by Ian Rankin
“You offering yourself as bodyguard?”
Rebus shrugged. “I do whatever you tell me to, Shug. This is your show . . .”
Davidson rubbed at his forehead again. “Sorry, John, sorry . . .”
“Take that break, Shug. A breath of air if nothing else . . .” Rebus opened the back door.
“Oh, John, message for you. The Drugs guys want their flashlight back. I was told to tell you it’s urgent.”
Rebus nodded, got out, and closed the door again. He headed up to Jim’s flat. The door was flapping open. No sign of the flashlight in the kitchen, or anywhere else. The forensic team had been in, but he doubted they’d taken it. As he exited, Steve Holly was coming out of the flat next door, holding his tape recorder to his ear to check it had worked.
Soft touch, that’s the problem with this country . . .
“I take it you’d agree with that,” Rebus said, startling the reporter. Holly stopped the tape and pocketed the recorder.
“Objective journalism, Rebus—giving both sides of the argument.”
“You’ve talked to some of the poor bastards who’ve been thrown into this lion’s den, then?”
Holly nodded. He was peering over the wall, wondering if anything he should know about was happening at ground level. “I’ve even managed to find Knoxers who don’t mind all these new arrivals—bet you’re surprised by that . . . I certainly was.” He lit a cigarette, offered one to Rebus.
“Just this minute finished one,” Rebus lied with a shake of his head.
“Any result yet from the photo we printed?”
“Maybe no one noticed it tucked away there . . . too busy reading about tax dodgers, payouts, and preferential housing.”
“All of it true,” Holly protested. “I never said it applied here, but it does some places.”
“If you were any lower, I could tee a golf ball off your head.”
“Not a bad line,” Holly grinned. “Maybe I’ll use it . . .” His mobile sounded and he took the call, turning from Rebus, walking away as if the detective no longer existed.
Which, Rebus assumed, was the way someone like Holly worked. Living for the moment, attention span stretching only as far as that particular story. Once it was written out, it was yesterday’s news, and something else had to fill the vacuum it left. It was hard not to compare the process with the way some of his own colleagues worked: cases erased from the mind, new ones awaited, hoping for something a bit unusual or interesting. He knew there were good journalists out there, too: they weren’t all like Steve Holly. Some of them couldn’t stand the man.
Rebus followed Holly downstairs and out into the lessening storm. Fewer than a dozen diehards were left to argue their grievances with the solicitor, who had been joined by a few of the immigrants themselves. This was making for a fresh photo op, and the cameras were busy again, some of the immigrants shielding their faces with their hands. Rebus heard a noise behind him, someone calling out, “Go on, Howie!” He turned and saw a youth walking purposefully towards the crowd, his friends offering encouragement from a safe distance. The youth paid no attention to Rebus. He had his face covered, hands tucked into the pouch on the front of his jacket. His pace was increasing as he made to pass Rebus. Rebus could hear his hoarse breath, almost smell the adrenaline coming off him.
He snatched at an arm and yanked it backwards. The youth spun, hands emerging from their pouch. Something tumbled across the ground: a small rock. The youth cried out in pain as Rebus wrenched his arm higher behind his back, forcing him down onto his knees. The crowd had turned at the sound, cameras clicking, but Rebus’s eyes were on the gang, checking they weren’t about to attack en masse. They weren’t: instead, they were walking away, no intention of rescuing their fallen comrade. A man was getting into a battered red BMW. A man in an olive-colored parka.
The captured youth was now swearing between agonized complaints. Rebus was aware of uniformed officers standing over him, one of them handcuffing the youth. As Rebus straightened up, he came eye to eye with Ellen Wylie.
“What happened?” she asked.
“He had a rock in his pocket . . . going to attack Dirwan.”
“That’s a lie,” the youth spat. “I’m being fitted up here!” The hood had been pulled from his head, the scarf from his mouth. Rebus saw a shaved skull, a face blighted by acne. One central tooth missing, the mouth open in disbelief at the way events had turned. Rebus stooped and picked up the rock.
“Still warm,” he said.
“Take him down the station,” Wylie was telling the uniforms. Then, to the youth: “Anything sharp on you before we search your pockets?”
“Telling you nothing.”
“Get him into a car, lads.”
The youth was led away, cameras following him as he returned to his complaints. Rebus realized that the lawyer was standing in front of him.
“You saved my life, sir!” He clasped Rebus’s hands in his own.
“I wouldn’t go that far . . .”
But Dirwan had turned to the crowd. “You see? You see the way that hate drips down from father to son? It is like a slow poison, polluting the very ground that should nourish us!” He tried to embrace Rebus, but met with resistance. This didn’t seem to bother him. “You are a police officer, yes?”
“A detective inspector,” Rebus acknowledged.
“Name’s Rebus!” a voice called. Rebus stared at a smirking Steve Holly.
“Mr. Rebus, I am in your debt until we perish on this earth. We are all in your debt.” Dirwan meant the immigrant group who stood nearby, apparently unaware of what had just happened. And now Shug Davidson was coming into view, bemused by the spectacle before him and accompanied by a grinning Rat-Arse Reynolds.
“Center of attention, as usual, John,” Reynolds said.
“What’s the story?” Davidson asked.
“A kid was about to clout Mr. Dirwan here,” Rebus muttered. “So I stopped him.” He offered a shrug, as if to indicate that he now wished he hadn’t. A uniform, one of the ones who’d taken the youth away, was returning.
“Better take a look at this, sir,” he told Davidson. He was holding a polyethylene evidence bag. There was something small and angular within.
A six-inch kitchen knife.
Rebus found himself playing babysitter to his new best friend.
They were in the CID office in Torphichen Place. The youth was being questioned in one of the interview rooms by Shug Davidson and Ellen Wylie. The knife had been whisked away to the forensic lab at Howdenhall. Rebus was trying to send a text message to Siobhan, letting her know they’d have to reschedule their meeting. He suggested six o’clock.
Having given his statement, Mohammad Dirwan was sipping sugary black tea at one of the desks, his eyes fixed on Rebus.
“I never mastered the intricacies of these new technologies,” he stated.
“Me neither,” Rebus admitted.
“And yet somehow they have become imperative to our way of life.”
“I suppose so.”
“You are a man of few words, Inspector. Either that or I’m making you nervous.”
“I’m just having to re-jig a meeting, Mr. Dirwan.”
“Please . . .” The lawyer held up a hand. “I told you to call me Mo.” He grinned, showing a row of immaculate teeth. “People tell me it’s a woman’s name—they associate it with the character in EastEnders. You know the one?” Rebus shook his head. “I say to them, do you not remember the footballer Mo Johnston? He played for both Rangers and Celtic, becoming hero and villain twice over—a trick not even the best lawyer could hope to accomplish.”
Rebus managed a smile. Rangers and Celtic: the Protestant team and the Catholic. He thought of something. “Tell me, Mr. . . .” A glare from Dirwan. “Mo . . . tell me, you’ve had dealings with asylum seekers in Glasgow, right?”
“Correct.”
“One of the demonstrators today . . . we think he might be from Belfast.”
“
That wouldn’t surprise me. The same thing happens on the Glasgow estates. It’s a spillover from the troubles in Northern Ireland.”
“How so?”
“Immigrants have begun to move to places like Belfast—they see opportunities there. Those people involved in the religious conflict are not so keen on this. They see everything in terms of Catholic and Protestant . . . maybe these new incoming religions scare them. There have been physical attacks. I would call it a basic instinct, this need to alienate what we cannot understand.” He raised a finger. “Which does not mean I condone it.”
“But what would bring these men from Belfast to Scotland?”
“Maybe they wish to recruit the unhappy locals to their own cause.” He shrugged. “Unrest can seem an end in itself to some people.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Rebus had seen it for himself: the need to foment trouble, to stir things up; for no other reason than a feeling of power.
The lawyer finished his drink. “Do you think this boy is the killer?”
“Could be.”
“Everyone seems to carry a knife in this country. You know Glasgow is the most dangerous city in Europe?”
“So I hear.”
“Stabbings . . . always stabbings.” Dirwan shook his head. “And yet people still struggle to come to Scotland.”
“Immigrants, you mean?”
“Your First Minister says he is worried about the decline in the population. He is correct in this. We need young people to fill the jobs, otherwise how can we hope to support the aging population? We also need people with skills. Yet at the same time, the government makes immigration so difficult . . . and as for asylum seekers . . .” He shook his head again, slowly this time, as if in disbelief. “You know Whitemire?”
“The detention center?”
“Such a godforsaken place, Inspector. I’m not made welcome there. You can perhaps appreciate why.”
“You’ve got clients in Whitemire?”
“Several, all of them appealing their cases. It used to be a prison, you know, and now it houses families, individuals scared out of their wits . . . people who know that to be sent back to their native land is a death sentence.”
“And they’re kept in Whitemire because otherwise they’d ignore the judgment and do a runner.”
Dirwan looked at Rebus and gave a wry smile. “Of course, you are part of the same apparatus of state.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rebus bristled.
“Forgive my cynicism . . . but you do believe, don’t you, that we should just send all these black bastards home? That Scotland would be a Utopia if only it weren’t for the Pakis and gypsies and sambos?”
“Christ almighty . . .”
“Maybe you have Arab or African friends, Inspector? Any Asians you go drinking with? Or are they just faces behind the till of your local newsagent’s . . . ?”
“I’m not getting into this,” Rebus stated, tossing an empty coffee mug into the bin.
“It’s an emotional subject, to be sure . . . and yet one I have to deal with every single day. I think Scotland was complacent for many years: we don’t have room for racism, we’re too busy with bigotry! But this is not the case, alas.”
“I’m not racist.”
“I was making a point merely. Don’t upset yourself.”
“I’m not upset.”
“I’m sorry . . . I find it hard to switch off.” Dirwan shrugged. “It comes with the job.” His eyes darted around the room, as if seeking a change of subject. “You think the killer will be found?”
“We’ll do our damnedest.”
“That’s good. I’m sure you are all dedicated and professional people.”
Rebus thought of Reynolds but said nothing.
“And you know that if there’s anything I personally can do to assist you . . .”
Rebus nodded, then thought for a moment. “Actually . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, it looks like the victim had a girlfriend . . . or at any rate a young woman he knew. We could do with tracing her.”
“She lives in Knoxland?”
“Possibly. She’s darker-skinned than the victim; probably speaks better English than him.”
“That’s all you know?”
“It’s all I know,” Rebus confirmed.
“I can ask around . . . the incomers may not be as fearful of talking to me.” He paused. “And thank you for requesting my help.” There was a warmth to his eyes. “You can be assured I will do what I can.”
Both men turned as Reynolds came lumbering into the room, chewing on a shortbread biscuit which had left a trail of crumbs down his shirt and tie.
“We’re charging him,” he said, pausing for effect. “But not with murder. Lab says it wasn’t the same knife.”
“That was quick,” Rebus commented.
“Postmortem says a serrated blade, this one’s got a smooth edge. They’re still going to test for blood, but it’s not promising.” Reynolds glanced in Dirwan’s direction. “We can maybe get him for attempted assault and carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Such is justice,” the lawyer said with a sigh.
“What do you want us to do? Chop his hands off?”
“Was that remark addressed to me?” The lawyer had risen to his feet. “It is hard to tell when you refuse to look at me.”
“I’m looking at you now,” Reynolds retorted.
“And what do you see?”
Rebus stepped in. “What DC Reynolds sees or doesn’t see is neither here nor there.”
“I’ll tell him if he likes,” Reynolds said, bits of biscuit flying from his mouth. Rebus, however, was steering him to the door. “Thank you, DC Reynolds.” Doing everything but giving him a push into the corridor. Reynolds gave one final glower towards the lawyer, then turned and left.
“Tell me,” Rebus asked Dirwan, “do you ever make friends, or just enemies?”
“I judge people by my standards.”
“And a two-second hearing is enough for you to make up your mind?”
Dirwan thought about this. “Actually, yes, sometimes it is.”
“Then you’ve made up your mind about me?” Rebus folded his arms.
“Not so, Inspector . . . you are proving difficult to pin down.”
“But all cops are racist?”
“We are all racist, Inspector . . . even me. It is how we deal with that ugly fact that is important.”
The phone started ringing on Wylie’s desk. Rebus answered it.
“CID, DI Rebus speaking.”
“Oh, hello . . .” A tentative female voice. “Are you looking into that murder? The asylum seeker on the housing estate?”
“That’s right.”
“In the paper this morning . . .”
“The photograph?” Rebus sat down hurriedly, reached for pen and paper.
“I think I know who they are . . . I mean, I do know who they are.” Her voice was so brittle, Rebus feared she might take fright and hang up.
“Well, we’d be very interested in any help you can give, Miss . . . ?”
“What?”
“I need your name.”
“Why?”
“Because callers who won’t give their name tend not to be taken so seriously.”
“But I’m . . .”
“It’ll just be between us, I assure you.”
There was silence for a moment. Then: “Eylot, Janet Eylot.”
Rebus wrote the name down in scrawled capitals.
“And can I ask how you know the people in the photo, Miss Eylot?”
“Well . . . they’re here.”
Rebus was staring at the lawyer without really seeing him. “Where’s here?”
“Look . . . maybe I should have asked permission first.”
Rebus knew he was close to losing her. “You’ve done absolutely the right thing, Miss Eylot. I just need a few more details. We’re keen to catch whoever did this, but right now we’re pretty m
uch in the dark, and you seem to be holding the only candle.” He was trying for a lighthearted tone; couldn’t risk frightening her off.
“Their names are . . .” It took Rebus an effort of will not to shout out encouragement. “Yurgii.” He asked her to spell it, wrote it down as she did so.
“Sounds East European.”
“They’re Turkish Kurds.”
“You work with refugees, do you, Miss Eylot?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She sounded a little more confident, now she’d given him the name. “I’m calling from Whitemire—do you know it?”
Rebus’s eyes focused on Dirwan. “Funnily enough, I was just talking about it. I’m assuming you mean the detention center?”
“We’re actually an Immigration removal center.”
“And the family in the photograph . . . they’re there with you?”
“The mother and two children, yes.”
“And the husband?”
“He fled just before the family were picked up and brought here. It happens sometimes.”
“I’m sure it does . . .” Rebus tapped pen against notepad. “Look, can I take a contact number for you?”
“Well . . .”
“Work or home, whichever suits.”
“I don’t . . .”
“What is it, Miss Eylot? What are you scared of?”
“I should have spoken to my boss first.” She paused. “You’ll be coming here now, won’t you?”
“Why didn’t you talk to your boss?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would your job be threatened if your boss knew?”
She seemed to consider this. “Do they have to know it was me that called you?”
“No, not at all,” Rebus said. “But I’d still like to be able to contact you.”
She relented and gave him her mobile number. Rebus thanked her and warned that he might need to talk to her again.
“In confidence,” he reassured her, not at all sure that this would actually be the case. Call finished, he tore the sheet from the pad.
“He has family in Whitemire,” Dirwan stated.
“I’d ask you to keep that to yourself for the time being.”
The lawyer shrugged. “You saved my life—it’s the least I can do. But would you like me to come with you?”
