les Young looked around the room. ‘Who’s in charge of finding us names for Cruikshank’s known associates?’

The team shared looks and shrugs, until one of the women cleared her throat and offered an answer.

‘DC Maxton, sir.’

‘And where is he?’

‘I think he said he was headed back to Barlinnie.’ Meaning he was checking for prisoners who’d been close to Cruikshank.

‘Call him and tell him about the tattoos,’ Young ordered. The officer walked over to a desk and picked up a phone. Siobhan meantime was on her mobile. She’d moved away from the TV, was standing next to the curtained window.

‘Can I speak to Roy Brinkley, please?’ She caught Young’s eye and he nodded, realising what she was doing. ‘Roy? DS Clarke here... Listen, this friend of Donny Cruikshank’s, the one with the spider’s web... you didn’t happen to notice any other tattoos on him?’ She listened, broke into a grin. ‘On the back of his hand? Okay, thanks for that. I’ll let you get back to your books.’

She ended the call. ‘Spider tattoo on the back of his hand.’

‘Nice work, Siobhan.’

There were a few resentful glances at this. Siobhan ignored them. ‘Doesn’t get us any further until we know who he is.’

Young seemed to agree. The officer in charge of the remote was running the film again.

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ he said. ‘If this guy’s as hands-on as he looks, he might pass the camera to somebody else.’

They sat down again to watch. Something was niggling Siobhan, but she couldn’t say what. Then the camera panned round from the sofa to the crouching woman, only she was no longer crouching. She’d risen to her feet. There was some music in the background. It wasn’t a soundtrack, but actually playing in the living room as the filming happened. The woman was dancing to this music, seeming lost in it, oblivious to the other choreographies around her.

‘I’ve seen her before,’ Siobhan said quietly. From the corner of her eye she could see one of the team rolling his eyes in disbelief.

Here she was again: Captain Underpants’s sidekick, showing them all up.

Live with it, she wanted to tell them. But instead, she turned to Young, who looked as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. ‘I think I saw her dancing once.’

‘Where?’

Siobhan looked at the team, then back towards Young. ‘A place called the Nook.’

‘The lap-dancing bar?’ one of the men said, eliciting laughter and jabbed fingers. ‘It was a stag,’ he tried explaining.

‘So did you pass the audition?’ one of the others was asking Siobhan, to even more laughter.

‘You’re behaving like schoolkids,’ Les Young snapped. ‘Either grow up or ship out.’ He hooked a thumb towards the door. Then, to Siobhan: ‘When was this?’

‘A few days back. In connection with Ishbel Jardine.’ She had the full attention of the room now. ‘We had information she might’ve ended up working there.’

‘And?’

Siobhan shook her head. ‘No sign of her. But...’ pointing towards the TV, ‘I’m fairly sure she was there, doing much the same dance she’s doing right now.’ On the screen, one of the men, naked apart from his socks, was approaching the dancer. He pressed his hands to her shoulders, trying to push her to her knees, but she twisted free and kept on dancing, eyes closed. The man looked to the camera and shrugged. Now the camera was jerked downwards, the focus blurring. When it came up again, someone new had entered the frame.

Shaven-headed, his facial scars more prominent on film than in real life.

Donny Cruikshank.

He was fully dressed, a grin spreading across his face, can of lager in one hand.

‘Gie’s the camera,’ he said, holding out his free hand.

‘Know how to use it?’

‘Get away, Mark. If you can do it, I can do it.’

‘Cheers, Donny,’ said one of the officers, scribbling the name ‘Mark’ into his notebook.

The discussion continued, the camera eventually changing hands. And now Donny Cruikshank swung the camera up to capture his friend. The hand went up too slowly to cover the face from identification. Without needing to be told, the officer with the remote tracked back and froze the frame. His colleague with the digital camera raised it to his face.

On the screen: a huge shaved head, the dome shiny with sweat. Studs in both ears and through the nose, a nick in one of the thick black eyebrows, one central tooth missing from the protesting mouth.

And the spider’s-web tattoo, of course, covering the whole of the neck...

24

From Pollock Halls, it was a short drive to Gayfield Square. There was only one other body in the CID office, and it belonged to Phyllida Hawes, whose face started to redden the moment Rebus walked in.

‘Grassed up any good colleagues lately, DC Hawes?’

‘Look, John...’

Rebus laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it, Phyl. You did what you felt you had to.’ Rebus rested against the edge of her desk. ‘When Storey came to see me, he said he thought I was on the level because he knew my reputation — I’m guessing I’ve got you to thank for that.’

‘All the same, I should have warned you.’ She sounded relieved, and Rebus realised she’d been dreading this encounter.

‘I’m not going to hold it against you.’ Rebus stood up and made for the kettle. ‘Can I make you one?’

‘Please... thanks.’

Rebus spooned coffee into the only two clean mugs left. ‘So,’ he asked casually, ‘who introduced you to Storey?’

‘It came down the line: Fettes HQ to DCI Macrae.’

‘And Macrae decided you were the woman for the job?’ Rebus nodded, as if in agreement with the choice.

‘I wasn’t to tell anyone,’ Hawes added.

Rebus waved the spoon at her. ‘I can’t remember... do you take milk and sugar?’

She tried a thin smile. ‘It’s not that you’ve forgotten.’

‘What then?’

‘This is the first time you’ve offered.’

Rebus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re probably right. First time for everything, eh?’

She’d risen from her chair and come part of the way towards him. ‘I just take milk, by the way.’

‘Duly noted.’ Rebus was sniffing the contents of a half-litre carton. ‘I’d make one for young Colin, but I’m guessing he’s down at Waverley, on the lookout for travelling sneak-thieves.’

‘Actually, he got called away.’ Hawes nodded towards the window. Rebus peered out at the car park. Uniforms were packing themselves into the available patrol cars, four or five to each vehicle.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Reinforcements needed at Cramond.’

‘Cramond?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. Sandwiched between a golf course and the River Almond, it was one of the city’s more douce neighbourhoods, with some of the most expensive homes. ‘Are the peasants revolting?’

Hawes had joined him at the window. ‘Something to do with illegal immigrants,’ she said. Rebus stared at her.

‘What exactly?’

She shrugged. Rebus took her arm and guided her back to her desk, lifted the telephone receiver and handed it to her. ‘Give your friend Felix a call,’ he said, making it sound like an order.

‘What for?’

Rebus just shook away the question and watched her punch the numbers.

‘His mobile?’ he guessed. She nodded, and he took the receiver from her. The call was picked up on the seventh ring.

‘Yes?’ The voice impatient.

‘Felix?’ Rebus said, his eyes on Phyllida Hawes. ‘It’s Rebus here.’

‘I’m a bit pushed right now.’ He sounded as if he was in a car, either driving or being driven at speed.

‘Just wondering how my search is coming along?’

‘Your search...?’

‘Senegalese living in Scotland. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’ Trying to sound hurt.

‘I’ve had other things on my mind, John. I’ll get to it eventually.’

‘So what’s been keeping you so busy? Is that you on your way to Cramond, Felix?’

There was silence on the line, Rebus’s face breaking into a grin.

‘Okay,’ Storey said slowly. ‘As far as I’m aware, I never got round to giving you this number... meaning you probably got it from DC Hawes, which in turn means you’re probably calling from Gayfield Square...’

‘And watching the cavalry ride out as we speak. So what’s the big deal at Cramond, Felix?’

More silence on the line, and then the words Rebus had been waiting for.

‘Maybe you’d best come along and find out...’

The car park wasn’t in Cramond itself, but a little way along the coast. People would stop there and take a winding path through grass and nettles towards the beach. It was a barren, windswept spot, probably never before as crowded as now. There were a dozen patrol cars and four marked vans, plus the powerful saloons favoured by Customs and Immigration. Felix Storey was gesticulating as he gave orders to the troops.

‘It’s only about fifty yards to the shore, but be warned — soon as they see us, they’ll start running. The saving grace is, there’s nowhere for them to run to, unless they plan to swim to Fife.’ There were smiles at this, but Storey held up a hand. ‘I’m serious. It’s happened before. That’s why the coastguard’s on stand-by.’ A walkie-talkie crackled into life. He held it to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’ Listened to what seemed to Rebus like a wash of static. ‘Over and out.’ He lowered the handset again. ‘That’s the two flanking teams in position. They’ll start moving in about thirty seconds, so let’s get going.’

He set off, making to pass Rebus, who had just given up trying to get a cigarette lit.

‘Another tip-off?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Same source.’ Storey kept walking, his men — DC Colin Tibbet included — behind him. Rebus started walking too, right by Storey’s shoulder.

‘So what’s happening then? Boats bringing illegals ashore?’

Storey glanced at him. ‘Cockling.’

‘Say again?’

‘Picking cockles. The gangs behind it use immigrants and asylum-seekers, pay them a pittance. The two Land Rovers back there...’ Rebus turned his head, saw the vehicles in question, parked in a corner of the car park. They both had small trailers attached to their tow-bars. A couple of uniforms stood guard beside each. ‘That’s how they bring them in. They sell the cockles to restaurants; some of them probably go overseas...’ At that moment they passed a sign warning them that any crustaceans found on the seashore were likely to be contaminated and unfit for human consumption. Storey gave Rebus another glance. ‘The restaurants aren’t to know what they’re buying.’

‘I’ll never look at paella the same way.’ Rebus was about to ask about the trailers, but he could hear the high whine of small engines, and as they crested the rise he saw two quad bikes, laden with bulging sacks, and dotted all around the shore stooped figures with shovels, reflected in the shimmer of the wet sand.

‘Now!’ Storey called, breaking into a run. The others followed as best they could down the incline, across its powder-dry surface. Rebus held back to watch. He saw the cockle-pickers look up, saw sacks and shovels dropped. Some stood where they were, others started to flee. Uniforms were approaching from both directions. With Storey’s men descending on them from the dunes, the only possible escape route was provided by the Firth of Forth. One or two waded further out, but seemed to come to their senses by the time the icy water started numbing legs and waists.

Some of the invaders were yelling and whooping; others lost their footing and went down on all fours, spattered with sand. Rebus had finally found shelter enough to get his lighter to work. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in as he enjoyed the spectacle. The quad bikes were circling, the two drivers shouting at one another. One of them took the initiative and headed up the slope, perhaps imagining that if he made it to the car park he might manage to escape. But he was going too fast for the cargo still strapped to the bike’s rear. The machine’s front tyres flew upwards, the bike somersaulting, throwing its driver to the ground, where he was pounced on by four uniforms. The other rider saw no reason to follow suit. Instead, he held up his hands, the bike idling until its ignition was switched off by a besuited Immigration officer. It reminded Rebus of something... yes, that was it — the end of the Beatles film Help. All they needed now was Eleanor Bron.

As he walked on to the beach, he saw that some of the workers were young women. A few were sobbing. They all looked Chinese, including the two men on the bikes. One of Storey’s men seemed to know the relevant language. He had his hands cupped to his mouth and was rattling off instructions. Nothing he said seemed to appease the women, who wailed all the harder.

‘What are they saying?’ Rebus asked him.

‘They don’t want to be sent home.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Can’t be any worse than this, can it?’

The officer’s mouth twitched. ‘Forty-kilo sacks... they get paid maybe three quid for each one, and it’s not as if they can go to an employment tribunal, is it?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Slavery’s what it boils down to... turning human beings into something you can buy and sell. In the northeast, it’s fish-gutting. Other places, it’s picking fruit and veg. The gangmasters have a supply for every possible demand.’ He started barking out more advice to the workers, most of whom looked exhausted and glad of any excuse to down tools. The flanking officers had arrived, having picked up a few strays.

‘One call!’ one of the bike-riders was screeching. ‘Get to make one call!’

‘When we get to the station,’ an officer corrected him. ‘If we’re feeling generous.’

Storey had stopped in front of the rider. ‘Who is it you want to call? Got a mobile on you?’ The rider made to move his hands towards his trouser pocket, hampered by the handcuffs. Storey took the phone out for him, held it in front of his face. ‘Give me the number, I’ll dial it for you.’

The man stared at him, then gave a grin and shook his head, letting Storey know he wasn’t falling for it.

‘You want to stay in this country?’ Storey persisted. ‘You better start cooperating.’

‘I am legal... work permit and everything.’

‘Good for you... we’ll be sure to check it’s not a forgery or expired.’

The grin melted, like a sandcastle hit by the incoming tide.

‘I’m always open to negotiation,’ Storey informed the man. ‘Soon as you feel like talking, let me know.’ He nodded for the prisoner to be marched uphill with the others. Then he noticed Rebus standing beside him. ‘Bugger is,’ he said, ‘if his paperwork’s in order, he doesn’t have to tell us a thing. It’s not illegal to pick cockles.’

‘And what about them?’ Rebus gestured in the direction of the stragglers. These were the oldest of the workers, seeming to move with a permanent stoop.

‘If they’re illegals, they’ll be locked up till we can ship them home.’ Storey straightened up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his knee-length camel-hair coat. ‘Plenty more like them to take their place.’

Rebus saw that the Immigration man was staring out at the unceasing grey swell. ‘Canute and the tide?’ he offered by way of comparison.

Storey took out a huge white handkerchief and blew his nose noisily, then started climbing the dune, leaving Rebus to finish his cigarette.

By the time he reached the car park, the vans had moved off. However, a new, handcuffed figure had entered the picture. One of the uniforms was explaining to Storey what had happened.

‘He was heading along the road... saw the patrol cars and did a three-point turn. We managed to head him off...’

‘I told you,’ the man barked, ‘it was nothing to do with youse!’ He sounded Irish. A few days’ growth on his square chin, lower jaw pushed out belligerently. His car had been brought into the car park. It was an old-model BMW 7-series, its red paint fading, sills turning to rust. Rebus had seen it before. He walked around it. There was a notebook visible on the passenger seat, folded open at a list of what looked like Chinese names. Storey caught Rebus’s eye and nodded: he already knew about it.

‘Name, please?’ he asked the driver.

‘Let’s have your ID first,’ the man snapped back. He was wearing an olive-green parka, maybe the same coat he’d been wearing when Rebus had first set eyes on him the previous week. ‘Fuck are you staring at?’ he asked Rebus, looking him up and down. Rebus just smiled and took out his own mobile, made a call.

‘Shug?’ he said when it was answered. ‘Rebus here... Remember at the demo? You were going to come up with a name for that Irishman...’ Rebus listened, eyes on the man in front of him. ‘Peter Hill?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Well, guess what: if I’m not mistaken, he’s standing right in front of me...’

The man just scowled, making no attempt to deny it.

It was Rebus’s suggestion that they take Peter Hill to Torphichen police station, where Shug Davidson was already waiting in the Stef Yurgii murder room. Rebus introduced Davidson to Felix Storey, and the two men shook hands. A few of the detectives couldn’t help staring. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a black man, but it was the first time they’d welcomed one to this particular corner of the city.

Rebus contented himself with listening, while Davidson explained the connection between Peter Hill and Knoxland.

‘You have evidence he was dealing drugs?’ Storey asked at the end.

‘Not enough to convict him... but we did put away four of his friends.’

‘Meaning either he was too small a fish, or...’

‘Too clever to get caught,’ Davidson conceded with a nod.

‘And the connection to the paramilitaries?’

‘Again, hard to pin down, but the drugs had to come from somewhere, and intelligence in Northern Ireland pointed to that particular source. Terrorists need to raise money any way they can...’

‘Even by acting as gangmasters to illegal immigrants?’

Davidson shrugged. ‘First time for everything,’ he speculated.

Storey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘That car he was driving...’

‘BMW seven-series,’ Rebus offered.

Storey nodded. ‘Those weren’t Irish number plates, were they? Northern Ireland, they’re usually three letters and four numbers.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘You’re well informed.’

‘I worked Customs for a while. When you’re checking passenger ferries, you get to know number plates...’

‘I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at,’ Shug Davidson was forced to admit. Storey turned to him.

‘Just wondering how he came by the car, that’s all. If he didn’t bring it over here with him, then he either bought it here, or...’

‘Or it belongs to someone else.’ Davidson nodded slowly.

‘Unlikely he’s working alone, not a set-up of that size.’

‘Something else we can ask him,’ Davidson said. Storey offered a smile, and turned his gaze to Rebus, as if seeking further agreement. But Rebus’s eyes had narrowed slightly. He was still wondering about that car...

The Irishman was in Interview Room 2. He took no notice of the three men when they came in, relieving the uniform who’d been standing guard. Storey and Davidson sat down opposite him at the table, Rebus finding a section of wall to rest his weight against. There was the sound of pneumatic drilling from the roadworks outside. It would punctuate any discussion, ending up on the cassette tapes Davidson was unwrapping. He slotted both into the recording machine and made sure the timer was correct. Then he did the same with a couple of blank videotapes. The camera was above the door, pointing straight at the table. If any suspect wanted to claim intimidation, the tapes would give the lie to the accusation.

The three officers identified themselves for the benefit of the tapes, then Davidson asked the Irishman to give his full name. He seemed content to let the silence lie, flicking threads from his trousers and then clasping his hands in front of him on the edge of the desk.

Hill continued to stare at a patch of wall between Davidson and Storey. Finally, he spoke.

‘I could do with a cup of tea. Milk, three sugars.’ He was missing some teeth from the back of his mouth, giving his cheeks a sunken look, emphasising the skull beneath the sallow skin. His hair was cropped and silver-grey, eyes pale blue, neck scrawny. Probably not much more than five feet nine tall and ten stone in weight.

Most of it attitude.

‘In due course,’ Davidson said quietly.

‘And a lawyer... a phone call...’

‘Same applies. Meantime...’ Davidson opened a manila folder and extracted a large black-and-white photograph. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’

Only half the face was showing, the rest hidden by the parka’s hood. It had been taken the day of the Knoxland demo, the day Howie Slowther had gone for Mo Dirwan with a rock.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘How about this?’ The photographer this time had caught a full-face shot. ‘Taken a few months back, also in Knoxland.’

‘And your point is...?’

‘My point is, I’ve been waiting a good long time to get you for something.’ Davidson smiled and turned to Felix Storey.

‘Mr Hill,’ Storey began, crossing one knee over the other, ‘I’m an Immigration officer. We’ll be checking the credentials of all those workers to see how many of them are here illegally.’

‘No idea what you’re talking about. I was out for a drive down the coast — not against the law, is it?’

‘No, but a jury might just wonder at the coincidence of that list of names on the passenger seat, if it turns out they match the names of the people we’ve detained.’

‘What list?’ Finally, Hill’s eyes met those of his questioner. ‘If there’s any list been found, it’s been planted.’

‘So we won’t expect to find your fingerprints on it then?’

‘And none of the workers will be able to identify you?’ Davidson added, twisting the knife.

‘Not against the law, is it?’

‘Actually,’ Storey confided, ‘I think slavery may have come off the statute book a few centuries back.’

‘That why they let a nigger like you wear a suit?’ the Irishman spat.

Storey gave a wry smile, as if satisfied that things had come to this so readily. ‘I’ve heard the Irish referred to as the blacks of Europe — does that make us brothers beneath the skin?’

‘It means you can go arse yourself.’

Storey tipped his head back and laughed from deep within his chest. Davidson had closed the file again — leaving the two photographs out, facing Peter Hill. He was tapping a finger against the file, as if drawing to Hill’s attention the thickness of it, the sheer quantity of information within.

‘So how long have you been in the slave trade?’ Rebus asked the Irishman.

‘I’m saying nothing till I get a mug of tea.’ Hill leaned back and folded his arms. ‘And I want it brought in by my lawyer.’

‘You’ve got a lawyer then? Seems to suggest you thought you’d be needing one.’

Hill turned his gaze towards Rebus, but his question was aimed across the table. ‘How long do youse think you can keep me here?’

‘That depends,’ Davidson told him. ‘You see, these links of yours to the paramilitaries...’ He was still tapping the file. ‘Thanks to the legislation on terrorism, we can hold you a bit longer than you might think.’

‘So now I’m a terrorist?’ Hill sneered.

‘You were always a terrorist, Peter. The only thing that’s changed is how you go about funding it. Last month you were a dealer; today you’re a slaver...’

There was a knock at the door. The head of a detective constable appeared.

‘Have you got it?’ Davidson asked. The head nodded. ‘Then you can come in here and keep the suspect company.’ Davidson started rising to his feet, intoning for the benefit of the various recording devices that the interview was being suspended, checking his watch to give the exact time. The machines were switched off. Davidson offered the DC his chair, and accepted a scrap of paper in return. Outside in the corridor, once the door was firmly closed, he unfolded the paper, stared at it, then handed it to Storey, whose mouth broke open in a gleaming grin.

Finally, the paper was passed to Rebus. It contained a description of the red BMW, along with its licence plate. Below it, written in capitals, were the owner’s details.

The owner was Stuart Bullen.

Storey snatched the note back from Rebus and planted a kiss on it. Then he did a little shuffle of a dance.

The high spirits seemed infectious. Davidson was grinning too. He patted Felix Storey on the back. ‘Not often surveillance brings a result,’ he offered, looking to Rebus for his agreement.

But it wasn’t the surveillance, Rebus couldn’t help thinking. It was another mysterious tip-off.

That, and Storey’s own intuition about the BMW’s ownership.

If intuition was indeed all it had been...

25

When they arrived at the Nook, they met another raiding party — Siobhan and Les Young. Offices were emptying for the day, and a few suits were heading past the doormen. Rebus was asking Siobhan what she was doing there when he saw one of the doormen place a hand to the mouthpiece of his radio headset. The man was turning his face to one side, but Rebus knew they’d been clocked.

‘He’s telling Bullen we’re here!’ Rebus called out to the others. They moved quickly, pushing past the businessmen and into the premises. The music was loud, the place busier than on Rebus’s first visit. There were more dancers, too: four of them on the stage. Siobhan held back, studying faces, while Rebus led the way towards Bullen’s office. The door with the keypad was locked. Rebus looked around, saw the barman — recalled his name: Barney Grant.

‘Barney!’ he yelled. ‘Get over here!’

Barney put down the glass he was filling, came out from behind the bar. Punched in the numbers. Rebus shouldered the door and immediately felt the ground fall away beneath him. He was in the short corridor leading to Bullen’s office, only now the cover of a trapdoor had been lifted and it was through this opening that he’d fallen, landing awkwardly on the wooden steps which led down into darkness.

‘What the hell’s this?’ Storey yelped.

‘Sort of tunnel,’ the barman offered.

‘Where does it lead?’

He just shook his head. Rebus hobbled down the steps as best he could. His right leg felt like he’d grazed it all the way from ankle to knee, and he’d managed to twist his left ankle for good measure. He peered up at the faces above him. ‘Go outside, see if you can work out where it might lead.’

‘Could be anywhere,’ Davidson muttered.

Rebus peered along the tunnel. ‘It’s heading down towards the Grassmarket, I think.’ He closed his eyes, trying to get them accustomed to the dark, and started moving, keeping his hands against the side walls to steady himself. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again, blinking a few times. He could make out the damp earthen floor, the curved walls and sloping ceiling. Probably man-made, going back centuries: the Old Town was a warren of tunnels and catacombs, mostly unexplored. They had sheltered the inhabitants from invasion, made assignations and plots possible. Smugglers might have used them. In more recent times, people had tried growing everything from mushrooms to cannabis in them. A few had been opened as tourist attractions, but the bulk were like this: cramped and unloved and filled with stale air.

The tunnel was veering left. Rebus took out his mobile, but there was no signal, no way of letting the others know. He could hear movement ahead of him, but nothing visible.

‘Stuart?’ he called out, voice echoing. ‘This is bloody stupid, Stuart!’

And kept moving, seeing a faint glow in the distance, a body disappearing into it. Then the glow was gone. It was another door, this time in the side wall, and Bullen had closed it after him. Rebus placed both hands to the right wall, fearing he’d miss the opening. His fingers hit something hard. A doorknob of all things. He turned and pulled, but the door opened the other way. Tried again, but something heavy had been placed against it. Rebus called out for help, pushed with his shoulder. A noise from the other side: someone attempting to slide a box out of the way.

Then the door opened, leaving a space of only a couple of feet. Rebus crawled through. The door was at floor level. As he stood up, he saw that a box of books had been used for the barricade. An elderly man was staring at him.

‘He went out of the door,’ was all he said. Rebus nodded and limped in that direction. Once outside, he knew exactly where he was: West Port. Emerging from a second-hand bookshop not a hundred yards from the Nook. He had his mobile in his hand. It had picked up a signal again. Glanced back towards the traffic lights at Lady Lawson Street, then to his right, down towards the Grassmarket. Saw what he’d been hoping for.

Stuart Bullen being marched up the middle of the road towards him. Felix Storey behind him with Bullen’s right arm twisted upwards. Bullen’s clothes torn and dirty. Rebus looked down at his own. They didn’t look much better. He pulled up his trouser leg, glad to see there was no blood, just scrape marks. Shug Davidson was emerging at a jog from Lady Lawson Street, face red from running. Rebus bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Wanted a cigarette, but knew he wouldn’t have the breath to smoke one. Stood up straight again and was face to face with Bullen.

‘I was gaining,’ he told the young man. ‘Honest.’

They took him back to the Nook. Word had gone around, and the place was empty of punters. Siobhan was quizzing some of the dancers, who sat in a line at the bar, Barney Grant pouring soft drinks for them.

A solitary customer emerged from behind the VIP curtain, puzzled by the sudden lack of music and voices. He seemed to sum up the situation and tightened the knot in his tie as he made to exit. Rebus’s limp caused him to bump shoulders with the man.

‘Sorry,’ the man muttered.

‘My fault, councillor,’ Rebus said, watching him as he left. Then he walked over to Siobhan, nodding a greeting to Les Young. ‘So what’s all this about?’

It was Young who answered. ‘We need to ask Stuart Bullen a few questions.’

‘About what?’ Rebus’s eyes were still on Siobhan.

‘In connection with the murder of Donald Cruikshank.’

Now Rebus’s attention shifted to Young. ‘Well, intriguing as that sounds, you’re going to have to wait in line. I think you’ll find we’ve got first dibs.’

‘We being...?’

Rebus gestured towards Felix Storey, who was finally — and reluctantly — letting go of Bullen, now that his hands had been handcuffed. ‘That man’s Immigration. He’s had Bullen under surveillance for weeks — people-smuggling, white slavery, you name it.’

‘We’ll need access,’ Les Young said.

‘Then go plead your case.’ Rebus stretched an arm out towards Storey and Shug Davidson. Les Young gave him a hard stare, then headed off in that direction. Siobhan was glowering at Rebus.

‘What?’ he asked, all innocence.

‘It’s me you’re pissed off with, remember? Don’t go picking on Les.’

‘Les is a big boy; he can look after himself.’

‘Problem is, in a scrap, he’d play fair... unlike some.’

‘Harsh words, Siobhan.’

‘Sometimes you need to hear them.’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘So what’s this about Bullen and Cruikshank?’

‘Homemade porn in the victim’s home. Featuring at least one of the dancers from this place.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘We just need to talk to him.’

‘I’m willing to bet there are some on the inquiry who’re wondering why. They reckon if a rapist gets topped, why bust a gut over it?’ He paused. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’d know better than me.’

Rebus turned towards where Young and Davidson were in conversation. ‘Maybe you’re trying to impress young Les over there...’

She hauled on Rebus’s shoulder, so she had his full attention again. ‘It’s a murder case, John. You’d be doing everything I’m doing.’

He gave the beginnings of a smile. ‘I’m just teasing, Siobhan.’ He turned to the open doorway, the one leading to Bullen’s office. ‘The first time we were here, did you notice that trapdoor?’

‘I just thought it was the cellar.’ She halted. ‘You didn’t spot it?’

‘Forgot it was there, that’s all,’ he lied, rubbing his right leg.

‘Looks sore, mate.’ Barney Grant was studying the injury. ‘Like you’ve been studded. Used to play a bit of footie, so I know what I’m talking about.’

‘You might have warned us about the trapdoor.’

The barman offered a shrug. Felix Storey was pushing Stuart Bullen towards the hallway. Rebus made to follow, Siobhan trailing him. Storey slammed shut the trapdoor. ‘Good place to hide any illegals,’ he said. Bullen just snorted. The door to the office was ajar. Storey opened it with one foot. It was as Rebus remembered it: cramped and full of junk. Storey’s nose wrinkled.

‘Going to take us a while to empty all this into evidence bags.’

‘Christ’s sake,’ Bullen muttered by way of complaint.

The door of the safe was slightly ajar, too, and Storey used the tip of a polished brogue to open it up.

‘Well now,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better get those evidence bags in here.’

‘This is a fit-up!’ Bullen started to shout. ‘It’s a plant, you bastards!’ He made to shake himself free of Storey’s grip, but the Immigration man was four inches taller and probably twenty pounds heavier. Everyone stood crowded in the doorway, trying for a better view. Davidson and Young had arrived, as had some of the dancers.

Rebus turned to Siobhan, who pursed her lips. She’d seen what he’d just seen. Lying in the open safe — a stack of passports held together with a rubber band; blank credit and debit cards; various official-looking stamps and franking machines. Plus other folded documents, maybe birth or marriage certificates.

Everything you’d need to create a new identity.

Or even a few hundred.

They took Stuart Bullen to Torphichen’s Interview Room 1.

‘We’ve got your pal next door,’ Felix Storey said. He’d removed his jacket and was loosening his cuff links so he could roll up his shirt-sleeves.

‘Who’s that then?’ Bullen’s handcuffs had been removed and he was rubbing his reddened wrists.

‘Peter Hill, I think his name is.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Irish guy... speaks very highly of you.’

Bullen caught Storey’s eye. ‘Now I know this is a fit-up.’

‘Why? Because you’re confident Hill won’t talk?’

‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know him.’

‘We’ve got photos of him coming in and out of your club.’

Bullen stared at Storey, as if trying to gauge the truth of this. Rebus himself didn’t know. It was possible the surveillance had netted Hill; then again, Storey could be bluffing. He had brought nothing with him to this meeting: no files or folders. Bullen turned his gaze on Rebus.

‘Sure you want him around?’ he asked Storey.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Word is, he’s Cafferty’s man.’

‘Who?’

‘Cafferty — he runs this whole city.’

‘And why should that concern you, Mr Bullen?’

‘Because Cafferty hates my family.’ He paused for effect. ‘And someone planted that stuff.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Storey said, almost sorrowfully. ‘Try explaining away your connection to Peter Hill.’

‘I keep telling you,’ Bullen’s teeth were gritted, ‘there isn’t any.’

‘And that’s why we found him in your car?’

The room went quiet. Shug Davidson was walking up and down with arms folded. Rebus stood in his favoured place by the wall. Stuart Bullen was making an examination of his own fingernails.

‘Red BMW seven-series,’ Storey went on, ‘registered in your name.’

‘I lost that car months back.’

‘Did you report it?’

‘Hardly worth the effort.’

‘And that’s the story you’ll be sticking to — planted evidence and a misplaced BMW? I hope you’ve got a good lawyer, Mr Bullen.’

‘Maybe I’ll try that Mo Dirwan... he seems to win a few.’ Bullen shifted his gaze to Rebus. ‘I hear the two of you are good mates.’

‘Funny you should mention it,’ Shug Davidson interrupted, stopping in front of the table. ‘Because your friend Hill has been seen out at Knoxland. We’ve got photos of him from the demo, same day Mr Dirwan was nearly attacked.’

‘That what you do all day, take pictures of people without them knowing?’ Bullen looked around the room. ‘Some men do that and get called pervs.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Rebus said, ‘we’ve got another inquiry waiting to talk to you.’

Bullen opened his arms. ‘I’m a popular man.’

‘And that’s why you’re going to be with us for quite some time, Mr Bullen,’ Storey said. ‘So make yourself comfortable...’

Forty minutes in, they took a break. The detained cockle-pickers were being held at St Leonard’s, the only place with enough cells to take them all. Storey headed off to a telephone, to check on progress with the interviews. Rebus and Davidson had just got their hands on a tea apiece when Siobhan and Young found them.

‘Do we get to talk to him now?’ Siobhan asked.

‘We’ll be going back in soon,’ Davidson told her.

‘But all he’s doing right now is kicking his heels,’ Les Young argued.

Davidson sighed, and Rebus knew what he was thinking: anything for a quiet life. ‘How long do you need?’ he asked.

‘We’ll take what you can give us.’

‘On you go then...’

Young turned to leave, but Rebus touched his elbow.

‘Mind if I tag along, just out of interest?’

Siobhan gave Young a warning look, but he nodded anyway. Siobhan turned on her heels and started striding towards the interview room, so that neither man could see her face.

Bullen had his hands clasped behind his head. When he saw Rebus’s tea, he asked where his own was.

‘In the kettle,’ Rebus replied, as Siobhan and Young began to introduce themselves.

‘You’re taking it in shifts?’ Bullen growled, lowering his hands.

‘Good tea this,’ Rebus chipped in. The look he received from Siobhan told him she found the contribution not altogether helpful.

‘We’re here to ask you about a piece of homemade pornography,’ Les Young kicked off.

Bullen let out a laugh. ‘The sublime to the ridiculous.’

‘It was found in the home of a murder victim,’ Siobhan added coolly. ‘Some of the performers might be known to you.’

‘How’s that then?’ Bullen seemed genuinely curious.

‘I recognised at least one of them.’ Siobhan had folded her arms. ‘She was pole-dancing that time I visited your premises with Detective Inspector Rebus.’

‘News to me,’ Bullen offered with a shrug. ‘But girls come and go... I’m not their grandma, they’re free to do what they like.’ He leaned across the table towards Siobhan. ‘Found that missing girl yet?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘But the guy got himself topped, didn’t he, the one who raped her sister?’ When she made no answer, he shrugged again. ‘I read the papers, same as anyone else.’

‘That’s whose house the film was found in,’ Les Young added.

‘I still don’t see how I’m supposed to help.’ Bullen turned to Rebus, as if for advice.

‘Did you know Donny Cruikshank?’ Siobhan asked.

Bullen turned back to her. ‘Never heard of him till I saw the murder in the paper.’

‘He couldn’t have visited your club?’

‘Course he could — there are times I’m not around... Barney’s the one to ask.’

‘The barman?’ Siobhan said.

Bullen nodded. ‘Or you could always ask Immigration... they seem to’ve been keeping a pretty close watch.’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘Hope they took care to catch my good side.’

‘You mean you’ve got one?’ Siobhan asked. Bullen’s smile vanished. He glanced at his watch. It looked expensive: chunky and gold.

‘We about done here?’

‘Not by a long chalk,’ Les Young commented. But the door was opening, Felix Storey entering the room, followed by Shug Davidson.

‘The gang’s all here!’ Bullen exclaimed. ‘If the Nook was this busy, I’d be retiring to Gran Canaria...’

‘Time’s up,’ Storey was telling Young. ‘We need him again.’

Les Young looked to Siobhan. She was producing some polaroids from her pocket, spreading them across the table in front of Bullen.

‘You know her,’ she said, stabbing one with her finger. ‘What about the others?’

‘Faces don’t always mean a lot to me,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘It’s bodies I tend to remember.’

‘She’s one of your dancers.’

‘Yeah,’ he admitted at last. ‘She is. What of it?’

‘I’d like to talk to her.’

‘She’s got a shift this evening, as it happens...’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Always supposing Barney can open up.’

Storey was shaking his head. ‘Not until we’ve searched the place.’

Bullen gave a sigh. ‘In that case,’ he told Siobhan, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You must have an address for her... a phone number.’

‘The girls like to be discreet... I might have a mobile somewhere.’ He nodded towards Storey. ‘Ask nicely and he might find it for you when he’s ransacking the premises.’

‘Not necessary,’ Rebus said. He’d walked over to the table to study the photos. Now he picked up the one of the dancer. ‘I know her,’ he said. ‘Know where she lives, too.’ Siobhan stared at him in disbelief. ‘Name’s Kate.’ He looked down at Bullen. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Kate, yeah,’ Bullen admitted grudgingly. ‘Likes to dance a bit, does Kate.’

He said it almost wistfully.

‘You handled him well,’ Rebus said. He was in the passenger seat, Siobhan driving. Les Young had left them to it, needing to get back to Banehall. Rebus was sifting through the polaroids again.

‘How so?’ she eventually asked.

‘Someone like Bullen, you have to be straight with them. They clam shut otherwise.’

‘He didn’t give us much.’

‘He’d have given young Leslie a lot less.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Christ, Shiv, accept some praise for once in your life!’

‘I’m looking for the ulterior motive.’

‘You won’t find one.’

‘That would be a first...’

They were heading for Pollock Halls. On the way out to the car, Rebus had filled her in on how he knew Kate.

‘Should have recognised her,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘All that music in her room.’

‘Call yourself a detective,’ Siobhan had teased him. Then: ‘Might have helped if she’d just been wearing a thong.’

They were on Dalkeith Road now, a stone’s throw from St Leonard’s with its cells full of cockle-pickers. Nothing as yet had come of the questioning — or nothing that Felix Storey was willing to share. Siobhan signalled left into Holyrood Park Road, and right into Pollock. Andy Edmunds was still manning the barrier. He crouched down by the open window.

‘Back again so soon?’ he asked.

‘A few more questions for Kate,’ Rebus explained.

‘You’re too late — saw her heading out on her bike.’

‘How long ago?’

‘No more than five minutes...’

Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘She’s on her way to her shift.’

Siobhan nodded. No way Kate could know they’d pulled in Stuart Bullen. Rebus gave Edmunds a wave as Siobhan executed a three-point turn. She ignored the red light at Dalkeith Road, horns sounding all around her.

‘I need to fix a siren to this car,’ she muttered. ‘Reckon we’ll beat her to the Nook?’

‘No, but that doesn’t mean we won’t catch her — she’s going to want an explanation.’

‘Are any of Storey’s men there?’

‘No idea,’ Rebus admitted. They had passed St Leonard’s and were heading for the Cowgate and the Grassmarket. It took Rebus some moments to work out what Siobhan already knew: this was the quickest route.

But also prone to tailbacks. More horns sounded, headlights alerting them to several illegal and bad-mannered manoeuvres.

‘What was it like in that tunnel?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Grim.’

‘No sign of any immigrants, though?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted.

‘See, if I was in charge of a surveillance, it would be them I’d want to watch.’

Rebus tended to agree. ‘But what if Bullen never goes near them? He doesn’t need to, after all — he’s got the Irishman working as go-between.’

‘The same Irishman you saw at Knoxland?’

Rebus nodded. Then he saw what she was getting at. ‘That’s where they are, isn’t it? I mean, that’s the best place to stash them.’

‘I thought the place had been searched high and low?’ Siobhan said, playing devil’s advocate.

‘But we were looking for a killer, looking for witnesses...’ He broke off.

‘What is it?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Mo Dirwan was beaten up when he went snooping... beaten up in Stevenson House.’ He was reaching for his mobile, punched in Caro Quinn’s number. ‘Caro? It’s John, I’ve got a question for you — where were you exactly when you were chased off Knoxland?’ His eyes were on Siobhan as he listened. ‘You’re sure of that? No, no real reason... I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’ He ended the call. ‘She’d just arrived at Stevenson House,’ he told Siobhan.

‘Now there’s a coincidence.’

Rebus was staring at his mobile. ‘I need to tell Storey.’ Instead of which, he turned the mobile over and over in his hand.

‘You’re not calling him,’ she commented.

‘I’m not sure I trust him,’ Rebus admitted. ‘He gets all these useful anonymous tip-offs. That’s how he knew about Bullen, the Nook, the cockle-pickers...’

‘And?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘And he got this sudden inspiration about the BMW... exactly what was needed to connect it to Bullen.’

‘Another tip-off?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘So who’s making the calls?’

‘Has to be someone close to Bullen.’

‘Could just be someone who knows a lot about him. But if Storey is being fed all this gen... surely he must have suspicions of his own?’

‘You mean: “Why am I being fed all this great stuff?” Maybe he just isn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.’

Rebus pondered this for a moment. ‘Gift horse or Trojan horse?’

‘Is that her?’ Siobhan said abruptly. She was pointing to an approaching cyclist. The bike passed them, heading downhill to the Grassmarket.

‘I didn’t really see,’ Rebus admitted. Siobhan bit her lip.

‘Hang on,’ she said, hitting the brake hard, executing another three-point turn, this time with traffic backing up in both directions. Rebus waved and shrugged by way of apology, then, when one driver started yelling from his window, resorted to less conciliatory gestures. Siobhan was driving them back into Grassmarket, the angry driver on her tail, lights on full beam, horn sounding a tattoo.

Rebus turned in his seat and glared at the man, who kept shouting and waving a fist.

‘He’s got a hard-on for us,’ Siobhan said.

Rebus tutted. ‘Language, please.’ Then, leaning out of the window, he yelled, ‘We’re fucking police officers!’ at the top of his voice, keenly aware that the man couldn’t hear him. Siobhan burst out laughing, then turned the steering wheel sharply.

‘She’s stopped,’ she said. The cyclist was getting off her bike, preparing to chain it to a lamp-post. They were in the heart of the Grassmarket, all smart bistros and tourist pubs. Siobhan pulled up on a double yellow and jogged from the car. From this distance, Rebus recognised Kate. She was dressed in a frayed denim jacket and cut-off jeans, long black boots and a silky pink neck-scarf. She was looking confused as Siobhan introduced herself. Rebus undid his seatbelt and was about to open the door when an arm snaked through the window and caught his head in its vice-like grip.

‘What’s your game then, pal?’ the voice roared. ‘Think you own the bloody highway, do you?’

Rebus’s mouth and nose were muffled by the padded sleeve of the man’s oily jacket. He fumbled for the door handle and pushed with all his might, tumbling from the car on to his knees, sending a fresh jolt of pain through both legs. The man was still on the opposite side of the car door from Rebus and showed no sign of releasing his prey. The door acted as a shield, protecting him from Rebus’s swipes and punches.

‘Think you’re the big guy, eh? Giving me the finger...’

‘He is the big guy,’ Rebus heard Siobhan saying. ‘He’s police, same as me. Now let him go.’

‘He’s what?’

‘I said let him go!’ The pressure eased on Rebus and he pulled his head free, standing up straight and feeling the blood singing in his ears, the world swirling around him. Siobhan had wrenched the man’s free arm halfway up his back and was now forcing him down on to his knees, head stooped. Rebus brought out his warrant card and held it in front of the man’s nose.

‘Try that again and I’ll do you,’ he gasped.

Siobhan released her hold and took a step back. She, too, had her ID out by the time the man straightened up.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ was all he said. But Siobhan had already dismissed him. She was walking back towards Kate, who had watched the performance wide-eyed. Rebus made a show of noting the man’s registration as he retreated to his car. Then he turned and joined Siobhan and Kate.

‘Kate was just stopping off for a drink,’ Siobhan explained. ‘I’ve asked if we might join her.’

Rebus could think of nothing better.

‘I’m meeting someone in half an hour,’ Kate cautioned.

‘Half an hour’s all we need,’ Rebus assured her.

They made for the nearest place, found a table. The jukebox was loud, but Rebus got the barman to turn it down. A pint for himself, soft drinks for the two women.

‘I was just telling Kate,’ Siobhan said, ‘how good a dancer she is.’ Rebus nodded agreement, feeling a jolt of pain in his neck. ‘I thought it the first time I saw you at the Nook,’ Siobhan went on, making the place sound like an upmarket disco. Smart girl, thought Rebus: no moralising, no making the witness nervous or embarrassed... He took a gulp from his glass.

‘That’s all it is, you know... dancing.’ Kate’s eyes flitted between Siobhan and Rebus. ‘All these things they are saying about Stuart — that he is a people-smuggler — I did not know anything about it.’ She paused, as if about to say something more, but instead sipped her drink.

‘You’re putting yourself through uni?’ Rebus guessed. She nodded.

‘I saw an advertisement in the newspaper: “Dancers wanted”.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not stupid, I knew straight away what sort of place the Nook would be, but the girls there are great... and all I ever do is dance.’

‘Albeit with no clothes on.’ The sentence came out almost without thinking. Siobhan glared at Rebus, but too late.

Kate’s face hardened. ‘Are you not listening? I said I do not do any of the other things.’

‘We know that, Kate,’ Siobhan said quietly. ‘We’ve seen the film.’

Kate looked at her. ‘What film?’

‘The one where you’re dancing beside a fireplace.’ Siobhan placed the polaroid on the tabletop. Kate snatched at it, not wanting it seen.

‘That happened the one time,’ she said, refusing to make eye contact. ‘One of the girls told me it was easy money. I told her I wouldn’t do anything...’

‘And you didn’t,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘I’ve seen the film, so we know that’s true. You put on some music and you danced.’

‘Yeah, and then they wouldn’t pay me. Alberta offered me part of her money, but I would not take it from her. She had worked for that money.’ She took another sip of her drink, Siobhan following suit. Both women placed their glasses down at the same time.

‘The guy behind the camera,’ Siobhan said, ‘did you know him?’

‘I had never met him until we walked into the house.’

‘And where was the house?’

Kate shrugged. ‘Somewhere outside Edinburgh. Alberta was driving... I did not really pay much attention.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘Who else saw this film?’

‘Just me,’ Siobhan lied. Kate turned her attention to Rebus, who shook his head, letting her know he hadn’t viewed it.

‘I’m looking into a murder,’ Siobhan continued.

‘I know... the immigrant in Knoxland.’

‘Actually, that’s DI Rebus’s case. The one I’m involved in happened in a town called Banehall. The man behind the camera...’ She broke off. ‘Do you happen to remember his name?’

Kate looked thoughtful. ‘Mark?’ she eventually offered.

Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘No surname?’

‘He had a big tattoo on his neck...’

‘A spider’s web,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘At one point, another man came in, and Mark handed him the camera.’ Siobhan produced another polaroid, this time a blurred image of Donny Cruikshank. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘To be honest with you, I had my eyes closed most of the time. I was trying to concentrate on the music... it’s how I do the job — by thinking of nothing but the music.’

Siobhan nodded again, to show she understood. ‘He’s the one who got murdered, Kate. Is there anything you can tell me about him?’

She shook her head. ‘I just got the feeling the two of them were enjoying themselves. Like schoolkids, you know? They had that feverish look to them.’

‘Feverish?’

‘Almost as if they were trembling. In a room with three naked women: I got the feeling it was new to them, new and exciting...’

‘You never felt scared?’

She shook her head again. Rebus could see she was thinking back on the scene, with no fond memories at all. He cleared his throat. ‘You say this other dancer took you along with her to the shoot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Stuart Bullen know about it?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘But you can’t be positive?’

She shrugged. ‘Stuart has always played fair with the girls. He knows the other clubs are looking for dancers — if we don’t like where we are, we can always move on.’

‘Alberta must have known the man with the tattoo,’ Siobhan said.

Kate shrugged again. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Do you know how she knew him?’

‘Maybe he came into the club... that is how Alberta tended to meet men.’ She rattled the ice in her tumbler.

‘Want another?’ Rebus asked.

She looked at her watch and shook her head. ‘Barney will be here soon.’

‘Barney Grant?’ Siobhan guessed. Kate nodded.

‘He’s trying to talk to all the girls. Barney knows if we go a day or two without work, he’ll lose us.’

‘Meaning he intends keeping the Nook open?’ Rebus asked.

‘Just until Stuart comes back.’ She paused. ‘He will be coming back?’

In lieu of answering, Rebus finished his pint.

‘We better leave you to it,’ Siobhan told Kate. ‘Thanks for talking to us.’ She made to get up from the table.

‘I’m sorry I cannot be more help.’

‘If you remember anything else about those two men...’

Kate nodded. ‘I’ll let you know.’ She paused. ‘The film with me in it...’

‘Yes?’

‘How many copies do you think there are?’

‘No way of telling. Your friend Alberta... does she still dance at the Nook?’

Kate shook her head. ‘She left soon afterwards.’

‘You mean, soon after the film was made?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how long ago was that?’

‘Two or three weeks.’

They thanked Kate again and headed for the door. Outside, they faced one another. Siobhan spoke first. ‘Donny Cruikshank must’ve just been out of jail.’

‘No wonder he looked feverish. You going to try finding Alberta?’

Siobhan let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know... It’s been a long day.’

‘Fancy another drink someplace?’ She shook her head. ‘Got a date with Les Young?’

‘Why? Have you got one with Caro Quinn?’

‘I was just asking.’ Rebus took out his cigarettes.

‘Give you a lift?’ Siobhan offered.

‘I think I’ll walk, thanks all the same.’

‘Okay then...’ She hesitated, watched him light the cigarette. Then, when he didn’t say anything, she turned and headed for her car. He watched her go. Concentrated on smoking for a moment, then crossed the road. There was a hotel, and he loitered by its entrance. He’d just finished the cigarette when he saw Barney Grant walking downhill from the direction of the Nook. He had his hands in his pockets and was whistling: no sign that he was worried about his job or his boss. He entered the pub, and for some reason Rebus checked his watch, then noted down the time.

And stayed where he was, in front of the hotel. Looking in through the windows, he could see its restaurant. It looked white and sterile, the sort of place where the size of each plate is in inverse proportion to the amount of food served on it. There were only a few tables in use, the staff outnumbering clients. One of the waiters gave him a look, trying to shoo him away, but Rebus just winked back at him. Eventually, just as Rebus was getting bored and deciding to leave, a car drew up outside the pub, engine roaring as it idled, the driver playing with the accelerator. The passenger was talking into a mobile phone. The pub’s door opened and Barney Grant came out, sliding his own mobile back into his pocket as the passenger folded his closed. Grant got into the back seat of the car, which was in movement again even before he’d closed the door. Rebus watched as the car raced up the hill, then began to follow on foot.

It took him a few minutes to reach the Nook, and he arrived just as the car was taking off again. He stared at the locked door of the Nook, then across the street towards the closed-down shop. No more surveillance, no sign of the parked van. He tried the door of the Nook but it was locked tight. All the same, Barney Grant had dropped in for some reason, the car waiting for him. Rebus hadn’t recognised the driver, but he knew the face in the passenger seat, had known it ever since it had screamed at him when he’d wrestled its owner to the ground, cameras capturing the moment for tabloid posterity.

Howie Slowther — the kid from Knoxland, the one with the paramilitary tattoo and the race hate.

Friend of the Nook’s barman...

Either that, or of its owner.