by James Oswald
‘So they were trafficked here. How come Rahel ends up working in a sandwich factory, apparently legitimate, when her sister’s a sex worker? Why not both of them?’
McLean slowed as they approached the turning onto Peffermill Road, retracing the route he’d gone only that morning. A part of his mind knew he should be back at the station, that sending a couple of DCs to fetch Rahel was the course of action he should have taken. He’d not even found Ritchie to tell her about the woman who might or might not be Akka yet, and there were a hundred and one other things he was supposed to be dealing with before opening up an entirely new investigation. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
‘That’s what I intend to find out. And, if possible, I’ll try and get a DNA sample off her to compare with our Jane Doe.’ He risked a glance across at Harrison as she sat in the passenger seat, trying to gauge from her expression whether or not she thought he’d lost his mind. Her poker face was almost perfect, but she was fidgeting with her hands.
‘But?’ he asked after she’d said nothing for more of the length of Niddrie Mains Road. Finally she dragged her eyes away from the view to the front and looked at him.
‘Isn’t it all a bit nebulous?’ she asked, then added ‘sir’ for good measure.
‘Nebulous, tenuous, a distraction from what I should be doing. All of these things and more.’ McLean indicated, waited for a gap in the traffic, and then pulled over into the car park of Fresh Food Solutions. It wasn’t much changed from earlier, but then there was no good reason why it should have been. ‘From a psychologist’s point of view, you could say I was looking for distractions. I like to think of it more as seeing connections where you wouldn’t expect them to be. Maybe seeing connections other people don’t even notice. That’s the job, after all.’
Harrison had no answer to that, but they’d arrived anyway and the time for philosophising was over. She followed McLean through the front door and into Reception, where he was surprised to see Rab Boag leaning over the receptionist’s desk, chatting. Not as surprised as the manager was to see him though, judging by his expression and hurried movements.
‘Inspector. You should have called.’
‘It’s chief inspector, but don’t worry. And it’s nothing serious. I just wanted to have another quick word with Rahel. Something’s come up that might concern her.’
‘Rahel?’ Boag’s gaze flicked away from McLean, to the receptionist, and then back again. ‘She’s not here. She left.’
From where he was standing, McLean could hear the noise of the factory floor, production in full flow to meet the needs of the lunching population. Tomorrow’s lunches, maybe. Unless people picked up sandwiches for their supper these days. He’d done it on occasion, after all.
‘End of her shift?’ Somehow he had a feeling that wasn’t the case, and Boag’s slowly shaking head confirmed his suspicion.
‘No, I mean left. Handed in her notice not long after you and Sergeant Naismith were here. A shame, really. She was a good worker.’
‘Did she say why?’
Boag shook his head again. ‘No, no. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. We had to work out her wages and pay her in cash. Most irregular.’
Too much detail: McLean knew the man was lying. ‘I still need to talk to her. Do you have an address, a phone number?’
‘I . . . I can’t hand out details like that. Not to the police. What if the other workers heard of it?’
‘I can get a warrant, if it helps.’ McLean doubted that he could. What would be the justification, after all? Sometimes the threat was enough to encourage cooperation. But not this time.
‘What about McKenzie? He leave too?’
Boag stiffened as if someone had poked him with a cattle prod. ‘Nothing but trouble that lad. Thought I was doing him a favour, taking him on despite where he comes from. Those care home boys are all the same though.’
‘So he’s not here either.’ McLean folded his arms over his chest and stared at the manager. ‘Don’t you find that a bit odd? That I come and speak to them this morning, and by lunchtime they’re both no longer your employees? Did they really leave, Mr Boag, or did you encourage them to go?’
‘I really must protest, Insp— . . . Chief Inspector. I’ve been nothing but helpful to the police whenever they’ve asked. Speak to the deputy chief constable if you don’t believe me. That boy was always trouble, and it seems some of it’s rubbed off on young Rahel. A shame, as I said. She’s a good worker. Now I have to find two replacements, and train them up. And we’ve got a big new contract that’s going to mean adding an extra shift.’
McLean tuned him out. The mention of the DCC was a none-too-subtle warning, and there was nothing more to be gained here now. Well, maybe one thing.
‘I’ll let you get back to your sandwiches then, Mr Boag.’ He stared at the receptionist as he said this, and she blushed deeply, turning away. ‘Just tell me what Rahel’s surname is, OK? That’s not against your employer’s ethics is it?’
The question seemed to take Boag by surprise, and for a brief second McLean imagined that the man didn’t actually know. Then he shook his head as if dislodging a different thought.
‘I’m never very good at pronouncing these things. Rahel’s bad enough.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You’ve got it on the file there, Elspeth?’
‘Aye, Mr Boag. I’ve got it here.’ She tapped at her keyboard, bringing up the record. ‘Here we go. Rahel Nour.’
15
The address Billy McKenzie had given them when he’d spoken to McLean earlier was not in a good part of town. Hardly surprising for a lad working on the production line in a sandwich factory, but not somewhere McLean felt all that happy parking his Alfa. Not for the first time, he wondered whether it wouldn’t have been a better idea just to buy an old second-hand Ford. Something reasonably reliable and yet also unremarkable. On the other hand, he couldn’t really see himself in an ordinary car.
‘You reckon he’ll be home, sir?’ Harrison asked as they parked outside a grey-harled tower block. The clouds overhead threatened more snow to add to the dirty slush collecting on the pavement and smeared against the windward side of the building.
‘Only one way to find out.’ McLean climbed out of the warm cabin and into a lazy cold wind. ‘Only, let’s make it quick, aye?’
He’d been expecting semi-derelict council flats, judging by the outward appearance of the block, so it was with some surprise he noticed the clean glass-walled atrium, and the neatly painted sign by the front entrance.
‘Inchmalcolm Tower. A Dee Trust Property.’ Harrison read the words out loud even though McLean could see them well enough for himself. ‘Heard of them. Don’t they do, like, halfway house accommodation for care home kids? Give them support and a place to stay when they’re old enough to be looking after themselves?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ McLean tried not to think about the invitation he’d received a couple of days earlier, the charity fundraiser for this very organisation. Coincidence? He’d keep an open mind for now.
They had to buzz an intercom, and an elderly man who introduced himself as the concierge without being able to pronounce the word let them in. He wore a fleece jacket with ‘Dee Trust’ written on it in a logo that must have cost a fortune to have designed.
‘You here about the fight on the fourth floor?’ he asked as he led them back to a reception booth that reminded McLean of university halls of residence more than anything.
‘No. Unless it involves Billy McKenzie,’ McLean said.
‘Billy?’ The concierge laughed. ‘No chance of him getting into a fight. Don’t think he’s in, mind. He’d be at work now.’
‘Not according to his boss, he’s not. Can we go up?’
‘Sure. He’s in 6A. You’ll maybe want to take the stairs, mind.’
‘Lift not working?’ McLean
looked at the metal doors across the hall from Reception. The lights were on, and numbers up to twelve spread across a panel above them.
‘Och, it’s working fine. Just someone had a wee accident in there this morning. I’ve cleaned it up, but it still smells a bit.’
‘Stairs it is then.’
McLean had to pause for breath by the time they reached the sixth floor. At least the view from the window was good, looking out over Lochend and Meadowbank towards Arthur’s Seat. The other side of the building would have a spectacular panorama of the Firth of Forth, Fife and the North Sea. It would bear the brunt of the weather, too.
A dark corridor off the landing led to six front doors. 6A was, perhaps predictably, at the far end, looking out over the Forth. McLean listened at the door for a while, but heard nothing. He knocked twice, then listened again. Buzzy pop music filtered in from the flat across the hall, making it hard to tell if anyone was moving around inside.
‘Billy? You in there? It’s Tony McLean. We spoke earlier this morning.’
Nothing, and then he thought he heard a thump, maybe some muffled cursing. A few moments of silence underscored by an annoyingly catchy tune, then the lock clicked and the door swung open.
‘Aye? You no’ caused enough trouble already you have to come here for some more?’
Billy McKenzie looked a lot less amiable this time. He wore a tight-fitting, army-style T-shirt that clung to his frame and showed more muscle than McLean had appreciated before.
‘Can we come in?’ he asked. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Harrison.’
McKenzie flicked his gaze briefly to the DC, then back to McLean. He waited a moment before answering, but there was never any doubt he was going to agree. It was all just posturing.
‘Aye, fair enough.’ He stood back, opening the door wide for them. ‘Come on in then.’
For all that it wasn’t the best part of town, the view from Billy McKenzie’s tiny living room was quite impressive. The Dee Trust had clearly spent a bit of money on the flats too, as the wind barely rattled the glass in the windows, and McLean couldn’t feel any draughts at all. He remembered a similar block from an investigation a few years back, a nasty case that had ended in the death of a detective sergeant. That flat had been cold and miserable even in the summer.
‘I’ve no’ any tea or anything,’ Billy announced as they stood in the small space. He didn’t have much in the way of furniture either, just a couple or armchairs that might have come out of a skip, arranged so they faced a small television on an old wooden table. McLean tried not to notice the numerous boxes with the FFS logo on them stacked in the corners.
‘It’s not a problem. We’ll not be long, anyway. I reckon you can guess what this is about.’
‘You’ve spoken to Mr Boag, aye?’
‘He said you quit. Rahel too.’ McLean perched on the arm of one of the armchairs as Billy slumped into the other. Behind him, he trusted Harrison to stay silent and take a note of everything said.
‘He’s a lying bastard, so he is.’
‘So you didn’t quit then?’
‘Oh, aye. I quit. Told him where to shove his job and no messing. But Rahel . . .’ Billy shook his head slowly, eyes going slightly out of focus as he stared at something no longer there. Then he snapped his gaze back to McLean. ‘He sacked her. Called her up to his office and told her to get her things. Didn’t even pay her what she was owed for the week.’
‘That’s a serious allegation. If he’s treating his employees that way then I’m sure the authorities will want to know about it.’
McKenzie shook his head again. ‘Can youse even hear yourself? “The authorities”. Like they give a fuck what happens to a refugee, ken?’
‘But you do, Billy. You care for her, right?’
‘I . . .’
‘It’s not a bad thing. Not a weakness. Quite the opposite. You stood up for what’s right. There’s plenty who’d not do that.’
‘Aye, well. Heat of the moment, weren’t it? Regretting it now. This place is cheap.’ He flung up his arms, hands wide to encompass the entirety of his domain. ‘Still costs money though, and I can’t even get dole now, can I?’
‘What about Rahel? Where’s she gone?’
Billy stiffened in his seat, but whereas before he had held McLean’s gaze with a steely glare of his own, now he looked away.
‘I don’t know. She went before my shift ended. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye.’
‘And yet you’re sure she was fired, that she didn’t quit?’
‘Aye. Elspeth in Reception told me when she gave me my wages. But I knew before that. Rahel wouldn’t have quit that job. What else would she do?’
‘Are you sure of that, Billy? Not even for her sister, Akka? Not even for little Nala?’
Again, the young man flinched with each name, and he was finding the floor surprisingly interesting. His voice had quietened too.
‘She wouldn’t have quit.’
‘Well, hopefully we can help her with that, if we can find her. And it’s important we find her, Billy.’
‘Oh aye? So you can send her to that detention centre? Round up her sister too and then kick them out? Back to their old home?’ Now Billy looked up at him again, and there was fire in his eyes. ‘There’s nothing left, Mr McLean. Her whole town was shelled until there was only dust. I’ve seen the pictures. That whole country, it’s fucked. You can’t send them back there. You can’t send her back there, ken?’
McLean let the silence grow a little before speaking again. It wasn’t a perfect silence, the tinny pop music from the next-door flat made sure of that. But it was enough space for McKenzie to regain his composure.
‘Look, Billy. You might find this hard to believe, but I’m not interested in sending Rahel or her sister back to Syria. I’m not going to pass their names on to anyone who might be. That’s not how I work. I do need to find Rahel and speak to her though. It concerns her sister anyway.’
‘What about her? Have you found her wee girl? Have you found Nala?’
It was McLean’s turn to shake his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Tell me, Billy. Have you ever met Akka?’
‘Who, me? Naw, man. She’s . . .’ He stopped as if his brain had only just caught up with his mouth. ‘No. Truth be told, I don’t even know Rahel that well. No’ as well as I’d like, ken?’
And that was it, McLean knew. He’d built up Billy’s relationship with the young woman, because that was how Billy had painted it himself, but in the end it was just an infatuation and no more. Chances were he had no idea where she lived, let alone where she might be now. He stood up, fishing around in his jacket pocket until he found a business card.
‘It’s very important we speak to Rahel, and soon. This is my mobile number, it doesn’t go through some police switchboard or anything. If you see her, or she contacts you, please tell her to give me a call, right?’
Billy’s eyes were wide again as he reached up and took the card. ‘An’ you swear she’s no’ in any trouble?’
‘Rahel? No. Not from me, anyway. We think her sister might be, though. And we’re very worried about the child.’
‘Where the hell have you been, Tony? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’
Back at the station, and McLean had barely sat down before Detective Superintendent McIntyre had appeared at his door. Her state of agitation wasn’t quite as great as the DCC’s had been that morning, but it wasn’t far off.
‘Sorry. Did I miss something important?’
McIntyre stared at him as if he were wilfully missing the point, which was fair enough, since he was.
‘I was following up on something, Jayne.’ He fidgeted in his chair like a schoolboy needing to be excused. ‘And, yes, I could have given it to a constable to do, but then I’d have had to do it myself afterwards anyway.’<
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‘You took a constable with you as it was.’ McIntyre stepped fully into the room, made as if to close the door and then stopped herself. ‘A certain young female detective constable, no less.’
McLean tried not to sigh, but it wasn’t easy. ‘DC Harrison was the only one about. I’d have taken DC Stringer or Lofty Blane or any of a dozen others. I’d even have taken Grumpy Bob if I knew which unused office he was kipping in right now. I know, I know. Station gossip and all that, but to be honest I’m surprised there is any, given how few actual detectives there are here day to day.’
McIntyre dropped heavily into one of the armchairs by the window. ‘I know we’re short-staffed, Tony. That’s the only reason Stevie Robinson doesn’t kick up more of a fuss about you acting like you’re still a DS. He knows as well as I do that we can’t really afford to have too many good detectives stuck in offices doing nothing.’
‘Maybe he could try and streamline some of this paperwork then.’ McLean flicked a hand at the stacks of folders taking up almost all of the available area on his desk. ‘Some of this is just chasing targets to keep the politicians happy, and you know how much I care about what they all think.’
McIntyre leaned forward in her chair, her expression serious now. ‘I know what you mean, but we have to play their game. Which reminds me, you should have received an invitation to a charity do in the North British.’
‘The Dee Trust?’ McLean couldn’t hide the surprise from his voice. ‘Aye, I did. Chucked it in the fire. Why?’
McIntyre gave him a face that would have done his grandmother proud. ‘You can’t do that, Tony. You have to go.’
‘Like fuck I do.’
‘No, really. There’ll be people there who expect to see the police represented. That’s your job now, as much as poking your nose in where it’s not wanted. More, really.’
A cold wave of something that wasn’t quite anger washed through him as McIntyre spoke. Had it come from anyone else, he’d most likely have told them exactly what they could do with their job, but he respected the detective superintendent, always had. If she said he had to go, then it was going to be very difficult not to. Not impossible, but difficult.
