Fleshmarket Close

26

Dawn raids in Knoxland, the same team who’d chased cockle-pickers along Cramond’s seashore. Stevenson House — the one with no graffiti. Why so? Either fear or respect. Rebus knew he should have seen it right at the start. Stevenson House had looked different, and it had been treated differently, too.

The original door-to-door teams had encountered many unanswered knocks there — almost a whole floor of them. Had they gone back and tried again? They had not. Why? Because the murder squad had been stretched... and maybe because the officers hadn’t been trying too hard, the victim a statistic to them, nothing more.

Felix Storey was being more thorough. This time doors would be pounded, letter-boxes peered into. This time they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Immigration Service — as with Customs and Excise — wielded more power than the police. Doors could be kicked in without the need for search warrants. ‘Due cause’ was the phrase Rebus had heard mentioned, and Storey was clear in his own mind that whatever else they might have, they had due cause aplenty.

Caro Quinn — threatened when she tried taking photos in and around Stevenson House.

Mo Dirwan — attacked when his door-to-door activities took him to Stevenson House.

Rebus had been awake at four, listening to Storey’s pep-talk at five — surrounded by bleary eyes and the smells of breath-freshener and coffee.

In his car soon afterwards, heading to Knoxland, giving lifts to four others. They didn’t say much, windows down to stop the Saab misting up. Passing darkened shops, then bungalows where a few bedroom lights were just starting to come on. A convoy of cars, not all of them unmarked. Taxi-drivers staring at them, knowing something was up. The birds would be awake, but there was no sound of them as the cars pulled to a stop in Knoxland.

Only car doors opening and closing — quietly.

Whispers and gestures, a few muffled coughs. Someone spat on the ground. An inquisitive dog was shooed away before it could start barking.

Shoes moving up the stairwell, making a sound like sandpaper.

More gestures, whispers. Taking up position all along the third floor.

The floor where so few doors had been answered, first time the police had come calling.

They stood and waited, three to each door. Watches were checked: quarter to six, they’d start pounding and shouting.

Thirty seconds to go.

And then the stairwell door had opened, a foreign boy standing there wearing a long smock over his trousers, a grocery bag in one hand. The bag falling, milk bursting from it. One of the officers was just placing a finger to his lips as the boy filled his lungs.

Let out an almighty cry.

Doors pummelled, letter-boxes rattled. The boy lifted from his feet and carried downstairs. The cop who carried him left milky footprints.

Doors answered; others shoulder-charged. Revealing:

Domestic scenes — families gathered around the breakfast table.

Living rooms where people lay in sleeping-bags, or beneath blankets. As many as seven or eight to a room, sometimes spilling into the hallway.

Kids screaming in terror, wide-eyed. Mothers reaching for them. Young men pulling on clothes, or gripping the edges of their sleeping-bags, fearful.

Elders remonstrating in a clatter of languages, hands busy as if in mime. Grandparents inured to this new humiliation, half-blind without their spectacles but determined to muster whatever dignity the situation would allow.

Storey moving from room to room, flat to flat. He’d brought three interpreters, not nearly enough. One of the officers handed him a sheet of paper torn from a wall. Storey passed it on to Rebus. It looked like a work roster — addresses of food-processing factories. A roll-call of surnames with the shifts they’d be filling. Rebus passed it back. He was interested in the oversized polythene bags in one hallway, filled with headbands and wands. He switched one of the headbands on, its small twin spheres flashing red. He looked around but couldn’t see the kid from Lothian Road, the one who’d been selling the same sort of stuff. In the kitchen, a sink full of decomposing roses, their buds still tightly closed.

The translators were holding up surveillance photos of Bullen and Hill, asking people to identify them. Shakes of the head and pointed fingers, but a few nods, too. One man — he looked Chinese to Rebus — was shouting in fractured English:

‘We pay much money come here... much money! Work hard... send money home. Work we want to! Work we want to!’

A friend snapped back at him in their native language. This friend’s eyes locked on Rebus, and Rebus nodded slowly, knowing the gist of his message.

This man started walking towards Rebus, but Rebus shook his head, gestured towards Felix Storey. The man stopped in front of Storey. The only way he could get his attention was to tug on the sleeve of his jacket, something the man probably hadn’t done since he was a kid.

Storey glared at him, but the man ignored this.

‘Stuart Bullen,’ he said. ‘Peter Hill.’ He knew he had Storey’s attention now. ‘These are the men you want.’

‘Already in custody,’ the Immigration man assured him.

‘That is good,’ the man said quietly. ‘And you have found the ones they murdered?’

Storey looked to Rebus, then back to the man.

‘Would you mind repeating that?’ he asked.

The man’s name was Min Tan and he was from a village in central China. He sat in the back of Rebus’s car, Storey alongside him, Rebus in the driver’s seat.

They were parked outside a bakery on Gorgie Road. Min Tan took loud sips from a beaker of sugary black tea. Rebus had already ditched his own drink. It wasn’t until he’d lifted the weak grey coffee to his lips that he’d remembered: this was the same place he’d bought the undrinkable coffee the afternoon Stef Yurgii’s body had been found. Yet the bakery was doing good business: commuters at the nearby bus-stop all seemed to be holding beakers to their faces. Others munched on breakfast rolls of scrambled egg and sausage.

Storey had taken a break from the questioning, so he could hold another conversation with whoever was on the other end of his mobile phone.

Storey had a problem: Edinburgh’s police stations could not accommodate the immigrants from Knoxland. There were too many of them, and not nearly enough cells. He’d tried asking the courts, but they had accommodation problems of their own. For now, the immigrants were being held in their flats, the third floor of Stevenson House blocked off to visitors. But now manpower was the issue: the officers Storey had commandeered were needed for their day-to-day duties. They couldn’t play at being glorified guards. At the same time, Storey was in no doubt that without adequate provision, there was nothing to stop the illegals in Stevenson House charging past any skeleton crew and making a run to freedom.

He’d called his superiors in London and elsewhere, requested aid from Customs and Excise.

‘Don’t tell me there aren’t a few VAT inspectors twiddling their thumbs,’ Rebus had heard him say. Meaning the man was clutching at straws. Rebus wanted to ask why they couldn’t just let the poor buggers go. He’d seen the fatigue on those faces. They’d been working so hard, it had drilled its way into the marrow of their bones. Storey would argue that most — maybe even all — had entered the country illegally, or had overstayed their visas and permits. They were criminals, but it was obvious to Rebus that they were victims, too. Min Tan had been talking about the grinding poverty of the life he’d left in the province, of his ‘duty’ to send money home.

Duty — not a word Rebus came across too often.

Rebus had offered the man some food from the bakery, but he’d wrinkled his nose, not being quite desperate enough to partake of the local cuisine. Storey, too, had passed, leaving Rebus to purchase a reheated bridie, most of which now lay in the gutter alongside the beaker of coffee.

Storey snapped shut his mobile with a growl. Min Tan was pretending to concentrate on his tea, but Rebus had no such scruples.

‘You could always concede defeat,’ he offered.

Storey’s narrowed eyes filled the rearview mirror. Then he turned his attention to the man beside him.

‘So we’re talking about more than one victim?’ he asked.

Min Tan nodded and held up two fingers.

‘Two?’ Storey coaxed.

‘At least two,’ Min Tan said. He seemed to shiver, and took another sip of tea. Rebus realised that the clothes the Chinaman was wearing weren’t quite enough to ward off the morning chill. He turned on the ignition and adjusted the heat.

‘We going somewhere?’ Storey snapped.

‘Can’t sit in the car all day,’ Rebus replied. ‘Not without catching our death.’

‘Two deaths,’ Min Tan stressed, misunderstanding Rebus’s words.

‘One of them was the Kurd?’ Rebus asked. ‘Stef Yurgii?’

The Chinaman frowned. ‘Who?’

‘The man who was stabbed. He was one of your lot, wasn’t he?’ Rebus had turned in his seat, but Min Tan was shaking his head.

‘I do not know this person.’

Which served Rebus right for jumping to conclusions. ‘Peter Hill and Stuart Bullen, they didn’t kill Stef Yurgii?’

‘I tell you, I do not know this man!’ Min Tan’s voice had risen.

‘You saw them kill two people,’ Storey interrupted. Another shake of the head. ‘But you just said you did...’

‘Everyone knows about it — we all are told about it.’

‘About what?’ Rebus persisted.

‘The two...’ Words seemed to fail Min Tan. ‘Two bodies... you know, after they die.’ He pinched the skin of the arm which held his beaker. ‘It all goes, none left.’

‘No skin left?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Bodies with no skin. You mean skeletons?’

Min Tan wagged a finger triumphantly.

‘And people talk about them?’ Rebus went on.

‘One time... man not want to work for so low pay. He was loud. He told people not to work, to go free...’

‘And he was killed?’ Storey interrupted.

‘Not killed!’ Min Tan cried in frustration. ‘Just listen, please! He was taken to a place, and they showed him bodies with no skin. Told him this would happen to him — to everybody — unless he obeyed, did good work.’

‘Two skeletons,’ Rebus said quietly, talking to himself. But Min Tan had heard him.

‘Mother and child,’ he said, eyes widening in remembered horror. ‘If they can kill mother and child — not arrested, not found out — they can do anything, kill anyone... anyone who disobeys!’

Rebus nodded his understanding.

Two skeletons.

Mother and child.

‘You’ve seen these skeletons?’

Min Tan shook his head. ‘Others saw. One a baby, wrapped in newspaper. They showed it in Knoxland, showed the head and hands. Then buried mother and baby in...’ He sought the words he needed. ‘Place underground...’

‘A cellar?’ Rebus suggested.

Min Tan nodded eagerly. ‘Buried them there, with one of us watching. He told us the story.’

Rebus stared out through the windscreen. It made sense: using the skeletons to terrify the immigrants, keep them in fear. Stripping away the wires and screws to make them more authentic. And for a final flourish, pouring concrete over them in front of a witness, that man returning to Knoxland, spreading the story.

They can do anything, kill anyone... anyone who disobeys...

It was half an hour till opening when he knocked on the door of the Warlock.

Siobhan was with him. He’d called her from his car, after dropping Storey and Min Tan at Torphichen, the Immigration man armed with a few more questions for Bullen and the Irishman. Siobhan hadn’t quite woken up, Rebus having to go over the story more than once. His central point — how many pairs of skeletons had popped up in recent months?

Her eventual answer: just the one that she could think of.

‘I need to speak to Mangold anyway,’ she said now, as Rebus kicked at the door of the Warlock, his polite knock having been ignored.

‘Any particular reason?’ he asked.

‘You’ll find out when I question him.’

‘Thanks for sharing.’ One final kick and he took a step back. ‘Nobody home.’

She checked her watch. ‘Cutting it fine.’

He nodded. Usually there’d be someone inside this close to opening — if only to prime the pumps and fill the till. Cleaner might have come and gone, but whoever was manning the bar should have been limbering up.

‘What did you get up to last night?’ Siobhan asked, trying for a conversational tone.

‘Not much.’

‘Not like you to refuse the offer of a lift.’

‘I felt like walking.’

‘So you said.’ She folded her arms. ‘Stop off at any watering-holes on route?’

‘Despite what you think, I can go whole hours at a time without a drink.’ He busied himself lighting a cigarette. ‘What about you? Was it another rendezvous with Major Underpants?’ She stared at him, and he smiled. ‘Nicknames have a habit of travelling.’

‘Maybe so, but you’ve got it wrong — it’s Captain, not Major.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Might’ve been that originally, but I can assure you it’s Major now. Funny things, nicknames...’ He walked to the top of Fleshmarket Close, blew smoke down it, then noticed something. Walked to the cellar door.

The cellar door standing ajar.

Pushed it open with his fist and stepped inside, Siobhan following.

Ray Mangold was staring at one of the interior walls, hands in his pockets, lost in thought. He was on his own, surrounded by the half-finished building work. The concrete floor had been lifted in its entirety. The rubble had gone, but there was still plenty of dust in the air.

‘Mr Mangold?’ Rebus said.

Spell broken, Mangold swivelled his head. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, sounding less than thrilled.

‘Nice bruises,’ Rebus commented.

‘Healing,’ Mangold said, touching his cheek.

‘How did you get them?’

‘Like I told your colleague...’ Mangold nodded towards Siobhan. ‘I had a bust-up with a punter.’

‘Who won?’

‘He won’t be drinking in the Warlock again, that’s for sure.’

‘Sorry if we’re interrupting anything,’ Siobhan said.

Mangold shook his head. ‘Just trying to think what this’ll look like when it’s finished.’

‘Tourists will lap it up,’ Rebus told him.

Mangold smiled. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’ He removed his hands from his pockets, clapped them together. ‘So what can I do to help you today?’

‘Those skeletons...’ Rebus gestured towards the patch of earth where the find had been made.

‘I can’t believe you’re still wasting your time...’

‘We’re not,’ Rebus broke in. He was standing next to a wheelbarrow, presumably belonging to the builder, Joe Evans. There was a toolbox lying open inside it, a hammer and stone-chisel uppermost. Rebus lifted the stone-chisel, impressed with its weight. ‘Do you know a man called Stuart Bullen?’

Mangold considered his answer. ‘I know of him. Rab Bullen’s son.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I think he owns some sort of strip joint...’

‘The Nook.’

Mangold nodded slowly. ‘That’s it...’

Rebus let the chisel clatter back into the barrow. ‘He also does a nice sideline in slavery, Mr Mangold.’

‘Slavery?’

‘Illegal immigrants. He puts them to work, probably holds back a decent cut for himself. Looks like he might be providing them with new identities, too.’

‘Christ.’ Mangold looked from Rebus to Siobhan and back again. ‘Hang on, though... what’s this got to do with me?’

‘When one of the immigrants started acting up, Bullen decided to scare him off. Showed him a couple of skeletons being buried in a cellar.’

Mangold’s eyes widened. ‘The ones Evans dug up?’

Rebus just shrugged, eyes boring into Mangold’s. ‘Cellar door always kept locked, Mr Mangold?’

‘Look, I told you right at the start, that concrete was laid before I came here.’

Rebus offered another shrug. ‘We’ve only got your word for that, seeing how you’ve not been able to supply any paperwork.’

‘Maybe I could take another look.’

‘Maybe you could. Careful, though: the brain-boxes at the police lab are dab hands... they can pinpoint how far back something was written or typed — can you believe that?’

Mangold nodded to show that he could. ‘I’m not saying I will find anything...’

‘But you’ll take another look, and we appreciate that.’ Rebus lifted the chisel again. ‘And you don’t know Stuart Bullen... never met him?’

Mangold shook his head vigorously. Rebus let the silence lie between them, then turned towards Siobhan, signalling her turn to enter the ring.

‘Mr Mangold,’ she said, ‘can I ask you about Ishbel Jardine?’

Mangold seemed nonplussed. ‘What about her?’

‘That sort of answers one of my questions — you do know her then?’

‘Know her? No... I mean... she used to come to my club.’

‘The Albatross?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you knew her?’

‘Not really.’

‘Are you telling me you remember the name of every punter who came to the Albatross?’

Rebus snorted at this, adding further to Mangold’s discomfort.

‘I know the name,’ Mangold stumbled on, ‘because of her sister. She’s the one who killed herself. Look...’ He glanced at his gold wristwatch. ‘I should be upstairs... we’re due to open in a minute.’

‘Just a few more questions,’ Rebus said resolutely, still holding the chisel.

‘I don’t know what’s going on. First it’s the skeletons, then it’s Ishbel Jardine... what’s any of it got to do with me?’

‘Ishbel’s disappeared, Mr Mangold,’ Siobhan informed him. ‘She used to go to your club, and now she’s disappeared.’

‘Hundreds of people came to the Albatross every week,’ Mangold complained.

‘They didn’t all disappear, though, did they?’

‘We know about the skeletons in your cellar,’ Rebus added, letting the chisel drop again with a deafening clang, ‘but what about the ones in your cupboard? Anything you want us to know, Mr Mangold?’

‘Look, I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘Stuart Bullen’s in custody. He’ll be wanting to do a deal, telling us more than we ever needed to know. What do you think he’ll tell us about those skeletons?’

Mangold was making for the open doorway, passing between the two detectives as if starved of oxygen. He burst out into Fleshmarket Close and turned to face them, breathing hard.

‘I have to open up,’ he gasped.

‘We’re listening,’ Rebus said.

Mangold stared at him. ‘I mean I have to open the bar.’

Rebus and Siobhan emerged into daylight, Mangold turning the key in the padlock after them. They watched him march to the top of the lane and disappear around the corner.

‘What do you think?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I think we still make a good team.’

She nodded agreement. ‘He knows more than he’s telling.’

‘Just like everyone else.’ Rebus shook his cigarette packet; decided he’d save the last one for later. ‘So what’s next?’

‘Can you drop me at my flat? I need to pick up my car.’

‘You can walk to Gayfield Square from your flat.’

‘But I’m not going to Gayfield Square.’

‘So where are you headed?’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Secrets, John... just like everyone else.’

27

Rebus was back at Torphichen, where Felix Storey was in the midst of a heated debate with DI Shug Davidson over his urgent requirement for an office, desk and chair.

‘And an outside line,’ Storey added. ‘I’ve got my own laptop.’

‘We’ve no desks to spare, never mind offices,’ Davidson replied.

‘My desk’s going free at Gayfield Square,’ Rebus offered.

‘I need to be here,’ Storey insisted, pointing down at the floor.

‘Far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay there!’ Davidson spat, walking away.

‘Not a bad punchline,’ Rebus mused.

‘Whatever happened to cooperation?’ Storey asked, sounding suddenly resigned to his fate.

‘Maybe he’s jealous,’ Rebus offered. ‘All these nice results you’ve been getting.’ Storey looked as if he was getting ready to preen. ‘Yes,’ Rebus went on, ‘all these nice, easy results.’

Storey looked at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Nothing at all, except that you owe your mystery caller a case or two of malt, the way he’s come through for you on this one.’

Storey was still staring. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Isn’t that what the bad guys usually tell us when there’s something they don’t want us to know?’

‘And what is it exactly that you think I don’t want you to know?’ Storey’s voice had thickened.

‘Maybe I won’t know till you tell me.’

‘And why would I do a thing like that?’

Rebus gave an open smile. ‘Because I’m one of the good guys?’ he offered.

‘I’m still not convinced of that, Detective Inspector.’

‘Despite me jumping down that rabbit-hole and flushing Bullen out the other end?’

Storey gave a cool smile. ‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’

‘I saved your nice, expensive suit from getting scuffed...’

‘Not that expensive.’

‘And I’ve managed to keep quiet about you and Phyllida Hawes...’

Storey scowled. ‘DC Hawes was a member of my team.’

‘And that’s why the two of you were in the back of that van on a Sunday morning?’

‘If you’re going to start making allegations...’

But Rebus smiled and slapped Storey’s arm with the back of his hand. ‘I’m just winding you up, Felix.’

Storey took a moment to calm down, during which Rebus told him about the visit to Ray Mangold. Storey grew thoughtful.

‘You think the two of them connect?’

Rebus offered another shrug. ‘I’m not sure it’s important. But there’s something else to consider.’

‘What?’

‘Those flats in Stevenson House... they belong to the council.’

‘So?’

‘So what names are on the rent books?’

Storey studied him. ‘Keep talking.’

‘More names we get, the more ways we have of jabbing away at Bullen.’

‘Which means making an approach to the council.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And guess what? I know someone who can help...’

The two men sat in Mrs Mackenzie’s office while she laid out for them the convolutions of Bob Baird’s illicit empire, an empire which included, it seemed, at least three of the flats raided that morning.

‘And maybe more,’ Mrs Mackenzie stated. ‘We’ve found eleven aliases so far. He’s used his relatives’ names, ones he seems to have picked out of the phone book, and others belonging to the recently deceased.’

‘You’ll be taking this to the police?’ Storey asked, marvelling at Mrs Mackenzie’s paperwork. It was a huge family tree, comprising sheets of copy paper sellotaped together, and covering most of her desk. Beside each name were details of its provenance.

‘The wheels are already in motion,’ she said. ‘I just want to make sure I’ve done as much at this end as I can.’

Rebus gave a nod of praise, which she accepted with a reddening of the cheeks.

‘Can we assume,’ Storey was saying, ‘that most of the flats on the third floor of Stevenson House were being sublet by Baird?’

‘I think we can,’ Rebus replied.

‘And can we further assume that he had full knowledge his tenants were being supplied by Stuart Bullen?’

‘That would seem logical. I’d say half the estate knew what was going on — that’s why the local youths didn’t even dare tag the walls.’

‘This Stuart Bullen,’ Mrs Mackenzie said, ‘he’s a man people have reason to fear?’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Mackenzie,’ Storey assured her, ‘Bullen’s in custody.’

‘And he won’t know how busy you’ve been,’ Rebus added, tapping the diagram.

Storey, who had been leaning over the desk, now pushed himself upright. ‘Maybe time for a little chat with Baird.’

Rebus nodded his agreement.

Bob Baird had been escorted by two uniforms to Portobello police station. They’d made the journey on foot, Baird spending most of that time bellowing in outrage at the humiliation of it all.

‘Which just made people notice us all the more,’ one of the constables reported, with a certain amount of contentment.

‘But it does mean he’s likely to be in a foul temper,’ his colleague warned.

Rebus and Storey looked at one another.

‘Good,’ they said in unison.

Baird was pacing what space there was in the cramped interview room. As the two men walked in, he opened his mouth to utter another list of grievances.

‘Shut it,’ Storey spat. ‘The trouble you’re in, I’d advise you to do absolutely nothing in this room but answer any questions we might see fit to put to you. Understood?’

Baird stared at him, then snorted. ‘Bit of advice, pal — ease up on the sun lamp.’

Storey met the smile with one of his own. ‘I take it that’s a reference to the colour of my skin, Mr Baird? I suppose it helps to be a racist in your game.’

‘And what game’s that?’

Storey had reached into his jacket for his ID. ‘I’m an Immigration official, Mr Baird.’

‘Going to do me under Race Relations, are you?’ Baird snorted again, reminding Rebus of a pig that had missed a meal. ‘All for renting flats to your fellow tribesmen?’

Storey turned to Rebus. ‘You told me he’d be entertaining.’

Rebus folded his arms. ‘That’s because he still thinks this is about diddling the council.’

Storey turned back to Baird, allowed his eyes to widen a little. ‘Is that what you think, Mr Baird? Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

‘Is this one of those hidden-camera shows?’ Baird said. ‘Some comedian pops out to let me in on the joke?’

‘No joke,’ Storey said quietly, shaking his head. ‘You let Stuart Bullen use your flats. He stashed his illegal immigrants there, when he wasn’t working them like the slaves they were. I dare say you met his associate a few times — nice guy by the name of Peter Hill. Tasty connections with the Belfast paramilitaries.’ Storey held up two fingers. ‘Slavery and terrorism: now there’s a combination, eh? And that’s before I get to the people-smuggling — all those fake passports and National Health cards we found in Bullen’s possession.’ Storey held up a third finger, close to Baird’s face. ‘So we get to charge you with conspiracy... not just to defraud the local council and the honest, hardworking taxpayer, but smuggling, slavery, identity theft... sky’s the limit really. Nothing Her Majesty’s lawyers like better than a nice, tight-fitting conspiracy, so if I were you I’d try to retain that sense of humour — you’re going to need it in jail.’ Storey dropped his hand. ‘Mind you... ten, twelve years, the joke might have worn a bit thin.’

There was silence in the room; so quiet, Rebus could hear a watch ticking. He reckoned it was Storey’s: probably a nice model, classy without being showy. It would do the job asked of it, and do it with precision.

A bit, Rebus was forced to admit, like its owner.

The colour had disappeared completely from Baird’s face. He looked calm enough on the surface, but Rebus knew strategic damage had been done. His jaw was set, lips pursed in thought. He’d been in situations before; knew his next few decisions might be the most crucial of his life.

Ten, twelve years, Storey had said. No way would Baird serve anything like that, even with guilty verdicts ringing in his ears. But Storey had pitched it just right: if he’d said fifteen to twenty, chances were Baird would have known he was lying and called his bluff. Or would have decided he might as well take the fall, tell them nothing.

A man with nothing to lose.

But ten to twelve... Baird would be doing the calculations. Say Storey was exaggerating for effect, maybe meaning he’d actually get seven to nine. He’d still have to serve four or five, maybe even a little more. Years became all the more precious when you got to Baird’s age. It had been explained to Rebus once: the great cure for repeat offenders was the ageing process. You didn’t want to die in prison, wanted to be around for kids and grandkids, doing things you’d always wanted to do...

All of this Rebus thought he could read in Baird’s deeply lined face.

And then, finally, the man blinked a few times, stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

‘Ask me your questions,’ he said.

So they asked.

‘Let’s be clear on this,’ Rebus said. ‘You were allowing Stuart Bullen to use some of your flats?’

‘Correct.’

‘Did you know what he was doing with them?’

‘I had an inkling.’

‘How did it start?’

‘He came to see me. He already knew I was sub-letting to needy minorities.’ As he uttered these last two words, Baird’s gaze shifted to Felix Storey.

‘How did he know?’

Baird shrugged. ‘Maybe Peter Hill told him. Hill was hanging around Knoxland, wheeling and dealing — mostly the latter. Chances are, he’d started hearing things.’

‘And you were ready to oblige?’

Baird smiled sourly. ‘I knew Stu’s old man. I’d already met Stu a few times — funerals and what have you. He’s not the sort of fellow you want to say no to.’ Baird lifted the mug to his lips, smacked them afterwards as if savouring the taste. Rebus had made tea for all three of them, poaching from the station’s tiny kitchenette. Only two tea bags remaining in the box: he’d squeezed the life out of them and into three mugs.

‘How well did you know Rab Bullen?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not that well. I was a bit of a wheeler-dealer myself back then. Thought Glasgow might have something to offer... Rab soon put me right. He was pleasant enough — like any other businessman. He just explained the way the city was carved up, and that there was no room for a new boy.’ Baird paused. ‘Shouldn’t you be taping this or something?’

Storey leaned forward in his chair, hands pressed together. ‘This is by way of a preliminary interview.’

‘Meaning there’ll be others?’

Storey nodded slowly. ‘And those will be recorded, videotaped. For now, you might say we’re feeling our way.’

‘Fair enough.’

Rebus had taken out a fresh pack of cigarettes and was offering it round. Storey shook his head, but Baird accepted. There were No Smoking signs on three of the four walls. Baird blew smoke towards one of them.

‘We all break a few rules from time to time, eh?’

Rebus ignored this, asked a question of his own instead. ‘Did you know that Stuart Bullen was part of a people-smuggling operation?’

Baird shook his head emphatically.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Storey said.

‘Doesn’t alter the truth.’

‘Then where exactly did you think all these immigrants were coming from?’

Baird shrugged. ‘Refugees... asylum-seekers... it wasn’t really my business to ask.’

‘You weren’t curious?’

‘Isn’t that what killed the cat?’

‘Even so...’

Baird just shrugged again, examining the tip of his cigarette. Rebus broke the silence with another question.

‘You knew he was using all those people as illegal workers?’

‘I couldn’t have told you if they were illegal or not...’

‘They were breaking their backs for him.’

‘So why didn’t they leave?’

‘You’ve said yourself — you were scared of him... what makes you think they weren’t?’

‘That’s a point.’

‘We’ve got evidence of intimidation.’

‘Could be he’s a product of his genes.’ Baird flicked ash on to the floor.

‘Like father like son?’ Felix Storey added.

Rebus stood up and walked around Baird’s chair, stopping and leaning down, so his face was next to the other man’s shoulder.

‘You say you didn’t know he was a people-smuggler?’

‘No.’

‘Well, now that we’ve enlightened you, what do you think?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Are you surprised?’

Baird thought for a moment. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I don’t know... maybe it’s that Stu never gave any inkling that he could play on that size of stage.’

‘He’s essentially small-time?’ Rebus offered.

Baird thought for another moment, and then nodded. ‘People-smuggling... you’re playing for high stakes, right?’

‘Right,’ Felix Storey agreed. ‘And maybe that’s why Bullen did it — to prove he was a match for his old man.’

This gave Baird pause, and Rebus could see he was thinking of his own son Gareth: fathers and sons with things to prove...

‘Let’s just get this clear,’ Rebus said, moving around the chair again so that he was eye to eye with Baird. ‘You didn’t know anything about the fake IDs, and it surprises you that Bullen was a big enough player to get involved in something like that?’

Baird nodded, keeping eye contact with Rebus.

Now Felix Storey rose to his feet. ‘Well, that’s what he was doing, whether we like it or not...’ He held out a hand, meaning for Baird to shake it, which entailed Baird standing up.

‘You’re letting me go?’ Baird asked.

‘As long as you promise not to do a runner. We’ll call you — might be in a few days. You’ll do another interview, taped this time.’

Baird just nodded, letting go of Storey’s hand. He looked at Rebus, whose hands were staying in his pockets — no handshake on offer there.

‘Can you see yourself out?’ Storey asked.

Baird nodded and turned the door-handle, hardly able to believe his luck. Rebus waited till the door was closed again.

‘What makes you think he won’t run?’ he hissed, not wanting Baird to hear.

‘Gut feeling.’

‘And if you’re wrong?’

‘He’s not given us anything we don’t already have.’

‘He’s a piece of the jigsaw.’

‘Maybe so, John, but if he is, he’s a bit of sky or cloud — I can see the picture clearly enough without him.’

‘The whole picture?’

Storey’s face hardened. ‘You don’t think I’m using up enough Edinburgh police cells as it is?’ He switched on his mobile, started checking for messages.

‘Look,’ Rebus argued, ‘you’ve been working this case for a while, right?’

‘Right.’ Storey was studying his phone’s tiny screen.

‘And how far back can you trace the line? Who else do you know about except Bullen?’

Storey glanced up. ‘We’ve got a few names: an Essex-based haulier, a Turkish gang in Rotterdam...’

‘And they definitely connect to Bullen?’

‘They connect.’

‘And all this is from your anonymous caller? Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you wonder...’

Storey held up a finger, asking for quiet so he could listen to a message. Rebus turned on his heels and walked to the far wall, switched on his own phone. It started ringing almost immediately: not a message but a call.

‘Hello, Caro,’ he said, recognising her number.

‘I just heard on the news.’

‘Heard what?’

‘All those people they’ve arrested in Knoxland... those poor, poor people.’

‘If it’s any consolation, we’ve arrested the bad guys, too — and we’ll be keeping them behind bars long after the others have been sent on their way.’

‘But on their way to where?’

Rebus glanced over at Felix Storey; no easy way to answer her question.

‘John...?’ A split-second before she asked, he knew what her question was going to be. ‘Were you there? When they kicked down the doors and rounded them all up, were you watching?’

He thought of lying, but she deserved better. ‘I was there,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do for a living, Caro.’ He dropped his voice, realising that Storey’s own conversation was ending. ‘Did you hear me telling you we caught the people responsible?’

‘There are other jobs out there, John.’

‘It’s what I am, Caro... take it or leave it.’

‘You sound so angry.’

He glanced towards Storey, who was pocketing his own phone. Realised his issue was with Storey, not Caro. ‘I’ve got to go... can we talk later?’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘The looks on their faces? The babies crying? Can we talk about that?’

Rebus pressed the red button, folded the phone shut.

‘Everything okay?’ Storey asked solicitously.

‘Hunky-dory, Felix.’

‘Jobs like ours can play havoc... That night I came to your flat, I didn’t sense a Mrs Rebus.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet.’

Storey smiled. ‘My own wife... well, we stay together for the kids.’

‘You don’t wear a ring, though.’

Storey held up his left hand. ‘That’s right, I don’t.’

‘Does Phyllida Hawes know you’re married?’

The smile disappeared, eyes narrowed. ‘None of your business, John.’

‘Fair enough... let’s talk about this “Deep Throat” of yours instead.’

‘What about him?’

‘He seems to know a hell of a lot.’

‘So?’

‘You’ve not asked yourself what his motive is?’

‘Not really.’

‘And you’ve not asked him?’

‘You want me to scare him off?’ Storey folded his arms. ‘Now why would you want that?’

‘Stop twisting things round.’

‘Know what, John? After Stuart Bullen mentioned that man Cafferty, I did a bit of background reading. You and Cafferty go back a long way.’

It was Rebus’s turn to scowl. ‘What are you saying?’

Storey held up his hands in apology. ‘That was out of line. Tell you what...’ He checked his watch. ‘I think we deserve some lunch — my treat. Anywhere local you’d recommend?’

Rebus shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Storey. ‘We’ll drive into Leith, find something down by the shore.’

‘Shame you’re driving,’ Storey said. ‘Means I’ll have to drink for both of us.’

‘I dare say I could manage a glass,’ Rebus assured him.

Storey held the door open, gesturing for Rebus to walk ahead of him. Rebus did so, eyes unblinking, thoughts churning. Storey had been rattled, using Cafferty to turn the tables on Rebus. What was it he was afraid of?

‘Your anonymous caller,’ Rebus said, almost casually, ‘you ever tape your conversations with him?’

‘No.’

‘Any idea how he came by your number?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve no way of calling him back?’

‘No.’

Rebus glanced over his shoulder at the glowering figure of the Immigration man. ‘He’s hardly real at all, is he, Felix?’

‘Real enough,’ Storey growled. ‘Else we wouldn’t be here.’

Rebus just shrugged.

‘We’ve got him,’ Les Young told Siobhan as she walked into Banehall Library. Roy Brinkley was on the desk, and she’d smiled at him as she passed. The murder room was buzzing, and now she knew why.

They’d caught Spider Man.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘You know I sent Maxton to Barlinnie to ask about any friends Cruikshank might have made? Well, the name Mark Saunders came up.’

‘Spider’s-web tattoo?’

Young nodded. ‘Served three years of a five for indecent assault. He got out the month before Cruikshank. Moved back to his home town.’

‘Not Banehall?’

Young shook his head. ‘Bo’ness. It’s only ten miles north.’

‘Is that where you found him?’ She watched Young nod again. She couldn’t help being reminded of the toy dogs she used to see on the back shelves of cars. ‘And he’s confessed to Cruikshank’s murder?’

The nodding came to an abrupt halt.

‘I suppose that was asking too much,’ she admitted.

‘The thing is, though,’ Young argued, ‘he didn’t come forward when the story broke.’

‘Meaning he has something to hide? Couldn’t be he just thinks we’d try fitting him up for it...’

Now Young frowned. ‘That’s pretty much exactly the excuse he gave.’

‘You’ve talked to him then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ask him about the flick?’

‘What about it?’

‘Why he made it.’

Young folded his arms. ‘He has this idea he’s going to be some kind of porn baron, selling over the internet.’

‘He obviously did a lot of thinking in the Bar-L.’

‘That’s where he studied computers, Web design...’

‘Nice to see we’re offering such useful skills to our sex offenders.’

Young’s shoulders slumped a little. ‘You don’t think he did it?’

‘Give me a motive and ask me again.’

‘Guys like that... they fall out all the time.’

‘I fall out with my mum every time I talk to her on the phone — I don’t think I’m going to go for her with a hammer...’

Young noticed the look which suddenly came to her face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘Where’s Saunders being held?’

‘Livingston. I’ve got another session with him in an hour or so, if you fancy sitting in...’

But Siobhan was shaking her head. ‘Few things I need to do.’

Young was studying his shoes. ‘Maybe we can hook up later then?’

‘Maybe,’ she allowed.

He made to move off, but seemed to think of something. ‘We’re interviewing the Jardines, too.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped, Siobhan.’

‘I know — you’re doing your job. But go easy on them.’

‘Don’t worry, my strongarm days are behind me.’ He seemed pleased by the smile he received. ‘And those names you gave us — Tracy Jardine’s friends — we’re finally getting round to them, too.’

Meaning Susie...

Angie...

Janet Eylot...

Janine Harrison...

‘You think there’s a cover-up?’ she asked.

‘Let’s just say Banehall’s not exactly been cooperative.’

‘They’re letting us use their library.’

It was Les Young’s turn to smile. ‘That’s true.’

‘Funny,’ Siobhan said, ‘Donny Cruikshank died in a town full of enemies, and the one person we’ve zoned in on is just about the only friend he had.’

Young shrugged. ‘You’ve seen it yourself, Siobhan — when friends fall out, it can be uglier than any vendetta.’

‘That’s true,’ she said quietly, nodding to herself.

Les Young was playing with his watch. ‘Got to get going,’ he told her.

‘Me too, Les. Good luck with Spider Man. I hope he spills his guts.’

He was standing in front of her. ‘But you wouldn’t bank on it?’

She smiled again and shook her head. ‘Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.’

Mollified, he gave her a wink and headed for the door. She waited until she heard a car starting outside, then headed for the reception desk, where Roy Brinkley was sitting at his computer screen, checking a title’s availability for one of his customers. The woman was tiny and frail-looking, hands gripping her walking-frame, head twitching slightly. She turned towards Siobhan and gave a beaming smile.

‘Cop Hater,’ Brinkley was saying, ‘that’s the one you want, Mrs Shields. I can order it by inter-library loan.’

Mrs Shields nodded that this was satisfactory. She started shuffling away.

‘I’ll give you a bell when it comes in,’ Brinkley called after her. Then, to Siobhan: ‘One of my regulars.’

‘And she hates cops?’

‘It’s Ed McBain — Mrs Shields likes the hard-boiled stuff.’ He finished typing in the request, adding a flourish to his final keystroke. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ he asked, standing up.

‘I’ve noticed you keep newspapers,’ Siobhan said, nodding towards the circular table where four pensioners were swapping tabloid sections between them.

‘We get most of the dailies, plus some magazines.’

‘And when you’re finished with them?’

‘We chuck them.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘Some of the bigger libraries have room to keep them.’

‘But not you?’

He shook his head. ‘Something you were looking for?’

‘An Evening News from last week.’

‘Then you’re in luck,’ he said, emerging from behind his desk. ‘Follow me.’

He led her to a locked door. The sign said ‘Staff Only’. Brinkley punched numbers into the keypad and pushed the door open. It led to a small staff room with kitchen sink, kettle and microwave. Another door led to a toilet cubicle, but Brinkley went to the door next to it, turning the handle.

‘Storage,’ he said.

It was a place where old books went to die — shelves of them, some missing their covers or with loose pages seeping from within.

‘Every now and again we try to flog them off,’ he explained. ‘If that doesn’t work, there are charity shops. But then there are some that even the charities don’t want.’ He opened one to show Siobhan that the last few pages had been torn out. ‘Those we recycle, along with old magazines and papers.’ He tapped his shoe against a bulging carrier-bag. There were others next to it, filled with newsprint. ‘As luck would have it, our recycling run’s tomorrow.’

‘You’re sure “luck” is the right word?’ Siobhan said sceptically. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea which of these bags might hold last week’s papers?’

‘You’re the detective.’ The faint sound of a buzzer came from outside: a customer was waiting at Brinkley’s desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said with a smile.

‘Thanks.’ Siobhan stood there, hands on hips, and took a deep breath. The air was musty, and she considered her alternatives. There were a few, but they all involved a drive back into Edinburgh, after which she’d just have to come back out to Banehall.

Decided, she crouched down and pulled a paper from the first bag, checking the date. Kept it out and tried another from further back. Kept that one out, too, and tried another. Same procedure with the second and third bags. In the third, she found papers from a fortnight back, so she cleared a space and pulled out the whole lot, sifting through them. She usually took an Evening News home with her at night, sometimes flicking through it over the next morning’s breakfast. It was a good way to find out what the councillors and politicians were up to. But now the recent headlines seemed stale to her. Most of them she couldn’t recall from first time around. Finally she found what she was looking for and tore the entire page out, folding it and sliding it into her pocket. The papers wouldn’t all fit back in the bag, but she did her best. Then stopped at the sink for a mug of cold water. Making to leave, she gave Brinkley the thumbs-up, and headed to her car.

Really, it was walking distance to the Salon, but she was in a hurry. She double-parked, knowing she wouldn’t be long. Went to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. She peered through the glass: nobody home. The opening hours were posted on a sign behind the window. Closed Wednesday and Sunday. But this was Tuesday. And then she saw another sign, hastily hand-written on a paper bag. It had been stuck to the window but had come loose and now lay on the floor — ‘Closed due to un4seen’. The next word had started out as ‘circumstances’, but the spelling had proved a problem to the writer, who’d crossed it out, leaving the message unfinished.

Siobhan cursed herself. Hadn’t Les Young himself told her? They were being interviewed. Officially interviewed. Meaning a trip to Livingston. She got back in her car and headed that way.

Traffic was light and it didn’t take long. Soon, she was finding a parking spot outside F Division HQ. Went inside and asked the Desk Sergeant about the Cruikshank interviews. He pointed her in the right direction. She knocked on the door of the interview room, pushed it open. Les Young and another CID suit were inside. Across the table from them sat a man covered in tattoos.

‘Sorry,’ Siobhan apologised, cursing once more beneath her breath. She waited in the corridor a moment to see if Young would emerge, wondering what she was up to. He didn’t. She released the breath she’d been holding and tried the next door along. Two more suits looked up at her, frowning at the intrusion.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Siobhan said, walking in. Angie was looking up at her. ‘Just wondered if anyone knew where I could find Susie?’

‘Waiting room,’ one of the suits said.

Siobhan gave Angie a reassuring smile and made her exit. Third door lucky, she was thinking.

And she was right. Susie was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, filing her nails and chewing gum. She was nodding at something Janet Eylot was telling her. The two women were alone, no sign of Janine Harrison. Siobhan saw Les Young’s reasoning — bring them together, get them talking, maybe nervous. No one felt entirely at ease in a police station. Janet Eylot looked particularly twitchy. Siobhan remembered the wine bottles in her fridge. Janet probably wouldn’t say no to a drink right this minute, something to take the edge off...

‘Hello there,’ Siobhan said. ‘Susie, mind if I have a word?’

Eylot’s face fell further. Perhaps she was wondering why she alone was being excluded, why the others were all talking to the police.

‘Won’t be a minute,’ Siobhan assured her. Not that Susie was in a hurry to leave. First, she had to open her leopard-spot shoulder bag, take out her make-up bag, and tuck the nail-file back beneath its little elasticated band. Only then did she stand up and follow Siobhan into the corridor.

‘My turn for the inquisition?’ she said.

‘Not quite.’ Siobhan was unfolding the sheet of newspaper. She held it up in front of Susie. ‘Recognise him?’ she asked.

It was the photo accompanying the Fleshmarket Close story: Ray Mangold in front of his pub, arms folded and smiling genially, Judith Lennox next to him.

‘He looks like...’ Susie had stopped chewing her gum.

‘Yes?’

‘The one who used to pick up Ishbel.’

‘Any idea who he is?’

Susie shook her head.

‘He used to run the Albatross nightclub,’ Siobhan prompted.

‘We went there a few times.’ Susie studied the photo more closely. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it...’

‘Ishbel’s mystery boyfriend?’

Susie was nodding. ‘Might be.’

‘Only “might”?’

‘I told you, I never really got a good look at him. But this is close... might well be him.’ She nodded slowly to herself. ‘And you know the funny thing?’

‘What?’

Susie pointed at the headline. ‘I saw this when it came out, but it never dawned on me. I mean, it’s just a picture, isn’t it? You never think...’

‘No, Susie, you never do,’ Siobhan said, folding the page closed. ‘You never do.’

‘This interview and everything,’ Susie was saying, dropping her voice a little, ‘do you reckon we’re in trouble?’

‘For what? You didn’t gang up and kill Donny Cruikshank, did you?’

Susie screwed up her face in answer. ‘But that stuff we wrote in the toilets... that’s vandalism, isn’t it?’

‘From what I saw of the Bane, Susie, a decent lawyer would argue it was interior design.’ Siobhan waited till Susie smiled. ‘So don’t worry about it... any of you. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘And make sure you tell Janet.’

Susie studied Siobhan’s face. ‘You’ve noticed then?’

‘Looks to me like she needs her friends right now.’

‘Always has done,’ Susie said, regret creeping into her voice.

‘Do your best for her then, eh?’ Siobhan touched Susie on the arm, watched as she nodded, then gave a smile and turned to leave.

‘Next time you need a restyle, it’s on the house,’ Susie called to her.

‘Just the kind of bribe I’m open to,’ Siobhan called back, giving a little wave.

28

She found a parking space on Cockburn Street, and walked up Fleshmarket Close, turning left on to the High Street and left again into the Warlock. The clientele was mixed: workmen on a break; business types poring over the daily papers; tourists busy with maps and guidebooks.

‘He’s not here,’ the barman informed her. ‘Hang around twenty minutes, he might be back.’

She nodded, ordered a soft drink. Made to pay for it but he shook his head. She paid anyway — some people she’d rather not owe a favour to. He shrugged and pushed the coins into a charity tin.

She rested on one of the high stools at the bar, took a sip of the ice-cold drink. ‘So where is he, do you know?’

‘Just out somewhere.’

Siobhan took another sip. ‘He’s got a car, right?’ The barman stared at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not fishing,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that parking’s a nightmare round here. I was wondering how he managed.’

‘Know the lock-ups on Market Street?’

She started to shake her head, but then nodded instead. ‘All those arch-shaped doors in the wall?’

‘They’re garages. He’s got one of those. Christ knows how much it cost him.’

‘So he keeps his car there?’

‘Parks it and walks here — only exercise I’ve ever known him take...’

Siobhan was already heading for the door.

Market Street faced the main railway line south from Waverley Station. Behind it, Jeffrey Street curved steeply towards the Canongate. The lock-ups sat in a row at pavement level, tapering in size depending on Jeffrey Street’s incline. Some were too small to fit a car inside, all but one were padlocked shut. Siobhan arrived just as Ray Mangold was pulling his own doors closed.

‘Nice bit of kit,’ she said. It took him a moment to place her, then his eyes followed hers to the red Jaguar convertible.

‘I like it,’ he said.

‘I’ve always wondered about these places,’ Siobhan went on, studying the lock-up’s arched brick roof. ‘They’re great, aren’t they?’

Mangold’s eyes were on her. ‘Who told you I owned one?’

She smiled at him. ‘I’m a detective, Mr Mangold.’ She was walking around the car.

‘You won’t find anything,’ he snapped.

‘What is it you think I’m looking for?’ He was right, of course: she was taking in every inch of the interior.

‘Christ knows... more bloody skeletons maybe.’

‘This isn’t about skeletons, Mr Mangold.’

‘No?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s Ishbel I’m wondering about.’ She stopped in front of him. ‘I’m wondering what you’ve done with her.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘How did you get those bruises?’

‘I’ve already told you...’

‘Any witnesses? As far as I recall, when I asked your barman he said he wasn’t involved. Maybe an hour or two in an interview room would help him tell the truth.’

‘Look...’

‘No, you look!’ She’d straightened her back so that she was barely an inch shorter than him. The doors were still a few feet ajar, a passer-by pausing for a moment to take in the argument. Siobhan ignored him. ‘You knew Ishbel from the Albatross,’ she told Mangold. ‘You started seeing her, picked her up a few times from work. I’ve got a witness who saw you. I dare say if I go showing photos of you and your car around Banehall, a few more memories would be jogged. Now Ishbel’s gone missing, and you’ve got bruises on your face.’

‘You think I’ve done something to her?’ He’d reached for the doors, was about to pull them shut. But Siobhan couldn’t have that. She kicked one of them, so it swung wide open. A tour bus was rumbling past, the passengers staring. Siobhan gave them a wave and turned to Mangold.

‘Plenty of witnesses,’ she warned him.

His eyes widened further. ‘Christ... look...’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I haven’t done anything to Ishbel!’

‘So prove it.’ Siobhan folded her arms. ‘Tell me what’s happened to her.’

‘Nothing’s happened to her!’

‘You know where she is?’

Mangold looked at her, lips clamped shut, jaw moving from side to side. When he finally spoke, it was like an explosion.

‘Yes, all right, I know where she is.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘She’s fine... she’s alive and well.’

‘And not answering her mobile.’

‘Because it would only be her mum and dad.’ Now that he’d spoken, it was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He leaned back against the Jaguar’s front wheel-arch. ‘They’re the reason she left in the first place.’

‘So prove it — show me where she is.’

He looked at his watch. ‘She’s probably on a train.’

‘A train?’

‘Coming back to Edinburgh. She’s been shopping in Newcastle.’

‘Newcastle?’

‘Better shops, apparently, and more of them.’

‘What time are you expecting her?’

He shook his head. ‘Some time this afternoon. I don’t know what time the trains get in.’

Siobhan stared at him. ‘No, but I do.’ She took her phone out and called Gayfield CID. Phyllida Hawes answered. ‘Phyl, it’s Siobhan. Is Col there? Put him on, will you?’ She waited a moment, her gaze still on Mangold. Then: ‘Col? It’s Siobhan. Listen, you’re the man with the plan... What time do the trains from Newcastle arrive...?’

Rebus sat in the CID office at Torphichen and stared once more at the sheets of paper on the desk in front of him.

They represented a thorough job. The names from the roster in Peter Hill’s car had been checked against those arrested on the beach at Cramond, then cross-checked against the residents of the flats on the third floor of Stevenson House. The office itself was quiet. With the interviews finished, vans had headed off towards Whitemire, bearing a cargo of fresh inmates. As far as Rebus knew, Whitemire had been near capacity as it was — how they would cope with this influx he could only imagine. As Storey himself had put it:

‘They’re a private company. If there’s profit in it, they’ll manage.’

Felix Storey had not compiled the list on Rebus’s desk. Felix Storey hadn’t paid much attention to it when it had been presented to him. He was already talking about heading back down to London. Other cases crying out for his attention. He would return from time to time, of course, to oversee the prosecution of Stuart Bullen.

In his own words, he would ‘stay in the loop’.

Rebus’s comment: ‘Like a hamster on its wheel.’

He looked up now as Rat-Arse Reynolds came into the room, looking around as though seeking someone. He was carrying a brown paper bag, and seemed pleased with himself.

‘Can I help you, Charlie?’ Rebus asked.

Reynolds grinned. ‘Got a going-away present for your pal.’ He lifted a bunch of bananas from the bag. ‘Trying to figure the best place to leave them.’

‘Because you’ve not got the guts to do it to his face?’ Rebus had risen slowly to his feet.

‘Just a bit of a laugh, John.’

‘For you maybe. Something tells me Felix Storey won’t be quite so easy to please.’

‘That’s true, actually.’ The speaker was Storey himself. As he came into the room he was checking the knot in his tie, smoothing it down against his shirt front.

Reynolds slid the bananas back into their bag, clutching it to his chest.

‘Those for me?’ Storey asked.

‘No,’ Reynolds said.

Storey got right into his face. ‘I’m black, therefore I’m a monkey — that’s your logic, is it?’

‘No.’

Storey had started opening the bag. ‘As it happens, I like a nice banana... but these look past it to me. A bit like yourself, Reynolds: going rancid.’ He closed the bag again. ‘Now off you go and try playing detective for a change. Here’s your challenge — to find out what everyone around here calls you behind your back.’ Storey patted Reynolds’s left cheek, then stood with arms folded to indicate that he was dismissed.

After he’d gone, Storey turned to Rebus and winked.

‘Tell you another funny thing,’ Rebus said.

‘I’m always up for a laugh.’

‘This is more funny-peculiar than funny-ha-ha.’

‘What is?’

Rebus tapped one of the sheets of paper on his desk. ‘Some of the names, we don’t have bodies for.’

‘Maybe they heard us coming and did a runner.’

‘Maybe.’

Storey rested his backside against the edge of the desk. ‘Could be they were working a shift when the raid went down. If they got wind of it, they’re not likely to turn up in Knoxland, are they?’

‘No,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Chinese-looking names, most of them... And one African. Chantal Rendille.’

‘Rendille? You think that sounds African?’ Storey frowned, craned his neck to study the paperwork. ‘Chantal’s a French name, isn’t it?’

‘French is the national language of Senegal,’ Rebus explained.

‘Your elusive witness?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering. I might show it to Kate.’

‘Who’s Kate?’

‘A student from Senegal. There’s something I need to ask her anyway...’

Storey eased himself upright from the desk. ‘Best of luck then.’

‘Hang on,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s something else.’

Storey let out a sigh. ‘And what’s that?’

Rebus tapped another of the sheets. ‘Whoever did this went the extra yard.’

‘Oh yes?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Every single one we interviewed, they were asked for an address prior to Knoxland.’ Rebus looked up, but Storey just shrugged. ‘Some of them gave Whitemire.’

Now he had Storey’s attention. ‘What?’

‘Seems they were bailed.’

‘Bailed by who?’

‘A variety of names, probably all of them fake. Fake contact addresses, too.’

‘Bullen?’ Storey guessed.

‘That’s what I’m thinking. It’s perfect — he bails them out, puts them to work. Any of them complain, Whitemire’s hanging over them like a noose. And if that doesn’t work, he’s always got the skeletons.’

Storey was nodding slowly. ‘Makes sense.’

‘I think we need to talk to someone at Whitemire.’

‘To what end?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Lot easier to pull something like this off with a friend... how can I put it?’ Rebus pretended to search for the phrase. ‘In the loop?’ he suggested at last.

Storey just glared at him. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘So who is it we need to talk to?’

‘Man called Alan Traynor. But before we get started with all that...’

‘There’s more?’

‘Just a little bit.’ Rebus’s eyes were still on the sheets of paper. He’d used a pen to draw lines connecting some of the names, nationalities and places. ‘The people we found in Stevenson House — and the ones on the beach for that matter...’

‘What about them?’

‘Some came from Whitemire. Others hold expired visas, or the wrong kind...’

‘Yes?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘A few don’t have any paperwork at all... leaving just a tiny handful who seem to’ve arrived here on the back of a lorry. A tiny handful, Felix, and no fake passports or other IDs.’

‘So?’

‘So where’s this vast smuggling operation gone to? Bullen’s this master criminal with a safe full of dodgy documents. How come nothing’s turned up outside his office?’

‘Could be he’d only just received a fresh consignment from his friends in London.’

‘London?’ Rebus frowned. ‘You didn’t tell me he had friends in London.’

‘I said Essex, didn’t I? Same thing essentially.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘So are we going to visit Whitemire or what?’

‘One last thing...’ Rebus held up a finger. ‘Just between the two of us, is there anything you’re not telling me about Stuart Bullen?’

‘Such as?’

‘I’ll only know that when you tell me.’

‘John... it’s case closed. We got a result. What more do you want?’

‘Maybe I just want to make sure I’m...’

Storey held a hand up in mock warning, but too late.

‘In the loop,’ Rebus said.

Back to Whitemire: passing Caro at the side of the road. She was talking into her mobile, didn’t so much as glance up at them.

The usual security checks, gates unlocked and locked again behind them. The guard escorting them from the car park to the main building. There were half a dozen empty vans in the car park — the refugees had already arrived. Felix Storey seemed interested in everything around him.

‘I’m assuming you’ve not been here before?’ Rebus asked. Storey shook his head.

‘Been to Belmarsh a few times, though — heard of it?’ Rebus’s turn to shake his head. ‘It’s in London. A proper prison — high security. That’s where the asylum-seekers are kept.’

‘Nice.’

‘Makes this place look like Club Med.’

Waiting for them at the main door: Alan Traynor. Not bothering to hide his irritation.

‘Look, whatever this is, can’t it wait? We’re trying to process dozens of new arrivals.’

‘I know,’ Felix Storey said, ‘I’m the one who sent them.’

Traynor didn’t seem to hear; too preoccupied with his own problems. ‘We’ve had to commandeer the canteen... even so, it’s going to take hours.’

‘In which case, sooner you’re rid of us the better,’ Storey suggested. Traynor let escape a theatrical sigh.

‘Very well then. Follow me.’

In the outer office, they passed Janet Eylot. She looked up from her computer, eyes boring into Rebus’s. She got as far as opening her mouth to say something, but Rebus spoke first.

‘Mr Traynor? Sorry, but I need to use the...’ Rebus had seen a toilet in the corridor. He was pointing a thumb in its direction. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he said. Storey’s eyes were on him, knowing he was up to something but unsure what. Rebus just gave a wink and turned on his heels. Retraced his steps through the office and into the corridor.

And waited there until he heard Traynor’s door close. Popped his head into the doorway and gave a little whistle. Janet Eylot left her desk, came to meet him.

‘You lot!’ she hissed. Rebus put a finger to his lips and she lowered her voice. It still trembled with rage. ‘I haven’t had a minute’s peace, not since I first spoke to you. I’ve had police at my door... in my kitchen... and now I’m just back from Livingston police headquarters and here you are again! And we’ve got all these new arrivals — how are we supposed to cope?’

‘Easy, Janet, easy.’ She was shaking, eyes red-rimmed and watery. There was a pulse fluttering behind her left eyelid. ‘It’ll soon be over, nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Not even when I’m a suspect in a murder?’

‘I’m sure you’re not a suspect; it’s just something that has to be done.’

‘And you’ve not come here to talk to Mr Traynor about me? Isn’t it bad enough that I had to lie to him about this morning? Told him it was a family emergency.’

‘Why not just tell him the truth?’

She shook her head violently. Rebus leaned past her and peered into the office. Traynor’s door was still closed. ‘Look, they’ll be getting suspicious...’

‘I want to know why this is happening! Why is it happening to me?’

Rebus held her by both shoulders. ‘Just hang in there, Janet. Not much longer.’

‘I don’t know how much more I can take...’ Her voice was dying away, eyes losing focus.

‘One day at a time, Janet, that’s the best way,’ Rebus offered, dropping his hands. He held eye contact for a moment. ‘Take it one day at a time,’ he repeated, walking past her, not looking back.

He knocked on Traynor’s door, entered and closed it behind him.

The two men were seated. Rebus lowered himself into the empty chair.

‘I’ve just been telling Mr Traynor about Stuart Bullen’s network,’ Storey said.

‘And I’m incredulous,’ Traynor said, throwing up his hands. Rebus ignored him, met Felix Storey’s stare.

‘You haven’t told him?’

‘Waiting for you to come back.’

‘Told me what?’ Traynor asked, trying for a smile. Rebus turned to him.

‘Mr Traynor, quite a few of the people we detained had come from Whitemire. They’d been bailed out by Stuart Bullen.’

‘Impossible.’ The smile had gone. Traynor looked at both men. ‘We wouldn’t have let him do it.’

Storey shrugged. ‘There would’ve been aliases, false addresses...’

‘But we interview the applicants.’

‘You personally, Mr Traynor?’

‘Not always, no.’

‘He’d have had people fronting for him, respectable-looking people.’ Storey produced a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve got the Whitemire list here... easy enough for you to check it.’

Traynor took the piece of paper and studied it.

‘Any of the names ring a bell?’ Rebus asked.

Traynor just nodded slowly, thoughtfully. His phone rang, and he picked it up.

‘Oh yes, hello,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘No, we can cope, it’s just going to take a bit of time. Might mean increasing the workload for the staff... Yes, I’m sure I could do a spreadsheet, but it might not be for a few days...’ He listened, eyes on his two visitors. ‘Well, of course,’ he said at last. ‘And if we could take on some new staff, or poach a few from one of our sister facilities...? Just until the new intake’s bedded in, so to speak...’

The conversation lasted only another minute, Traynor jotting something down on a sheet of paper as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

‘You can see what it’s like,’ he told Rebus and Storey.

‘Organised chaos?’ Storey guessed.

‘Which is why I really must cut this meeting short.’

‘Must you?’ Rebus said.

‘Yes, I really must.’

‘And that wouldn’t be because you’re scared of what we’ll say next?’

‘I don’t quite catch your drift, Inspector.’

‘Want me to do you a spreadsheet?’ Rebus gave an ice-cold smile. ‘A lot easier to pull something like this off with someone on the inside.’

‘What?’

‘Some cash changing hands, over and above the bail money.’

‘Look, I really don’t like the tone you’re taking.’

‘Take another look at the list, Mr Traynor. Couple of Kurdish names there — Turkish Kurds, same as the Yurgiis.’

‘So what?’

‘When I asked you, you said no Kurds had been bailed from Whitemire.’

‘Then I made a mistake.’

‘Another name on the list — I think it says she’s from the Ivory Coast.’

Traynor looked down at the sheet of paper. ‘That appears to be what it says.’

‘Ivory Coast — official language: French. But when I asked you about Africans in Whitemire, you said the same thing — none had been bailed.’

‘Look, I’ve had a lot on my plate... I really don’t remember saying that.’

‘I think you do, and the only reason I can think for you to lie is that you had something to hide. You didn’t want me to know about these people, because then I might have gone looking for them and found out about their sponsors’ fake names and addresses.’ It was Rebus’s turn to hold his hands up. ‘Unless you can think of another reason.’

Traynor slammed both hands against the desktop and rose to his feet, face darkening. ‘You’ve got no right to make these accusations!’

‘Convince me.’

‘I don’t think I need to.’

‘I think you do, Mr Traynor,’ Felix Storey said quietly. ‘Because the allegations are serious, and they’ll have to be investigated, which means my men going through your files, checking and cross-checking. They’ll swarm all over this place. And we’ll be looking at your personal life, too — bank deposits, recent purchases... maybe a new car or expensive holiday. Rest assured, we’ll be thorough.’

Traynor had his head bowed down. When the phone started ringing again, he swept it from his desk, sending a framed photo flying at the same time. The glass smashed, dislodging the photograph: a woman smiling, arm around her young daughter. The door opened, Janet Eylot’s head appearing.

‘Get out!’ Traynor roared.

Eylot squeaked as she retreated.

Silence in the room for a moment, broken eventually by Rebus. ‘One more thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Bullen’s going down, no two ways about it. Reckon he’ll be keeping his mouth shut about anyone else involved? He’ll take down whoever he can. Some of them he might be scared of, but he won’t be scared of you, Traynor. Once we start doing deals with him, I’d say your name’s going to be the first one out of his mouth.’

‘I can’t do this... not now.’ Traynor’s voice was close to breaking. ‘I have all these new arrivals to take care of.’ He looked up at Rebus, appeared to be blinking back tears. ‘These people need me.’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘And afterwards, you’ll speak to us?’

‘I’ll have to think about that.’

‘If you do talk,’ Storey confided, ‘there’s less reason for us to come crawling all over your little domain.’

Traynor gave a twisted smile. ‘My “domain”? The minute you make your allegation public, I’ll lose this place.’

‘Maybe you should have thought of that before.’

Traynor said nothing. He came out from behind his desk, picked up the telephone, putting the receiver back in place. Immediately, it started ringing again. Traynor ignored it, bent down to pick up the photo frame.

‘Will you leave now, please? We’ll talk again later.’

‘But not much later,’ Storey warned him.

‘I need to see to the new arrivals.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’ Storey prompted. ‘We’ll be back first thing.’

Traynor nodded. ‘Check with Janet that there’s nothing in my diary.’

Storey seemed content with this. He stood up, buttoning his jacket. ‘Then we’ll leave you to it. But remember, Mr Traynor — this isn’t going to go away. Best that you speak to us before Bullen does.’ He held out his hand, but Traynor ignored it. Storey opened the door and made his exit, Rebus staying behind an extra moment before joining him. Janet Eylot was flicking through a large desk diary. She found the relevant page.

‘He’s got a meeting at ten fifteen.’

‘Cancel it,’ Storey ordered. ‘What time does he start work?’

‘Around eight thirty.’

‘Book us in for then. We’ll need a couple of hours minimum.’

‘His next meeting’s at noon — should I cancel that, too?’

Storey nodded. Rebus was staring at the closed door. ‘John,’ Storey said, ‘you’ll be with me tomorrow, right?’

‘I thought you were keen to get back to London.’

Storey shrugged. ‘This ties everything into one neat bundle.’

‘Then I’ll be here.’

The guard who’d escorted them from the car park was waiting to show them out. Rebus touched Storey’s arm. ‘Can you wait for me at the car?’

Storey stared at him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Just someone I want to see... it won’t take a minute.’

‘You’re locking me out,’ Storey stated.

‘Maybe I am. But will you do it anyway?’

Storey took his time deciding, then agreed.

Rebus asked the guard to take him over towards the canteen. It was only when Storey was out of earshot that he refined his request.

‘Actually, I want the family wing,’ he said.

When he got there, he saw what he needed to: Stef Yurgii’s kids, playing with the toys Rebus had bought. They didn’t notice him; too wrapped up in their own worlds, same as any other children. There was no immediate sign of Yurgii’s widow, but Rebus decided he didn’t need to see her. Instead, he nodded to the guard, who led him back towards the courtyard.

Rebus was halfway to the car when he heard the scream. It was coming from inside the main building, getting closer. The door burst open and a woman stumbled out, falling to her knees. It was Janet Eylot, and she was still screaming.

Rebus ran towards her, conscious that Storey was heading that way too.

‘What’s the matter, Janet? What is it?’

‘He’s... he’s...’

But instead of answering, she slumped to the ground and started wailing, pulling her knees up, curving her body to meet them. Lying on her side, arms locked around herself.

‘Oh God,’ she cried. ‘God have mercy...’

They ran inside, down the corridor and into the outer office. The door to Traynor’s room was open, staff members filling the doorway. Rebus and Storey pushed past. A uniformed female guard was kneeling by the body on the floor. There was blood everywhere, soaking into the carpet and into Alan Traynor’s shirt. The guard was pressing the palm of her hand against a wound on Traynor’s left wrist. Another guard, male this time, was working on the slashed right wrist. Traynor was conscious, staring wide-eyed, chest rising and falling. There was more blood smeared across his face.

‘Get a doctor...’

‘An ambulance...’

‘Keep pressing...’

‘Towels...’

‘Bandages...’

‘Just keep the pressure on!’ the female guard yelled to her male colleague.

Keep the pressure on indeed, Rebus thought: wasn’t that exactly what he and Storey had done?

There were shards of glass on Traynor’s shirt. Shards from the cracked photo frame. The shards he’d used to cut open his wrists. Rebus realised that Storey was looking at him. He returned the stare.

You knew, didn’t you? Storey’s look seemed to be saying. You knew it would come to this... and yet you did nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And the look Rebus gave him back, it said nothing at all.

When the ambulance arrived, Rebus was just inside the perimeter fence, finishing a cigarette. As the gates were opened, he stepped out on to the road, walking past the guardhouse and down the slope towards where Caro Quinn was standing, watching the ambulance disappear into the compound.

‘Not another suicide?’ she asked, appalled.

‘An attempt anyway,’ Rebus informed her. ‘But not one of the inmates.’

‘Who then?’

‘Alan Traynor.’

‘What?’ Her whole face seemed to crease itself into the question.

‘Tried slashing his wrists.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘I really don’t know. Good news for you, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Next few days, Caro, a lot of shit’s going to start flying. Maybe even enough to see this place shut down.’

‘And you call that good news?’

Rebus frowned. ‘It’s what you’ve been wanting.’

‘Not like this! At the cost of another man’s life!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Rebus argued.

‘I think you did.’

‘Then you’re paranoid.’

She took half a step back. ‘Is that what I am?’

‘Look, I just thought...’

‘You don’t know me, John. You don’t know me at all...’

Rebus paused, as if considering his answer. ‘I can live with that,’ he said at last, turning to head back to the gates.

Storey was waiting for him at the car. His only comment: ‘You seem to know a lot of people around here.’

Rebus gave a snort. Both men watched as one of the paramedics jogged back to the ambulance for something he’d forgotten.

‘Reckon we should have made that two ambulances,’ Storey said.

‘Janet Eylot?’ Rebus guessed.

Storey nodded. ‘Staff are worried about her. She’s in another of the offices, lying on the floor wrapped in blankets, shaking like a leaf.’

‘I told her everything would be all right,’ Rebus said quietly, almost to himself.

‘Then I won’t go depending on you for an expert opinion.’

‘No,’ Rebus said, ‘you definitely shouldn’t do that...’

29

The train was fifteen minutes late.

Siobhan and Mangold were waiting at the end of the platform, watching the doors slide open, the passengers start spilling out. There were tourists with suitcases, looking tired and bewildered. Business travellers emerged from the first-class compartments and headed briskly towards the taxi rank. Mothers with kids and buggies; elderly couples; single men swaggering, light-headed after three or four hours of drinking.

No sign of Ishbel.

It was a long platform, plenty of exit points. Siobhan craned her neck, hoping they wouldn’t miss her, aware of tuts and looks from the new arrivals as they were forced to move around her.

And then Mangold’s hand was on her arm. ‘There she is,’ he said.

She was closer than Siobhan had realised, laden with carrier bags. Seeing Mangold, she lifted these and opened her mouth wide, excited by the day’s expedition. She hadn’t noticed Siobhan. Moreover, without Mangold’s prompting, Siobhan might have let her walk straight past.

Because she was the old Ishbel again: hair restyled and back to its natural colour. No longer a copy of her dead sister.

Ishbel Jardine, large as life, throwing her arms around Mangold and planting a lingering kiss on his lips. She had her eyes screwed shut, but Mangold’s stayed open, looking over Ishbel’s shoulder towards Siobhan. Eventually Ishbel took a step back, and Mangold turned her a little by the shoulder, so she was facing Siobhan.

And recognising her.

‘Oh, Christ, it’s you.’

‘Hello, Ishbel.’

‘I’m not going back! You have to tell them that!’

‘Why not just tell them yourself?’

But Ishbel was shaking her head. ‘They’d make me... they’d talk me into it. You don’t know what they’re like. I’ve let them control me for way too long!’

‘There’s a waiting room,’ Siobhan said, pointing towards the concourse. The crowd had thinned, taxis labouring up the exit ramp towards Waverley Bridge. ‘We can talk there.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Not even Donny Cruikshank?’

‘What about him?’

‘You know he’s dead?’

‘And good riddance!’

Her whole attitude — voice, posture — was harder than when Siobhan had last met her. She was armoured, toughened by experience. Not afraid of letting her anger show.

Probably capable of violence, too.

Siobhan turned her attention to Mangold. Mangold with his bruised face.

‘We’ll talk in the waiting room,’ she said, making it sound like an order.

But the waiting room was locked, so they walked across the concourse and into the station bar instead.

‘We’d be better off at the Warlock,’ Mangold said, examining the tired-looking decor and tireder clientele. ‘I need to be getting back anyway.’

Siobhan ignored him, ordered the drinks. Mangold got out a roll of notes, said he couldn’t let her pay. She didn’t argue the point. There was no conversation in the place, yet it was noisy enough to cover anything the three of them might say: TV tuned to a sports channel; piped music drifting from the ceiling; extractor fan; one-armed bandits. They took a corner table, Ishbel spreading her bags out around her.

‘A good haul,’ Siobhan said.

‘Just some bits and pieces.’ Ishbel looked at Mangold again and smiled.

‘Ishbel,’ Siobhan said soberly, ‘your parents have been worried about you, which in turn means the police have been worried.’

‘That’s not my fault, is it? I didn’t ask you to stick your noses in.’

‘Detective Sergeant Clarke’s only doing her job,’ Mangold said, playing the peacemaker.

‘And I’m saying she needn’t have bothered... end of story.’ Ishbel lifted her glass to her lips.

‘Actually,’ Siobhan informed her, ‘that’s not strictly true. In a murder case, we need to speak to every single suspect.’

Her words had the desired effect. Ishbel stared from above the rim of her glass, then put it down untouched.

‘I’m a suspect?’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘Can you think of anyone who had more reason to thump Donny Cruikshank?’

‘But he’s the whole reason I left Banehall! I was scared of him...’

‘I thought you said you left because of your parents?’

‘Well, them too... They were trying to turn me into Tracy.’

‘I know, I’ve seen the photos. I thought maybe it was your idea, but Mr Mangold put me right on that.’

Ishbel squeezed Mangold’s arm. ‘Ray’s my best friend in the whole world.’

‘What about your other friends — Susie, Janet and the rest? Didn’t you think they’d be worried?’

‘I was planning to phone them eventually.’ Ishbel’s tone was turning sullen, reminding Siobhan that despite the outward armour she was still a teenager. Only eighteen, maybe half Mangold’s age.

‘And meantime you’re off spending Ray’s money?’

‘I want her to spend it,’ Mangold countered. ‘She’s had a tough life... time she had a bit of fun.’

‘Ishbel,’ Siobhan said, ‘you say you were scared of Cruikshank?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Scared of what exactly?’

Ishbel lowered her eyes. ‘Of what he’d see when he looked at me.’

‘Because you’d remind him of Tracy?’

Ishbel nodded. ‘And I’d know that’s what he was thinking... remembering the things he’d done to her...’ She placed both hands over her face, Mangold sliding an arm around her shoulders.

‘And yet you wrote to him in prison,’ Siobhan said. ‘You wrote that he’d taken your life as well as Tracy’s.’

‘Because Mum and Dad were turning me into Tracy.’ Her voice cracked.

‘It’s all right, kid,’ Mangold said quietly. Then, to Siobhan: ‘You see what I mean? It’s not been easy for her.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But she still needs to speak to the investigation.’

‘She needs to be left alone.’

‘Left alone with you, you mean?’

Behind the tinted glasses, Mangold’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

Siobhan just shrugged, pretending to busy herself with her glass.

‘It’s like I told you, Ray,’ Ishbel was saying. ‘I’ll never be free of Banehall.’ She started shaking her head slowly. ‘The other side of the world wouldn’t be far enough.’ She was clinging to his arm now. ‘You said it would be all right, but it’s not.’

‘A holiday’s what you need, girl. Cocktails by the pool... room service and a nice sandy beach.’

‘What did you mean just then, Ishbel?’ Siobhan interrupted. ‘About it not being all right?’

‘She didn’t mean anything,’ Mangold snapped, moving his arm further around Ishbel’s shoulders. ‘You want to ask any more questions, make it official, eh?’ He was rising to his feet, picking up some of the bags. ‘Come on, Ishbel.’

She picked up the rest of the shopping, took a final look around to see if she’d missed anything.

‘It will be made official, Mr Mangold,’ Siobhan said warningly. ‘Skeletons in the cellar are one thing, but murder’s quite another.’

Mangold was doing his best to ignore her. ‘Come on, Ishbel. We’ll take a taxi to the pub... no sense walking with all this lot.’

‘Call your parents, Ishbel,’ Siobhan said. ‘They came to me because they were worried about you... nothing to do with Tracy.’

Ishbel said nothing, but Siobhan called out her name, louder this time, and she turned.

‘I’m glad you’re safe and well,’ Siobhan told her with a smile. ‘Really I am.’

‘Then you tell them.’

‘I will if you want me to.’

Ishbel hesitated. Mangold was holding open the door for her. Ishbel stared at Siobhan and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then she was gone.

Siobhan watched from the window as they headed for the taxi rank. She shook her glass, enjoying the sound of the ice cubes. Mangold, she felt, really did care about Ishbel, but that didn’t make him a good man. You said it would be all right, but it’s not... Those words had spurred Mangold to his feet. Siobhan thought she knew why. Love could be an even more destructive emotion than hate. She’d seen it plenty of times: jealousy, mistrust, revenge. She considered all three as she shook her glass again. At some point, it must have started annoying the barman.

He upped the volume on the TV, by which time she’d whittled the three down to one.

Revenge.

Joe Evans was not at home. It was his wife who answered the door of their bungalow on Liberton Brae. There was no front garden as such, just a paved parking space, an empty trailer sitting there.

‘What’s he done now?’ his wife asked, after Siobhan had identified herself.

‘Nothing,’ Siobhan assured the woman. ‘Did he tell you what happened at the Warlock?’

‘Only a couple of dozen times.’

‘It’s just a few follow-up questions.’ Siobhan paused. ‘Has he been in trouble before?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘As good as.’ Siobhan smiled, telling the woman it didn’t matter to her in any case.

‘Just a couple of fights in the pub... drunk and disorderly... but he’s been pure gold this past year.’

‘That’s good to know. Any idea where I could find him, Mrs Evans?’

‘He’ll be in the gym, love. I can’t keep him away from the place.’ She saw the look on Siobhan’s face and gave a snort. ‘Just messing with you... He’s same place as every Tuesday — quiz night at his local. Just up the hill, other side of the road.’ Mrs Evans gestured with her thumb. Siobhan thanked her and headed off.

‘And if he’s not there,’ the woman called after her, ‘come back and let me know — means he’s got a fancy piece tucked away somewhere!’

The hacking laugh followed Siobhan all the way back to the pavement.

The pub boasted a tiny car park, already full. Siobhan parked on the street and headed in. The drinkers all looked seasoned and comfortable: sign of a good local. Teams sat around every available table, one of their number writing the answers down. A question was being repeated as Siobhan walked in. The quizmaster seemed to be the landlord. He stood behind the bar with microphone in hand, the question sheet gripped in his free hand.

‘Final question, teams, and here it is again: “Which Hollywood starlet connects a Scottish actor to the song ‘Yellow’?” Moira’s coming round now to collect your answers. We’ll have a wee break, and then we’ll let you know which team’s come out top. Sandwiches are on the pool table, so help yourselves.’

Players started to rise from their tables, some handing their completed sheets to the landlady. There was a sudden blare of conversation as people asked each other how they’d done.

‘It’s the bloody arithmetic ones that get me...’

‘And you a book-keeper!’

‘That last one, did he mean “Yellow Submarine”?’

‘Christ’s sake, Peter, there’s been music made since the Beatles, you know.’

‘But nothing to come close to them, and I’ll fight any man that says otherwise.’

‘So what was the name of Humphrey Bogart’s partner in The Maltese Falcon?’

Siobhan knew the answer to this one. ‘Miles Archer,’ she told the man. He stared at her.

‘I know you,’ he said. He was holding the dregs of a pint in one hand, pointing at her with the other.

‘We met at the Warlock,’ Siobhan reminded him. ‘You were drinking brandies then.’ She gestured towards his glass. ‘Get you another?’

‘What’s this about?’ he asked. The others were giving Siobhan and Joe Evans space to themselves, as if an invisible force-field had suddenly been activated. ‘Not still those bloody skeletons?’

‘Not really, no... To be honest, I’m after a favour.’

‘What sort of favour?’

‘The sort that begins with a question.’

He thought about this for a moment, then considered his empty glass. ‘Better get me a refill then,’ he said. Siobhan was happy to oblige. At the bar, questions flew at her — nothing to do with the quiz, but locals curious as to her identity, how she knew Evans, was she his parole officer maybe, or his social worker? Siobhan handled these deftly enough, smiling at the laughter, and handed Evans a fresh pint of best. He raised it to his mouth and took three or four long gulps, coming up for breath eventually.

‘So go ahead and ask your question,’ he said.

‘Are you still working at the Warlock?’

He nodded. ‘That’s it?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘What I’m wondering is, do you have a key for the place?’

‘For the pub?’ He snorted. ‘Ray Mangold wouldn’t be that daft.’

Siobhan shook her head again. ‘I meant the cellar,’ she said. ‘Can you let yourself in and out of the cellar?’

Evans looked at her questioningly, then took a few more gulps of beer, wiping his top lip dry afterwards.

‘Maybe you want to ask the audience?’ Siobhan suggested. His face twitched in a smile.

‘The answer’s yes,’ he said.

‘Yes, you’ve got a key?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a key.’

Siobhan took a deep breath. ‘... is the correct answer,’ she said. ‘Now, do you want to go for the star prize?’

‘I don’t need to.’ There was a twinkle in Evans’s eye.

‘And why’s that?’

‘Because I know the question. You want me to lend you my key.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m wondering how far in the manure that would get me with my employer.’

‘And?’

‘I’m also wondering why you want it. You reckon there are more skeletons down there?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Answers to be provided at a later date.’

‘If I give you the key?’

‘It’s either that or I tell your wife I couldn’t find you at the quiz night.’

‘That’s a hard offer to refuse,’ Joe Evans said.

Late night in Arden Street. Rebus buzzed her up. He was waiting in his doorway by the time she reached his landing.

‘Happened to be passing,’ she said. ‘Saw your light was on.’

‘Bloody liar,’ he said. Then: ‘Feeling thirsty?’

She held up the carrier bag. ‘Great minds and all that.’

He gestured for her to enter. The living room was no messier than usual. His chair was by the window, phone, ashtray and tumbler next to it on the floor. Music was playing: Van Morrison, Hard Nose the Highway.

‘Things must be bad,’ she said.

‘When are they not? That’s pretty much Van’s message to the world.’ He lowered the volume a little. She lifted a bottle of red from the bag.

‘Corkscrew?’

‘I’ll fetch one.’ He started heading for the kitchen. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a glass, too?’

‘Sorry to be fussy.’

She took off her coat, was resting on the arm of the sofa when he returned. ‘A quiet night in, eh?’ she said, taking the corkscrew from him. He held the glass for her while she poured. ‘You having any?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m three whiskies in, and you know what they say about the grape and the grain.’ She took the glass from him, made herself comfortable on the sofa.

‘Been having a quiet night yourself?’ he asked.

‘On the contrary — up until forty minutes ago, I was hard at it.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Managed to persuade Ray Duff to burn the midnight oil.’

Rebus nodded. He knew Ray Duff worked forensics at the police lab in Howdenhall; by now they owed him a world of favours.

‘Ray finds it hard to say no,’ he agreed. ‘Anything I should know about?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure... So how’s your day been?’

‘You heard about Alan Traynor?’

‘No.’

Rebus let the silence lie for a moment between them; picked up his glass and took a couple of sips. Took his time appreciating the aroma, the aftertaste.

‘Nice to sit and talk, isn’t it?’ he commented at last.

‘All right, I give in... You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

Rebus smiled, went to the table where the bottle of Bowmore sat. Refilled his glass and returned to his chair.

Started talking.

After which, Siobhan told him her own story. Van Morrison was swapped for Hobotalk and Hobotalk for James Yorkston. Midnight had come and gone. Slices of toast had been made, buttered, and consumed. The wine was down to its last quarter, the whisky to its final inch. When Rebus checked that she wouldn’t be trying to drive home, Siobhan admitted that she’d come by cab.

‘Meaning you assumed we were going to do this?’ Rebus teased.

‘I suppose.’

‘And what if Caro Quinn had been here?’

Siobhan just shrugged.

‘Not that that’s going to happen,’ Rebus added. He looked at her. ‘I think I may have blown it with the Lady of the Vigils.’

‘The what?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s what Mo Dirwan calls her.’

Siobhan was staring at her glass. It looked to Rebus as though she had a dozen questions waiting, a dozen things to say to him. But in the end, all she said was: ‘I think I’ve had enough.’

‘Of my company?’

She shook her head. ‘The wine. Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Kitchen’s where it’s always been.’

‘The perfect host.’ She got to her feet.

‘I’ll have one too, if you’re offering.’

‘I’m not.’

But she brought him a mug anyway. ‘The milk in your fridge is still useable,’ she told him.

‘So?’

‘So that’s a first, isn’t it?’

‘Listen to the ingratitude!’ Rebus put the mug on the floor. Siobhan returned to the sofa, cupping hers between her hands. While she’d been out of the room, he’d opened the window a little, so she wouldn’t complain about his smoke. He saw her notice what he’d done; watched her decide to make no comment.

‘Know what I’m wondering, Shiv? I’m wondering how those skeletons ended up in Stuart Bullen’s hands. Could he have been Pippa Greenlaw’s date that night?’

‘I doubt it. She said his name was Barry or Gary, and he played football — I think that’s how they met...’ She broke off as a smile started spreading across Rebus’s face.

‘Remember when I grazed my leg at the Nook?’ he said. ‘That Aussie barman told me he could sympathise.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Typical football injury...’

‘And his name’s Barney, isn’t it? Not quite Barry, but close enough.’

Siobhan was still nodding. She’d reached into her bag for her mobile and notebook, flicked through it for the number.

‘It’s one in the morning,’ Rebus warned her. She ignored him. Pushed buttons and held the phone to her ear.

When it was answered, she started talking. ‘Pippa? It’s DS Clarke here, remember me? You out clubbing or something?’ Her eyes were on Rebus as she relayed the answers to him. ‘Just waiting for a taxi home...’ She nodded. ‘Been to the Opal Lounge or somewhere? Well, I’m sorry to bother you so late at night.’ Rebus was walking towards the sofa, leaning down to share the earpiece. He could hear traffic sounds, drunken voices close by. A screech of ‘Taxi!’ followed by swearing.

‘Missed that one,’ Pippa Greenlaw said. She sounded breathless rather than drunk.

‘Pippa,’ Siobhan said, ‘it’s about your partner... the night of Lex’s party...’

‘Lex is here! Do you want to talk to him?’

‘It’s you I want to talk to.’

Greenlaw’s voice grew muffled, as though she were trying not to let someone hear. ‘I think we might be starting something.’

‘You and Lex? That’s great, Pippa.’ Siobhan rolled her eyes, giving the lie to her words. ‘Now, about the night those skeletons went missing...’

‘You know I kissed one of them?’

‘You told me.’

‘Even now it makes me want to puke... Taxi!’

Siobhan held the phone further from her ear. ‘Pippa, I just need to know something... the guy you were with that night... could he have been an Australian called Barney?’

‘What?’

‘Australian, Pippa. The guy you were with at Lex’s party.’

‘Do you know... now you come to mention it...’

‘And you didn’t think it worth telling me?’

‘I didn’t think much of it at the time. Must’ve slipped my mind...’ She spoke to Lex Cater, filling him in. The phone changed hands.

‘Is that Little Miss Matchmaker?’ Lex’s voice. ‘Pippa told me you set the pair of us up that night... it was meant to be you, but she was there instead. Female solidarity and all that, eh?’

‘You didn’t tell me Pippa’s guest at your party was an Aussie.’

‘Was he? Never really noticed... Here’s Pippa again.’

But Siobhan had ended the call. ‘Never really noticed,’ she echoed. Rebus was heading back to his chair.

‘People like that, they seldom do. Think the world revolves around them.’ Rebus grew thoughtful. ‘Wonder whose idea it was.’

‘What?’

‘The skeletons weren’t stolen to order. So either Barney Grant had the idea of using them to scare off any uppity immigrants...’

‘Or Stuart Bullen did.’

‘But if it was our friend Barney, that means he knew what was going on — not just barman, but Bullen’s lieutenant.’

‘Which might explain what he was doing with Howie Slowther. Slowther’s been working for Bullen too.’

‘Or more likely for Peter Hill, but you’re right — the end result’s the same.’

‘So Barney Grant should be behind bars, too,’ Siobhan stated. ‘Otherwise, what’s to stop the whole thing starting up again?’

‘A little bit of proof might be useful right about now. All we’ve got is Barney Grant in a car with Slowther...’

‘That and the skeletons.’

‘Hardly enough to convince the Procurator Fiscal.’

Siobhan blew across the surface of her coffee. The hi-fi had gone quiet; might have been that way for some time.

‘Something for another day, eh, Shiv?’ Rebus eventually conceded.

‘Is that me getting my marching orders?’

‘I’m older than you... I need my sleep.’

‘I thought you need less sleep as you get older?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t need less sleep; you just take it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Mortality closing in, I suppose.’

‘And you can sleep all you like when you’re dead?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to keep you up so late, old-timer.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Not too long now till there’s a younger cop sitting opposite you.’

‘Now there’s a thought to end the night with...’

‘I’ll call you a cab, unless you want to crash here — there’s a spare bedroom.’

She started putting on her coat. ‘We don’t want tongues wagging, do we? But I’ll walk down to the Meadows, bound to find one there.’

‘Out on your own at this time of night?’

Siobhan picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’m a big girl, John. I think I can manage.’

He shrugged and showed her out, then returned to the living-room window, watching her walk down the pavement.

I’m a big girl...

A big girl afraid of wagging tongues.