Fleshmarket Close

30

‘I’ve got a lecture,’ Kate said.

Rebus had been waiting for her outside her hall of residence. She’d given him a look and kept walking, heading for the bicycle rack.

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said. She didn’t respond, unlocking the chain from her bike. ‘We need to talk,’ Rebus persisted.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘That’s true, I suppose...’ She looked up at him. ‘But only if we choose to ignore Barney Grant and Howie Slowther.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you about Barney.’

‘Warned you off, has he?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘So you said. And Howie Slowther?’

‘I don’t know who he is.’

‘No?’

She shook her head defiantly, hands gripping her bike’s handlebars. ‘Now, please... I’m going to be late.’

‘Just one more name then.’ Rebus held up a forefinger. He took her sigh as permission to ask. ‘Chantal Rendille... I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.’

‘It’s not a name I know.’

Rebus smiled. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Kate — your eyes start fluttering. I noticed it before when I was asking about Chantal. Of course, I didn’t have her name then, but I have it now. With Stuart Bullen locked up, she doesn’t need to hide any more.’

‘Stuart did not kill that man.’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘All the same, I’d like to hear her say it for herself.’ He slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Too many people running scared recently, Kate. Time for it to stop, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘It’s not my decision,’ she said quietly.

‘You mean it’s Chantal’s? Then have a word with her, tell her she doesn’t have to be scared. It’s all coming to an end.’

‘I wish I had your confidence, Inspector.’

‘Maybe I know things you don’t... things Chantal should hear.’

Kate looked around. Her fellow students were heading off to classes, some with the glazed eyes of the newly roused, others curious about the man she was talking to — so obviously neither student nor friend.

‘Kate?’ he prompted.

‘I need to speak to her alone first.’

‘That’s fine.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do we need the car, or is it walking distance?’

‘That depends on how much you like walking.’

‘Seriously now, do I look the type?’

‘Not really.’ She was almost smiling, but still edgy.

‘Then we’ll take the car.’

Even having been coaxed into the passenger seat, it took Kate a while to pull the door closed, and longer still to fasten her seatbelt, Rebus fearing that she might bale out at any time.

‘Where to?’ he asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

‘Bedlam,’ she said, just audibly. Rebus wasn’t sure he’d heard her. ‘Bedlam Theatre,’ she explained. ‘It’s a disused church.’

‘Across the road from Greyfriars Kirk?’ Rebus said. She nodded, and he started to drive. On the way, she explained that Marcus, the student across the corridor from her, was active in the university’s theatre group, and that they used Bedlam as their base. Rebus said he’d seen the playbills on Marcus’s walls, then asked how she had first met Chantal.

‘This city can seem like a village sometimes,’ she told him. ‘I was walking towards her along the street one day, and I just knew when I looked at her.’

‘You knew what?’

‘Where she came from, who she was... It’s hard to explain. Two Senegalese women in the middle of Edinburgh.’ She shrugged. ‘We just laughed and started talking.’

‘And when she came to you for help?’ She looked at him as if she didn’t understand. ‘What did you think? Did she tell you what had happened?’

‘A little...’ Kate stared from the passenger-side window. ‘This is for her to tell you, if she decides to.’

‘You realise I’m on her side? Yours, too, if it comes to it.’

‘I know this.’

Bedlam Theatre stood at the junction of two diagonals — Forrest Road and Bristo Place — and facing the wider expanse of George IV Bridge. Years back, this had been Rebus’s favourite part of town, with its weird bookshops and second-hand record market. Now Subway and Starbucks had moved in and the record market was a theme bar. Parking had not improved either, and Rebus ended up on a double yellow, trusting to luck that he’d be back before the tow truck could be called.

The main doors were locked tight, but Kate led him around the side and produced a key from her pocket.

‘Marcus?’ he guessed. She nodded and opened the small side door, then turned towards him. ‘You want me to wait here?’ he guessed. But she stared deep into his eyes and then sighed.

‘No,’ she said, decided. ‘You might as well come up.’

Inside, the place was gloomy. They climbed a flight of creaky steps and emerged into an upstairs auditorium, looking down on to the makeshift stage. There were rows of former pews, mostly stacked with empty cardboard boxes, props, and pieces of lighting rig.

‘Chantal?’ Kate called out. ‘C’est moi. Are you there?’

A face appeared above one row of seats. She’d been lying in a sleeping-bag, and was now blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw that there was someone with Kate, her mouth and eyes opened wide.

‘Calme-toi, Chantal. Il est policier.’

‘Why you bring?’ Chantal’s voice sounded shrill, frantic. As she stood up, sloughing off the sleeping-bag, Rebus saw that she was already dressed.

‘I’m a police officer, Chantal,’ Rebus said slowly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘No! This will not be!’ She waved her hands in front of her, as though he were smoke to be wafted away. Her arms were thin, hair cropped close to her skull. Her head seemed out of proportion to the slender neck atop which it sat.

‘You know we’ve arrested the men?’ Rebus said. ‘The men we think killed Stef. They are going to prison.’

‘They will kill me.’

Rebus kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. ‘They’re going to be spending a lot of time in jail, Chantal. They’ve done a lot of bad things. But if we’re going to punish them for what they did to Stef... well, I’m not sure we can do it without your help.’

‘Stef was good man.’ Her face twisted with the pain of memory.

‘Yes, he was,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And his death needs to be paid for.’ He’d been moving towards her by degrees. Now they stood within arm’s reach. ‘Stef needs you, Chantal, this one final time.’

‘No,’ she said. But her eyes were telling him a different story.

‘I need to hear it from you, Chantal,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to know what you saw.’

‘No,’ she said again, her eyes pleading with Kate.

‘Oui, Chantal,’ Kate told her. ‘It is time.’

Only Kate had eaten breakfast, so they headed for the Elephant House café, Rebus driving them the short distance, finding a parking bay on Chambers Street. Chantal wanted hot chocolate, Kate herbal tea. Rebus ordered a round of croissants and sticky cakes, plus a large black coffee for himself. And then bottles of water and orange juice — if no one else drank them, he would. And maybe a couple more aspirin to go with the three he’d swallowed before leaving his flat.

They sat at a table at the very back of the café, the window next to them giving a view of the kirkyard, where a few winos were starting the day with a shared can of extra-strong lager. Only a few weeks back, some kids had desecrated a tomb, using a skull like a football. ‘Mad World’ was playing quietly over the café’s loudspeakers, and Rebus was forced to agree.

He was biding his time, letting Chantal wolf down her breakfast. The pastries were too sweet for her, but she ate two croissants, washed down with one of the bottles of juice.

‘Fresh fruit would be better for you,’ Kate said, Rebus unsure of her target as he finished an apricot tart. Then it was time for a coffee refill, Chantal saying she might manage more hot chocolate. Kate poured herself more raspberry-coloured tea. As Rebus queued at the counter, he watched the two women. They were talking conversationally: nothing heated. Chantal seemed calm enough. That was why he’d chosen the Elephant House: a police station would not have had the same effect. When he returned with the drinks, she actually smiled and thanked him.

‘So,’ he said, lifting his own mug, ‘finally I get to meet you, Chantal.’

‘You very persistent.’

‘It may be my only strength. Do you want to tell me what happened that day? I think I know some of it. Stef was a journalist, he knew a story when he saw one. I’m guessing it was you who told him about Stevenson House?’

‘He knew already a little,’ Chantal said haltingly.

‘How did you meet him?’

‘In Knoxland. He...’ She turned to Kate and let out a volley of French, which Kate translated.

‘He’d been questioning some of the immigrants he met in the city centre. This made him realise something bad was happening.’

‘And Chantal filled in the gaps?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And became his friend in the process?’ Chantal understood, nodding with her eyes. ‘And then Stuart Bullen caught him snooping...’

‘It was not Bullen,’ she said.

‘Peter Hill then.’ Rebus described the Irishman, and Chantal sat back a little in her seat, as though recoiling from his words.

‘Yes, that is him. He chased... and stabbed...’ She lowered her eyes again, placing her hands on her lap. Kate reached out and covered the nearest hand with her own.

‘You ran away,’ Rebus said quietly. Chantal started speaking French again.

‘She had to,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘They would have buried her in the cellar, with all the other people.’

‘There weren’t any other people,’ Rebus said. ‘It was just a trick.’

‘She was terrified,’ Kate said.

‘But she went back once... to place flowers at the scene.’

Kate translated for Chantal, who gave another nod.

‘She travelled across a continent to reach somewhere she’d feel safe,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘She’s been here almost a year, and still she does not understand this place.’

‘Tell her she’s not the only one. I’ve been trying for over half a century.’ As Kate translated this, Chantal managed a weak smile. Rebus was wondering about her... wondering at her relationship with Stef. Had she been something other than a source to him, or had he simply used her, the way many journalists did?

‘Anyone else involved, Chantal?’ Rebus asked. ‘Anyone there that day?’

‘A young man... bad skin... and this tooth...’ She tapped at the centre of her own immaculate teeth. ‘Not there.’ Rebus reckoned she meant Howie Slowther, might even pick him out from a line-up.

‘How do you think they found out about Stef, Chantal? How did they know he was about to go to the newspapers with the story?’

She looked up at him. ‘Because he tell them.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘He told them?’

She nodded. ‘He want his family brought to him. He know they can do this.’

‘You mean bailing them out of Whitemire?’ More nodding. Rebus found himself leaning across the table towards her. ‘He was trying to blackmail the whole lot of them?’

‘He will not tell what he know... but only in return for his family.’

Rebus sat back again and stared from the window. Right now, that extra-strong lager looked pretty good to him. A mad, mad world. Stef Yurgii might as well have penned himself a suicide note. He hadn’t met with the Scotsman journalist because it had been a bluff, letting Bullen know what he was capable of. All of it for his family... Chantal just a friend, if that. A desperate man — husband and father — taking a fatal gamble.

Killed for his insolence.

Killed because of the threat he posed. No skeletons were going to put him off.

‘You saw it happen?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘You saw Stef die?’

‘I could do nothing.’

‘You phoned... did what you could.’

‘It was not enough... not enough...’ She had started crying, Kate comforting her. Two elderly women watched from a corner table. Their faces powdered, coats still buttoned almost to the chin. Edinburgh ladies, who probably had never known any life but this: the taking of tea, and a serving of gossip on the side. Rebus glared at them till they averted their eyes, going back to the spreading of butter on scones.

‘Kate,’ he said, ‘she’ll have to tell the story again, make it official.’

‘In a police station?’ Kate guessed. Rebus nodded.

‘It would help,’ he said, ‘if you were there with her.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘The man you’ll talk to will be another inspector. His name’s Shug Davidson. He’s a good guy, does the sympathy thing even better than me.’

‘You will not be there?’

‘I don’t think so. Shug’s the man in charge.’ Rebus took a mouthful of coffee and savoured it, then swallowed. ‘I was never supposed to be here,’ he said, almost to himself, staring out of the window again.

He called Davidson from his mobile, explained the set-up, said he’d bring both women to Torphichen.

In the car, Chantal was silent, staring at the passing world. But Rebus had a few more questions for her companion in the back seat.

‘How did your talk with Barney Grant go?’

‘It was all right.’

‘You reckon he’ll keep the Nook going?’

‘Until Stuart comes back, yes. Why do you smile?’

‘Because I don’t know if that’s what Barney wants... or expects.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Doesn’t matter. That description I gave Chantal... the man’s called Peter Hill. He’s Irish, probably with paramilitary connections. We reckon he was helping Bullen out, on the understanding that Bullen would then back him up when it came to dealing drugs on the estate.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’

‘Maybe nothing. The younger man, the one with the missing tooth... his name’s Howie Slowther.’

‘You said his name this morning.’

‘That’s right, I did. Because after your little chinwag with Barney Grant in the pub, Barney climbed into a car. Howie Slowther was in that car.’ In the rearview mirror, his eyes connected with hers. ‘Barney’s in this up to his neck, Kate... maybe even a little further. So if you were planning on relying on him...’

‘You do not have to worry about me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

Chantal said something in French. Kate spoke back to her in the same language, Rebus picking up only a couple of words.

‘She’s asking about being deported,’ he guessed, then watched in the rearview as Kate nodded. ‘Tell her I’ll pull every string I can. Tell her it’s carved in stone.’

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was Chantal’s.

‘I believe you,’ was all she said.

31

Siobhan and Les Young watched as Ray Mangold got out of his Jag. They were sitting in Young’s car, parked across the road from the Market Street lock-up. Mangold unlocked the garage doors and started pulling them open. Ishbel Jardine sat in the passenger seat, applying make-up as she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Having lifted the lipstick to her mouth, she hesitated a fraction too long.

‘She’s clocked us,’ Siobhan said.

‘You sure?’

‘Not a thousand per cent.’

‘Let’s wait and see.’

Young wanted the car garaged. That way, he could drive up in front of it, blocking any exit. They’d been sitting there the best part of forty minutes, Young going into too much detail about the rudiments of contract bridge. The ignition was off, but Young’s hand was on the key, ready for action.

With the garage doors wide open, Mangold had returned to the idling Jag. Siobhan watched as he got in, but couldn’t tell whether Ishbel had said anything. When she saw Mangold’s eyes meet hers in one of the side mirrors, she had her answer.

‘We need to move,’ she told Young. Then she opened her passenger door — no time to waste. But the Jag’s reversing lights were on. It moved past her at speed, heading for New Street, engine whining with the effort. Siobhan got back into the passenger seat, the door closing of its own accord as Young’s car surged forward. The Jag meantime had reached the New Street junction and was braking into a slide, facing uphill towards the Canongate.

‘Get on the radio!’ Young shouted. ‘Call in a description!’

Siobhan called it in. There was a queue of traffic heading up the Canongate, so the Jag turned left, downhill towards Holyrood.

‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Young.

‘You know the city better than I do,’ he admitted.

‘I think he’ll head for the park. If he stays on the streets, he’ll hit a snarl-up sooner or later. In the park, there’s a chance he can put his foot down, maybe lose us.’

‘Are you besmirching my car?’

‘Last time I looked, Daewoos didn’t sport four-litre engines.’

The Jag had pulled out to overtake an open-topped tourist bus. The street was at its narrowest, and Mangold clipped the wing mirror of a stationary delivery van, the driver emerging from a shop and shouting after him. Oncoming traffic stopped Young passing the bus as it continued its slow descent.

‘Try using your horn,’ Siobhan suggested. He did, but the bus paid no heed until it came to a temporary stop outside the Tolbooth. Drivers coming the opposite way protested as Young swept into their lane and past the obstruction. Mangold’s car was way ahead. As it reached the roundabout outside Holyrood Palace, it took a right, making for Horse Wynd.

‘You were right,’ Young admitted, while Siobhan called in this new information. Holyrood Park was crown property, and as such had its own police force, but Siobhan knew protocol could wait for later. For now, the Jag was racing away, rounding Salisbury Crags.

‘Where next?’ Young asked.

‘Well, he either circles the park all day, or else he comes off. That means Dalkeith Road or Duddingston. My money’s on Duddingston. Once he’s past there, he’s within a gear-change of the A1 — and he’ll definitely outrun us there, all the way to Newcastle if need be.’

There were a couple of roundabouts to be negotiated first, however, Mangold nearly losing control on the second, the Jaguar mounting the kerb. He was passing the back of Pollock Halls, engine roaring.

‘Duddingston,’ Siobhan commented, calling it in again. This part of the road was all twists and turns and they finally lost sight of Mangold completely. Then, from just past a stone outcrop, Siobhan could see dust billowing upwards.

‘Oh, hell,’ she said. As they rounded the bend, they saw tyre tracks veering crazily across the carriageway. There were iron railings on the right-hand side of the road, and the Jaguar had crashed through these, rolling down the steep slope towards Duddingston Loch. Ducks and geese were flapping out of harm’s way, while swans glided across the water’s surface, seemingly unworried. The Jaguar kicked up stones and old feathers as it bounced downhill. The brake lights glowed red, but the car seemed to have other ideas. Finally it slewed sideways and then another ninety degrees, its back half plunging into the water, resting there, the front wheels hanging in the air, spinning slowly.

There were people further along the water’s edge: parents and their offspring, feeding bread crusts to the birds. Some of them started running towards the car. Young had pulled the Daewoo up on to what pavement there was, so as not to block the carriageway. Siobhan skidded down the slope. The doors of the Jaguar were open, figures emerging from either side. But then the car jerked backwards again and started to sink. Mangold was out, up to his chest in water, but Ishbel had been thrown back into her seat, and the pressure was pushing her door closed again as the interior started to fill with water. Mangold saw what was happening and reached inside, starting to haul her across to the driver’s side. But she was caught somehow, and now only the windscreen and roof were showing. Siobhan waded into the foul-smelling water. Steam was rising from the submerged and superheated engine.

‘Give me a hand!’ Mangold was yelling. He had hold of both Ishbel’s arms. Siobhan took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface. The water was murky and bubbling, but she could see the problem: Ishbel’s foot was wedged between the passenger seat and the handbrake. And the harder Mangold pulled, the faster it would hold. She surfaced again.

‘Let go!’ she told him. ‘Let her go or she’ll drown!’ Then she took another breath and ducked back beneath the surface, where she came face to face with Ishbel, whose features had taken on an unexpected calmness, surrounded by the loch’s flotsam and jetsam. There were tiny bubbles escaping from her nostrils and the sides of her mouth. Siobhan reached past her to release the foot, and felt arms wrap around her. Ishbel was drawing her closer, as if determined that the two of them should stay there. Siobhan tried wriggling free, all the time working on the trapped foot.

But it was no longer trapped.

And still Ishbel stayed there.

And held her.

Siobhan tried grabbing at the hands, but it was difficult: they were locked behind her back. The last of her air was leaving her lungs. Movement was growing almost impossible, Ishbel trying to draw her further into the car.

Until Siobhan kneed her in the solar plexus, and felt the embrace loosen. This time she was able to wrench herself free. She grabbed Ishbel by the hair and kicked upwards, hands immediately finding her — not Ishbel’s this time, but Mangold’s. With her face above water, Siobhan’s mouth opened to suck in air. Then she spat water from her mouth, wiped it from her eyes and nose. Pushed the hair back out of her face.

‘You stupid bloody bitch!’ she screamed, as Ishbel, gasping and spluttering, was led to the bank by Ray Mangold. Then, to a gawping Les Young: ‘She was going to take me with her!’

He helped her out of the water. Ishbel was lying a few yards away, a group of onlookers gathering around her. One of them had a video camera out, recording the event for posterity. When he pointed it at Siobhan, she slapped it away and bore down on the prone, drenched figure.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’

Mangold was kneeling, trying to cradle Ishbel in his arms. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said.

‘I don’t mean you, I mean her!’ She prodded Ishbel with a toe. Les Young was trying to lead her away by the arm, mouthing words she couldn’t hear. There was a raging in her ears, a fire in her lungs.

Ishbel eventually turned her head to look up at her rescuer. Her hair was plastered to her face.

‘I’m sure she’s grateful,’ Mangold was saying, while Young added something about it being an automatic reflex... something he’d heard about before.

Ishbel Jardine, however, didn’t say anything. Instead, she bowed her head and spewed a mixture of bile and water on to damp earth stained white with feather-down.

‘I was bloody well fed up of you lot, if you want to know.’

‘And that’s your excuse, is it, Mr Mangold?’ Les Young asked. ‘That’s your whole explanation?’

They were seated in Interview Room 1, St Leonard’s police station — no distance at all from Holyrood Park. A few of the uniforms had expressed surprise at Siobhan’s return to her old stomping-ground, her humour not improved by a call on her mobile from DCI Macrae at Gayfield Square, asking where the hell she was. When she’d told him, he’d started a long complaint about attitude and teamwork and the apparent disinclination of former St Leonard’s officers to show anything other than contempt for their new billet.

All the time he was talking, Siobhan was having a blanket wrapped around her, a mug of instant soup pressed into her hand, her shoes removed to be dried on a radiator...

‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t catch all of that,’ she was forced to admit, once Macrae had stopped talking.

‘You think this is funny, DS Clarke?’

‘No, sir.’ But it was... in a way. She just didn’t think Macrae would share her sense of the absurd.

She sat now, bra-less in a borrowed T-shirt, and wearing black standard-issue trousers three sizes too large. On her feet: a pair of men’s white sports socks, covered by the polythene slip-ons used at crime scenes. Around her shoulders: a grey woollen blanket, the kind provided in each holding-cell. She hadn’t had a chance to wash her hair. It felt thick and dank, and smelled of the loch.

Mangold was wrapped in a blanket, too, hands cupped around a plastic beaker of tea. He’d lost his tinted glasses, and his eyes were reduced to slits in the glare of the strip-lighting. The blanket, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing, was exactly the same colour as the tea. There was a table between them. Les Young sat next to Siobhan, pen poised above an A4 pad of paper.

Ishbel was in one of the holding-cells. She would be interviewed later.

For now, they were interested in Mangold. Mangold, who hadn’t said anything for a couple of minutes.

‘That’s the story you’re sticking with,’ Les Young commented. He’d started doodling on the pad. Siobhan turned to him.

‘He can give us any drivel he feels like; it doesn’t alter the facts.’

‘What facts?’ Mangold asked, feigning only the faintest interest.

‘The cellar,’ Les Young told him.

‘Christ, are we back to that again?’

It was Siobhan who answered. ‘Despite what you told me last time round, Mr Mangold, I think you do know Stuart Bullen. I think you’ve known him for a while. He had this notion of a mock burial — pretending to bury those skeletons to show the immigrants what would happen to them if they didn’t toe the line.’

Mangold had pushed back so that the front two legs of his chair were off the floor. His face was angled ceiling-wards, eyes closed. Siobhan kept talking, her voice quiet and level.

‘When the skeletons were concreted over, that should have been the end of that. But it wasn’t. Your pub’s on the Royal Mile, you see the tourists every day. Nothing they like better than a bit of atmosphere — that’s why the ghost walks are so popular. You wanted some of that for the Warlock.’

‘No secret there,’ Mangold said. ‘It’s why I was having the cellar renovated.’

‘That’s right... but think what a boost you’d get if a couple of skeletons were suddenly discovered under the floor. Plenty of free publicity, especially with a local historian stoking the fires...’

‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at.’

‘The thing is, Ray, you weren’t seeing the bigger picture. Last thing Stuart Bullen wanted was those skeletons coming to light. People were bound to start asking questions, and those questions might lead back to him and his little slave empire. Is that why he slapped you about a bit? Maybe he got the Irishman to do it for him.’

‘I’ve told you how I got the bruises.’

‘Well, I’m choosing not to believe you.’

Mangold started laughing, still facing the ceiling. ‘Facts, you said. I’m not hearing anything you can even begin to prove.’

‘The thing I’m wondering is...’

‘What?’

‘Look at me and I’ll tell you.’

Slowly, the chair returned to the ground. Mangold fixed his slitted eyes on Siobhan.

‘What I can’t decide,’ she told him, ‘is whether you did it out of anger — you’d been beaten up and shouted at by Bullen, and you wanted to mete that out on someone else...’ She paused. ‘Or whether it was more in the nature of a gift to Ishbel — not wrapped in ribbons this time, but a gift all the same... something to make her life that bit easier.’

Mangold turned to Les Young. ‘Help me out here: do you have any idea what she’s on about?’

‘I know exactly what she’s on about,’ Young told him.

‘See,’ Siobhan added, shifting slightly in her chair, ‘when DI Rebus and I came to see you that last time... found you in the cellar...’

‘Yes?’

‘DI Rebus started playing around with a chisel: you remember that?’

‘Not really.’

‘It was in Joe Evans’s toolbox.’

‘Hold the front page.’

Siobhan smiled at the sarcasm; knew she could afford to. ‘There was a hammer there too, Ray.’

‘A hammer in a toolbox: what will they think of next?’

‘Last night, I went to your cellar and removed that hammer. I told the forensics team it was a rush job. They worked through the night. It’s a bit soon for the DNA results, but they found traces of blood on that hammer, Ray. Same group as Donny Cruikshank.’ She shrugged. ‘So much for the facts.’ She waited for Mangold’s reply, but his mouth was clamped shut. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘here’s the thing... If that hammer was used in the killing of Donny Cruikshank, then I’m thinking there are three possibilities.’ She held up one finger at a time. ‘Evans, Ishbel, or yourself. It had to be one of you. And I think, realistically, we can leave Evans out of it.’ She lowered one of the fingers. ‘So it’s down to you or Ishbel, Ray. Which is it to be?’

Les Young’s pen was poised once more above the pad.

‘I need to see her,’ Ray Mangold said, voice suddenly dry and brittle-sounding. ‘Just the two of us... five minutes is all I need.’

‘Can’t do it, Ray,’ Young said firmly.

‘I’m giving you nothing till you let me see her.’

But Les Young was shaking his head. Mangold’s gaze shifted to Siobhan.

‘DI Young’s in charge,’ she told him. ‘He calls the shots.’

Mangold leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in hands. When he spoke, his words were muffled by his palms.

‘We didn’t catch that, Ray,’ Young said.

‘No? Well, catch this!’ And Mangold lunged across the table, swinging a fist. Young jerked back. Siobhan was on her feet, grabbed the arm and twisted. Young dropped his pen and was around the table, putting a headlock on Mangold.

‘Bastards!’ Mangold spat. ‘You’re all bastards, the whole bloody lot of you!’

And then, a minute or so later, and with back-up arriving, restraints at the ready: ‘Okay, okay... I did it. Happy now, you shower of shite? I stuck a hammer in his head. So what? Doing the world a huge bloody favour, that’s what it was.’

‘We need to hear it from you again,’ Siobhan hissed in his ear.

‘What?’

‘When we let go of you, you’ll need to say it all again.’ She released her grip as the officers moved in.

‘Otherwise,’ she explained, ‘people might think I’d twisted your arm.’

They took a coffee break eventually, Siobhan standing with eyes closed as she leaned against the drinks machine. Les Young had opted for the soup, despite her warnings. He now sniffed the contents of his cup and winced.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Siobhan opened her eyes. ‘I think you chose badly.’

‘I meant Mangold.’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘He wants to go down for it.’

‘Yes, but did he do it?’

‘Either him or Ishbel.’

‘He loves her, doesn’t he?’

‘I get that impression.’

‘So he could be covering for her?’

She shrugged again. ‘Wonder if he’ll end up on the same wing as Stuart Bullen. That would be a kind of justice, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ Young sounded sceptical.

‘Cheer up, Les,’ Siobhan told him. ‘We got a result.’

He made a show of studying the drinks machine’s front panel. ‘Something you don’t know, Siobhan...’

‘What?’

‘This is my first time leading a murder team. I want to get it right.’

‘Doesn’t always happen in the real world, Les.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘But at least now you can say you’ve dipped a toe in the water.’

He smiled. ‘While you headed for the deep.’

‘Yes...’ she said, voice trailing off, ‘and nearly didn’t come up again.’

32

Edinburgh Royal Infirmary was sited just outside the city, in an area called Little France.

At night, Rebus thought it resembled Whitemire, the car park lit but the world around it in darkness. There was a starkness to the design, and the compound seemed self-contained. The air as he stepped from his Saab felt different from the city centre: fewer poisons, but colder, too. It didn’t take him long to find Alan Traynor’s room. Rebus himself had been a patient here not so long ago, but in an open ward. He wondered if someone was paying for Traynor’s privacy: his American employers maybe.

Or the UK’s own Immigration Service.

Felix Storey sat dozing by the bedside. He’d been reading a women’s magazine. From its frayed edges, Rebus guessed it had come from a pile in another part of the hospital. Storey had removed his suit jacket and placed it over the back of his chair. He still wore his tie, but with the top button of his shirt undone. For him it was a casual look. He was snoring quietly as Rebus entered. Traynor, on the other hand, was awake but looked dopey. His wrists were bandaged, and a tube led into one arm. His eyes barely focused on Rebus as he entered. Rebus gave a little wave anyway, and kicked one of the chair legs. Storey’s head jerked up with a snort.

‘Wakey-wakey,’ Rebus said.

‘What time is it?’ Storey ran a hand down his face.

‘Quarter past nine. You make a lousy guard.’

‘I just want to be here when he wakes up.’

‘Looks to me like he’s been awake a while.’ Rebus nodded towards Traynor. ‘Is he on painkillers?’

‘A hefty dose, so the doctor said. They want a shrink to look at him tomorrow.’

‘Get anything out of him today?’

Storey shook his head. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you let me down.’

‘How’s that?’ Rebus asked.

‘You promised you’d go with me to Whitemire.’

‘I break promises all the time,’ Rebus said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I had some thinking to do.’

‘About what?’

Rebus studied him. ‘Easier if I show you.’

‘I don’t...’ Storey looked towards Traynor.

‘He’s not fit to answer any questions, Felix. Anything he gives you would be thrown out of court...’

‘Yes, but I shouldn’t just...’

‘I think you should.’

‘Someone has to keep watch.’

‘In case he tries topping himself again? Look at him, Felix, he’s in another place.’

Storey looked, and seemed to concede the point.

‘Won’t take long,’ Rebus assured him.

‘What is it you want me to see?’

‘That would spoil the surprise. Do you have a car?’ Rebus watched Storey nod. ‘Then you can follow me.’

‘Follow you where?’

‘Got any trunks with you?’

‘Trunks?’ Storey’s eyebrows furrowed.

‘Never mind,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll just have to improvise...’

Rebus drove carefully, keeping an eye on the headlights in his rearview. Improvisation, he couldn’t help thinking, was at the heart of everything he was about to do. Halfway, he called Storey on his mobile, told him they were nearly there.

‘This better be worth it,’ came the tetchy reply.

‘I promise,’ Rebus said. The city outskirts first: bungalows fronting the route, housing schemes hidden behind them. It was the bungalows visitors would see, Rebus realised, and they’d think what a nice, upright place Edinburgh was. The reality was waiting somewhere else, just out of their eye-line.

Waiting to pounce.

There wasn’t much traffic about: they were skirting the southern edge of the city. Morningside was the first real clue that Edinburgh might have some night life: bars and takeaways, supermarkets and students. Rebus signalled left, checking in his mirror that Storey did the same. When his mobile sounded, he knew it would be Storey: irritated further and wondering how much longer.

‘We’re here,’ Rebus muttered under his breath. He pulled into the kerb, Storey following suit. The Immigration man was first out of his car.

‘Time to stop with the games,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Rebus answered, turning away. They were on a leafy suburban street, large houses silhouetted against the sky. Rebus pushed open a gate, knowing Storey would follow. Instead of trying the bell, Rebus headed for the driveway, walking purposefully now.

The jacuzzi was still there, its cover removed once more, steam billowing from it.

Big Ger Cafferty in the water, arms stretched out along its sides. Opera music on the sound system.

‘You sit in that thing all day?’ Rebus asked.

‘Rebus,’ Cafferty drawled. ‘And you’ve brought your boyfriend: how touching.’ He ran a hand over his matted chest-hair.

‘I’m forgetting,’ Rebus said, ‘the two of you have never actually met in person, have you? Felix Storey, meet Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

Rebus was studying Storey’s reaction. The Londoner slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what’s going on here?’

‘Nothing.’ Rebus paused. ‘I just thought you might want to put a face to the voice.’

‘What?’

Rebus didn’t bother answering straight away. He was staring up at the room above the garage. ‘No Joe tonight, Cafferty?’

‘He gets the odd night off, when I don’t think I’ll be needing him.’

‘Number of enemies you’ve made, I wouldn’t have thought you ever felt safe.’

‘We all need a bit of risk from time to time.’ Cafferty had busied himself with the control panel, turning off jets and music both. But the light was still active, still changing colour every ten or fifteen seconds.

‘Look, am I being fitted up here?’ Storey asked. Rebus ignored him. His eyes were on Cafferty.

‘You bear a grudge a long time, I’ll give you that. When was it you fell out with Rab Bullen? Fifteen... twenty years ago? But that grudge gets passed down the generations, eh, Cafferty?’

‘I’ve nothing against Stu,’ Cafferty growled.

‘Wouldn’t say no to a bit of his action though, eh?’ Rebus paused to light a cigarette. ‘Nicely played, too.’ He blew smoke into the night sky, where it merged with the steam.

‘I don’t want any of this,’ Felix Storey said. He made as if to turn and leave. Rebus let him, betting he wouldn’t carry through. After a few paces, Storey stopped and turned, then retraced his steps.

‘Say what you want to say,’ he challenged.

Rebus examined the tip of his cigarette. ‘Cafferty here is your “Deep Throat”, Felix. Cafferty knew what was going on because he had a man on the inside — Barney Grant, Bullen’s lieutenant. Barney feeding info to Cafferty, Cafferty passing it along to you. In return for which, Grant would get Bullen’s empire handed to him on a plate.’

‘What does it matter?’ Storey asked, brow furrowing. ‘Even if it was your friend Cafferty here...’

‘Not my friend, Felix — yours. But the thing is, Cafferty wasn’t just passing you information... He came up with the passports... Barney Grant planted them in the safe, probably while we were chasing Bullen down that tunnel. Bullen would take the fall and all would be well. Thing was, how did Cafferty get the passports?’ Rebus looked at both men and shrugged. ‘Easy enough if it’s Cafferty who’s smuggling the immigrants into the UK.’ His gaze had rested on Cafferty, whose eyes seemed smaller, blacker than ever. Whose entire rounded face glistened with malice. Rebus gave another theatrical shrug. ‘Cafferty, not Bullen. Cafferty feeding Bullen to you, Felix, so he could bag all that business for himself...’

‘And the beauty is,’ Cafferty drawled, ‘there’s no proof, and absolutely nothing you can do about it.’

‘I know,’ Rebus said.

‘Then what’s the point of saying it?’ Storey snarled.

‘Listen and you’ll learn,’ Rebus told him.

Cafferty was smiling. ‘With Rebus, there’s always a point,’ he conceded.

Rebus flicked ash into the tub, which put a sudden stop to the smile. ‘Cafferty is the one who knows London... he has contacts there. Not Stuart Bullen. Remember that photo of you, Cafferty? There you were, with your London “associates”. Even Felix here let slip that there’s a London connection involved in all of this. Bullen didn’t have the muscle — or anything else — to put together something as meticulous as people-smuggling. He’s the fall guy, so things ease up for a while. Thing is, putting Bullen in the frame becomes a whole lot easier if someone else is on board — someone like you, Felix. An Immigration officer with an eye for an easy score. You crack the case, it means a big fillip. Bullen’s the only one who’s being shafted. Far as you’re concerned, he’s scum anyway. You’re not going to worry about who’s behind the shafting or what might be in it for them. But here’s the thing — all the glory you’re going to get, it adds up to the cube of bugger-all, because what you’ve done is smoothed Cafferty’s path. It’ll be him in charge from now on, not only bringing illegals into the country, but working them to death too.’ Rebus paused. ‘So thanks for that.’

This is bullshit,’ Storey spat.

‘I don’t think so,’ Rebus said. ‘To me, it makes perfect sense... it’s the only thing that does.’

‘But like you said,’ Cafferty interrupted, ‘you can’t make any of it stick.’

‘That’s true,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I just wanted to let Felix here know who he’d really been working for all this time.’ He flicked the rest of his cigarette on to the lawn.

Storey lunged at him, teeth bared. Rebus dodged the move, grabbing him in a chokehold around the neck, forcing his head into the water. Storey was maybe an inch taller... younger and fitter. But he didn’t have Rebus’s heft, his arms flailing, uncertain whether to search for purchase on the side of the tub, or try to unlock Rebus’s grip.

Cafferty sat in his corner of the pool, watching the action as if he were ringside.

‘You haven’t won,’ Rebus hissed.

‘From where I’m sitting, I’d say you’re wrong.’

Rebus realised that Storey’s resistance was lessening. He released his grip and took a few steps back, out of range of the Londoner. Storey fell to his knees, spluttering. But he was soon up again, advancing on Rebus.

‘Enough!’ Cafferty barked. Storey turned towards him, ready to channel his anger elsewhere. But there was something about Cafferty... even at the age he was, overweight and naked in a tub...

It would take a braver — or more foolish — man than Storey to stand up to him.

Something Storey knew immediately. He made the right decision, shoulders untensing, fists unclenching, trying to control his coughs and splutters.

‘Well, boys,’ Cafferty went on, ‘I think it’s past both your bedtimes, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not finished yet,’ Rebus stated.

‘I thought you were,’ Cafferty said. It sounded like an order, but Rebus dismissed it with a twitch of the mouth.

‘Here’s what I want.’ His attention was on Storey now. ‘I said I can’t prove anything, but that might not stop me trying — and shit has a way of making a smell, even when you can’t see it.’

‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know who “Deep Throat” was.’

‘And you weren’t just a tiny bit suspicious, even when he gave you a tip such as who owned the red BMW?’ Rebus waited for an answer, but got none. ‘See, Felix, the way it’ll seem to most people, either you’re dirty or else incredibly stupid. Neither looks good on the old CV.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Storey persisted.

‘But I’m betting you had an inkling. You just ignored it and concentrated on all those brownie points you’d be getting.’

‘What do you want?’ Storey croaked.

‘I want the Yurgii family — the mother and kids — released from Whitemire. I want them housed somewhere you’d choose for yourself. By tomorrow.’

‘You think I can do that?’

‘You’ve blown an immigrant scam apart, Felix — they owe you.’

‘And that’s it?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Not quite. Chantal Rendille... I don’t want her deported.’

Storey seemed to be waiting for more, but Rebus was finished.

‘I’m sure Mr Storey will see what he can do,’ Cafferty said levelly — as if his was always the voice of reason.

‘Any of your illegals turn up in Edinburgh, Cafferty...’ Rebus began, knowing the threat to be empty.

Cafferty knew it too, but he smiled and bowed his head. Rebus turned to Storey. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you just got greedy. You saw a golden chance and you weren’t going to question it, far less turn it down. But there’s a chance to redeem yourself.’ He jabbed a finger in Cafferty’s direction. ‘By pointing your guns at him.’

Storey nodded slowly, both men — locked in combat just moments before — now staring at the figure in the tub. Cafferty had half turned, as if he’d already dismissed them from his mind and his life. He was busy with the control panel, jets suddenly gushing into the tub again. ‘You’ll bring your trunks next time?’ he called as Rebus started heading for the driveway.

‘And an extension cable,’ Rebus called back.

For the two-bar electric fire. Watch the lights change colour when that hit the water...

Epilogue

The Oxford Bar.

Harry poured Rebus a pint of IPA, then told him there was a ‘journo’ in the back room. ‘Fair warning,’ Harry said. Rebus nodded and took his drink through. It was Steve Holly. He was perusing what looked like the next morning’s paper, folded it closed at Rebus’s approach.

‘Jungle drums are going mental,’ he said.

‘I never listen to them,’ Rebus replied. ‘Try never to read the tabloids either.’

‘Whitemire’s approaching meltdown, you’ve got a strip-club owner in custody, and there’s a story the paramilitaries have been muscling in on Knoxland.’ Holly raised his hands. ‘I hardly know where to start.’ He laughed and hoisted his glass. ‘Actually, that’s not strictly true... want to know why?’

‘Why?’

He wiped foam from his top lip. ‘Because everywhere I look, I come across your dabs.’

‘Do you?’

Holly nodded slowly. ‘Given the inside gen, I could make you the hero of the piece. That would put you on the fast track out of Gayfield Square.’

‘My saviour,’ Rebus offered, concentrating on his beer. ‘But tell me this... Remember that story you wrote about Knoxland? The way you twisted it so the refugees became the problem?’

‘They are a problem.’

Rebus ignored this. ‘You wrote it that way because Stuart Bullen told you to.’ It sounded like a statement, and when Rebus looked into the reporter’s eyes, he knew it was true. ‘What did he do — phone you? Ask a favour? Pair of you scratching one another’s backs again, just like when he used to give you tip-offs on any celebs leaving his club...’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

Rebus leaned forward on his chair. ‘Didn’t you wonder why he was asking?’

‘He said it was a matter of balance, giving the locals a voice.’

‘But why?’

Holly shrugged. ‘I just reckoned he was your everyday racist. I’d no idea he had something he was trying to hide.’

‘You know now though, don’t you? He wanted us focusing on Stef Yurgii as a race crime. And all the time, it was him and his men... with slime like you at their beck and call.’ Though Rebus was staring at Holly, he was thinking of Cafferty and Felix Storey, of the many and various ways in which people could be used and abused, conned and manipulated. He knew he could unload it all on Holly, and maybe the reporter would even do something with it. But where was the proof? All Rebus had was the queasy feeling in his gut. That, and a few embers of rage.

‘I only report the stuff, Rebus,’ the reporter said. ‘I don’t make it happen.’

Rebus nodded to himself. ‘And people like me try to clean up afterwards.’

Holly’s nostrils twitched. ‘Speaking of which, you’ve not been swimming, have you?’

‘Do I look the type?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. All the same, I can definitely smell chlorine...’

Siobhan was parked outside his flat. As she emerged from the driver’s side, he could hear bottles chiming in her carrier bag.

‘We can’t be working you hard enough,’ Rebus told her. ‘I heard you’d taken time off for a dook in Duddingston Loch.’ She managed a smile. ‘You’re okay, though?’

‘I will be after a couple of glasses... Always supposing you’re not expecting different company.’

‘You mean Caro?’ Rebus slid his hands into his pockets and gave a shrug.

‘Was it my fault?’ Siobhan asked into the silence.

‘No... but don’t let that stop you taking the blame. How’s Major Underpants?’

‘He’s fine.’

Rebus nodded slowly, then brought the key from his pocket. ‘No cheap plonk in that bag, I hope.’

‘The finest bin ends in town,’ she assured him. They climbed the two flights together, finding comfort in the silence. But at Rebus’s landing, he stopped short and uttered a curse. His door was ajar, the jamb splintered.

‘Bloody hell,’ Siobhan said, following him inside.

Straight to the living room. ‘TV’s gone,’ she stated.

‘And the stereo.’

‘Want me to phone it in?’

‘And provide punchlines for Gayfield all next week?’ He shook his head.

‘I’m assuming you’re insured?’

‘I’ll need to check I kept the payments up...’ Rebus broke off as he noticed something. A scrap of paper on his chair by the bay window. He crouched down to peer at it. Nothing but a seven-digit number. He picked up his phone and made the call, staying in a crouch as he listened. An answering machine, telling him all he needed to know. He ended the call, stood back up.

‘Well?’ Siobhan asked.

‘A pawn shop on Queen Street.’

She looked puzzled, even more so when he smiled.

‘Bloody Drugs Squad,’ he told her. ‘Pawned the stuff for the price of that bloody torch.’ Despite himself, he laughed, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. ‘Go fetch the corkscrew, will you? It’s in the kitchen drawer...’

He picked up the scrap of paper and fell into his chair, staring at it, the laughter subsiding by degrees. And then Siobhan was standing in the doorway, holding another note.

‘Not the corkscrew?’ he said, face dropping.

‘The corkscrew,’ she confirmed.

‘Now that’s vicious. That’s more than flesh and blood can stand!’

‘Maybe you could borrow one from the neighbours?’

‘I don’t know any of the neighbours.’

‘Then this is your chance to get acquainted. It’s either that or no booze.’ Siobhan shrugged. ‘Your decision.’

‘Not to be taken lightly,’ Rebus drawled. ‘You better sit yourself down... this might take a while.’

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Senay Boztas and all the other journalists who helped me research the issues of asylum-seekers and immigration, and to Robina Qureshi of Positive Action In Housing (PAIH) for information on the plight of asylum-seekers in Glasgow and in the Dungavel detention centre.

The village of Banehall doesn’t exist, so please don’t pore over maps looking for it. Nor will you find a detention centre called Whitemire in any part of West Lothian, or an estate called Knoxland on the western outskirts of Edinburgh. In fact, I stole my fictitious estate from my friend, the writer Brian McCabe. He once wrote a brilliant short story called ‘Knoxland’.