by Ian Rankin
“She must have spoken about Cruikshank, though.”
“Must have.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Harrison shook her head. “Is that what you do when you’re stuck? Pin the blame on someone who’s not around to stick up for herself?” She fixed her eyes on Siobhan. “Some friend you are . . .” Young started to say something, but she cut him off. “It’s your job, I know . . . Just a job . . . like working in this place . . . Someone dies in our care, we all feel it.”
“I’m sure you do,” Young said.
“Speaking of which, I’ve got checks I need to make before I clock off . . . Are we finished here?”
Young looked to Siobhan, who had one final question. “Did you know Ishbel had written to Cruikshank while he was in prison?”
“No.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you think you did.” Siobhan paused. “Thanks for talking to us.”
“Yes, thank you very much,” Young added. Then, as she started to rise: “We’ll be in touch about that sample of your handwriting . . .”
After she’d gone, Young leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “If it wasn’t so politically incorrect, I’d probably call her a ballbreaker.”
“Probably comes with the job she does.”
The guard who’d brought them in appeared suddenly in the doorway, as though he’d been waiting within earshot.
“She’s fine once you get to know her,” he said. “Here’s Janet Eylot’s address.” As Siobhan took the note from him, she saw that he was studying her. “And by the way . . . for what it’s worth, you’re exactly Janine’s type . . .”
Janet Eylot lived in a new-build bungalow on the edge of Banehall. For now, the view from her kitchen window was of fields.
“Won’t last,” she said. “Developer’s got his eye on it.”
“Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Young said, accepting the mug of tea. The three of them sat down around the small square table. There were two young kids in the house, struck dumb by a noisy video game.
“I limit them to an hour,” Eylot explained. “And only once the homework’s done.” Something about the way she said it told Siobhan that Eylot was a single mum. A cat jumped onto the table, Eylot sweeping it off with her arm. “I’ve bloody told you!” she shouted, as the cat retreated into the hall. Then she put a hand to her face. “Sorry about that . . .”
“We realize you’re upset, Janet,” Siobhan said softly. “Did you know the man who hanged himself?”
Eylot shook her head. “But he did it fifty yards from where I was sitting. It just makes you think about all the horrible things that could be happening around you, and you don’t know about it.”
“I see what you mean,” Young said.
She looked at him. “Well, in your job . . . you see things all the time.”
“Like Donny Cruikshank’s body,” Siobhan said. She’d noticed the neck of an empty wine bottle jutting out from beneath the lid of the kitchen bin; a single wineglass drying on the draining board. Wondered how much Janet Eylot put away of an evening.
“He’s the reason we’re here,” Young was telling Eylot. “We’re looking at his lifestyle, people who might have known him, maybe even harbored a grudge . . .”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Didn’t you know him?”
“Who’d want to?”
“We just thought . . . after what you wrote about him on the wall of the Bane . . .”
“I wasn’t the only one!” Eylot snapped.
“We know that.” Siobhan’s voice had grown even quieter. “We’re not accusing anyone, Janet. We’re just filling in the background.”
“This is all the thanks I get,” Eylot said, shaking her head. “Bloody typical . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“That asylum seeker . . . the one who got himself stabbed. It was me phoned you lot. You’d never have known who he was otherwise. And this is how I’m paid back.”
“You gave us Stef Yurgii’s name?”
“That’s right—and if my boss ever hears that, I’ll be for the high jump. Two of your lot came to Whitemire: big hefty bloke and a younger woman . . .”
“DI Rebus and DS Wylie?”
“Couldn’t tell you their names. I was keeping my head down.” She paused. “But instead of solving that poor sod’s murder, you’d rather focus on a sleazebag like Cruikshank.”
“Everyone’s equal under the law,” Young said. She stared at him so hard he started to blush, disguising the fact by lifting the mug to his lips.
“See?” she said accusingly. “You say the words, but you know it’s all crap.”
“All DI Young means,” Siobhan interrupted, “is that we have to be objective.”
“But that’s not true either, is it?” Eylot rose to her feet, the chair legs scraping across the floor. She opened the fridge door, realized what she’d done, and slammed it shut again. Three bottles of wine chilling on the middle shelf . . .
“Janet,” Siobhan said, “is Whitemire the problem? You don’t like working there?”
“I hate it.”
“Then leave.”
Eylot laughed harshly. “And where’s the other job coming from? I’ve two kids, I need to provide for them . . .” She sat down again, staring out at the view. “Whitemire’s what I’ve got.”
Whitemire, two kids, and a fridge . . .
“What was it you wrote on the toilet wall, Janet?” Siobhan asked quietly.
There were sudden tears in Eylot’s eyes. She tried blinking them back. “Something about him being claimed,” she said, voice cracking.
“Claimed in blood?” Siobhan corrected her. The woman nodded, tears trickling down either cheek.
They didn’t stay much longer. Both found themselves taking lungfuls of fresh air when they emerged.
“You got kids, Les?” Siobhan asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve been married, though. Lasted a year; we split up eleven months ago. How about you?”
“Never even come close.”
“She’s coping, though, isn’t she?” He risked a glance back at the house.
“I don’t think we need to phone social services just yet.” She paused. “Where to now?”
“Back to base.” He checked his watch. “Nearly time to knock off. I’m buying, if you’re interested.”
“As long as you’re not suggesting the Bane.”
He gave a smile. “I’m heading into Edinburgh, actually.”
“I thought you lived in Livingston.”
“I do, but I’m in this bridge club . . .”
“Bridge?” She couldn’t completely suppress a smile.
He shrugged. “I started playing years ago in college.”
“Bridge,” she repeated.
“What’s wrong with that?” He tried a laugh, but sounded defensive all the same.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just trying to picture you in a dinner jacket and bow tie . . .”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then we’ll meet for a drink in town and you can tell me all about it. The Dome on George Street . . . six-thirty?”
“Six-thirty it is,” he said.
Maybury was as good as gold: called Rebus back at five-fifteen. He jotted the time down so it could be added to the case notes . . . One of the truly great Who songs, he thought to himself. Out of my brain on the five- fifteen . . .
“I’ve played her the tape,” Maybury was saying.
“You didn’t waste any time.”
“I found her mobile number. Extraordinary how they seem to work anywhere these days.”
“She’s in France, then?”
“Bergerac, yes.”
“So what did she say?”
“Well, the sound quality wasn’t brilliant . . .”
“I appreciate that.”
“
And the connection kept breaking up.”
“Yes?”
“But after I’d played it back to her a few times, she came up with Senegal. She’s not a hundred percent sure, but that’s her best guess.”
“Senegal?”
“It’s in Africa, French-speaking.”
“Okay, well . . . thanks for that.”
“Good luck, Inspector.”
Rebus put the phone down, found Wylie working at her computer. She was typing a report of the day’s activities, to be added to the Murder Book.
“Senegal,” he told her.
“Where’s that?”
Rebus sighed. “In Africa, of course. French-speaking.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybury just told you that, didn’t she?”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
“Little faith, but big resources.” She closed down her document and logged on to the Web, typed Senegal into a search engine. Rebus pulled a chair up next to her.
“Just there,” she said, pointing to an on-screen map of Africa. Senegal was on the continent’s northwest coast, dwarfed by Mauritania to the north and Mali to the east.
“It’s tiny,” Rebus commented.
Wylie clicked on an icon and a reference page opened up. “Just the seventy-six thousand square miles,” she said. “I think that’s three-quarters the size of Britain. Capital: Dakar.”
“As in the Dakar rally?”
“Presumably. Population: six and a half million.”
“Minus one . . .”
“She’s sure the caller was from Senegal?”
“I think we’re talking best guess.”
Wylie’s finger ran down the list of statistics. “No sign here that the country’s in turmoil or anything.”
“Meaning what?”
Wylie shrugged. “She might not be an asylum seeker . . . maybe not even an illegal.”
Rebus nodded, said he might know someone who’d know, and called Caro Quinn.
“You’re crying off?” she guessed.
“Far from it—I’ve even bought you a present.” For Wylie’s information, he patted his jacket pocket, from which jutted the folded newspaper. “Just wondering if you can shed any light on Senegal?”
“The country in Africa?
“That’s the one.” He peered at the screen. “Mostly Muslim and an exporter of ground nuts.”
He heard her laugh. “What about it?”
“Do you know of any refugees from there? Maybe in Whitemire?”
“Can’t say I do . . . Refugee Council might help.”
“That’s a thought.” But as he said it, Rebus was having another thought entirely. If anyone would know, Immigration would.
“See you later,” he said, ending the call.
Wylie had her arms folded, a smile on her face. “Your friend from outside Whitemire?” she guessed.
“Her name’s Caro Quinn.”
“And you’re meeting her later.”
“So?” Rebus twitched his shoulders.
“So what was she able to tell you about Senegal?”
“Just that she doesn’t think there are any Senegalese in Whitemire. She says we should talk to the Refugee Council.”
“What about Mo Dirwan? He seems the sort who might know.”
Rebus nodded. “Why don’t you give him a call?”
Wylie pointed at herself. “Me? You’re the one he seems to worship.”
Rebus’s face creased. “Give me a break, Ellen.”
“But then I forgot . . . you’ve got a date tonight. You probably want to nip home for a facial.”
“If I hear that you’ve been blabbing about this . . .”
She raised both hands in a show of surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me, Don Juan. Now skedaddle . . . I’ll see you after the weekend.”
Rebus stared at her, but she fluttered her hands, shooing him off. He’d gone three steps towards the door when she called out his name. He turned his head towards her.
“Take a tip from one who knows.” She gestured towards the newspaper in his pocket. “A bit of gift wrapping goes a long way . . .”
19
That evening, fresh from a bath and a shave, Rebus arrived at Caro Quinn’s flat. He looked around, but there seemed no sign of mother and child.
“Ayisha’s gone to visit friends,” Quinn explained.
“Friends?”
“She’s allowed to have friends, John.” Quinn was bending over to hook a black low-heeled shoe onto her left foot.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he said defensively.
She straightened up. “Yes, you did, but don’t worry about it. Did I tell you Ayisha was a nurse back in her homeland?”
“Yes.”
“She wanted work here, doing the same thing . . . but asylum seekers aren’t allowed to work. Still, she made friends with some nurses. One of them’s having a get-together.”
“I brought something for the baby,” Rebus said, sliding a rattle from his pocket. Quinn came towards him, took the rattle, and tried it out. She looked at him and smiled.
“I’ll put it in her room.”
Left on his own, Rebus realized he was sweating, his shirt clinging to his back. He thought of removing his jacket, but feared the stain would be visible. It was the jacket’s fault: hundred percent wool, too warm for indoors. He visualized himself at dinner, beads of perspiration falling into his soup . . .
“You haven’t told me how nicely I scrub up,” Quinn said, coming back into the room. She still had only the one shoe on. Her feet were covered in black tights, which disappeared beneath a knee-length black skirt. Her top was mustard-colored, with a wide neckline stretching almost to both shoulders.
“You look great,” he said.
“Thanks.” She slipped the other shoe on.
“I’ve got you a present, too.” He handed over the newspaper.
“And here I was, thinking you’d brought it along in case you got bored of my company.” Then she saw that he’d tied a narrow red bow around it. “Nice touch,” she added, removing it.
“Reckon the suicide will make any difference?”
She seemed to consider this, patting the newspaper against the palm of her left hand. “Probably not,” she finally conceded. “As far as the government’s concerned, they have to be kept somewhere. Might as well be Whitemire.”
“The newspaper talks about a ‘crisis.’”
“That’s because the word ‘crisis’ sounds like news.” She’d opened the paper to the page with her photograph. “That circle around my head makes me look like a target.”
Rebus narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”
“John, I’ve been a radical all my life. Nuclear subs at Faslane, the Torness power station, Greenham Common . . . You name it, I’ve been there. Is my phone tapped right this second? I couldn’t tell you. Has it been tapped in the past? Almost certainly.”
Rebus stared at the telephone apparatus. “Do you mind if I . . . ?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the receiver, pressed the green button, and listened. Then he closed the connection, opened it and closed it again. Looked at her and shook his head, replacing the handset.
“You reckon you could tell?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t mean you don’t have a reason.”
“I’m betting you’ve bugged phones in the past—during the miners’ strike maybe?”
“Now who’s the one doing the interrogating?”
“That’s because we’re enemies, remember?”
“Are we?”
“Most of your lot would see me that way, with or without the combat jacket.”
“I’m not like most of my lot.”
“I’d say that’s true. Otherwise I’d never have let you over the threshhold.”
“Why did you? It was to show me those photos, right?”
She eventually nodded
. “I wanted you to see them as human beings rather than problems.” She brushed down the front of her skirt, took a deep breath to indicate a change of subject. “So where are we gracing with our custom tonight?”
“There’s a good Italian on Leith Walk.” He paused. “You’re probably vegetarian, right?”
“God, you’re just full of assumptions, aren’t you? But as it happens, this time you’re right. Italian’s good though: plenty of pasta and pizza.”
“Italian it is, then.”
She took a step towards him. “You know, you’d probably put your foot in your mouth less often if you could try and relax.”
“This is about as relaxed as I get without the demon alcohol.”
She slipped her arm into his. “Then let’s go find your demons, John . . .”
“. . . and then there were those three Kurds, you must have seen it on the news, they sewed their mouths shut in protest, and another asylum seeker sewed his eyes shut . . . his eyes, John . . . most of these people are desperate by anyone’s standards, most don’t speak English, and they’re fleeing the most dangerous places on Earth—Iraq, Somalia, Afghanistan . . . a few years back, they had a good chance of being allowed to stay, but the restrictions now are crippling . . . some of them resort to desperate measures, tearing up any ID, thinking it means they can’t be sent home, but instead they’re sent to prison or end up on the streets . . . and now we’ve got politicians arguing that the country’s already too diverse . . . and I . . . well, I just feel there must be something we can do about it.”
Finally she stopped for a breath, picking up the wineglass which Rebus had just refilled. Though flesh and fowl were off Caro Quinn’s menu, alcohol, it appeared, was not. She’d eaten only half her mushroom pizza. Rebus, having demolished his own calzone, was restraining himself from reaching over for one of her remaining slices.
“I was under the impression,” he said, “that Britain takes more refugees than anywhere else.”
“That’s true,” she conceded.
“Even more than the United States?”
She nodded with the wineglass at her lips. “But what’s important is the number who are allowed to stay. The world’s number of refugees is doubling every five years, John. Glasgow has more asylum seekers than any other council in Britain—more than Wales and Northern Ireland combined—and do you know what’s happened?”
