‘Not that there’s been any violence yet,’ Davidson muttered. Then, to the operator: ‘Go back a bit... just there... freeze that, will you, Chris?’
There was some flicker to the stilled image which Chris tried to rectify.
‘Who is it worries you, Shug?’ Rebus asked.
‘Shrewd as ever, John...’ Davidson pointed to one of the figures at the back of the demo. The man wore an olive-green parka, hood pulled over his head, so that only his chin and lips were visible. ‘I think he was here a few months ago... We had this gang from Belfast, trying to hoover up the drugs action.’
‘You put them away, didn’t you?’
‘Most of them are on remand. A few headed back home.’
‘So why is he back?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Have you tried asking him?’
‘Scarpered when he saw our cameras.’
‘Name?’
Davidson shook his head. ‘I’ll have to do a bit of digging...’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘And how’s your day been so far, John?’
Rebus filled him in on Robert Baird.
Davidson nodded. ‘Good stuff,’ he said, not quite managing any level of enthusiasm.
‘I know it doesn’t get us any further...’
‘Sorry, John, I’m just...’ Davidson shook his head slowly. ‘We need someone to come forward. The weapon’s got to be out there, blood on the killer’s clothes. Someone knows.’
‘Jim’s girlfriend might have some ideas. We could bring Gareth in, see if he can spot her.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Davidson mused. ‘And meantime, we watch Knoxland explode...’
Film was running on four different screens. On one, a crowd of youths was seen standing way to the back of the crowd. They wore scarves across their mouths, hoods up. Spotting the cameraman, they turned and gave him a view of their backsides. One of them picked up a stone and hurled it, but it fell well short.
‘See,’ Davidson said, ‘something like that could light the fuse...’
‘Have there been any actual attacks?’
‘Just verbal stuff.’ He leaned back and stretched. ‘We finished the door-to-door... Well, we finished all the ones that would talk to us.’ He paused. ‘Make that could talk to us. This place is like the Tower of Babel... a posse of interpreters would be a start.’ His stomach growled, and he tried to disguise it by twisting in his creaking chair.
‘Time for a break?’ Rebus suggested. Davidson shook his head. ‘What about this guy Dirwan?’
‘He’s a Glasgow solicitor, been working with some of the refugees on the estates over there.’
‘So what brings him here?’
‘Apart from the publicity, maybe he thinks he can rake up a whole new bunch of clients. He wants the Lord Provost to come see Knoxland for herself, wants a meeting between politicians and the immigrant community. There are a lot of things he wants.’
‘Right now, he’s in a minority of one.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re happy to feed him to the lions?’
Davidson stared at him. ‘We’ve got men out there, John.’
‘It was getting pretty heated.’
‘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 torch 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 torch 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, pay-outs 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 adrenalin 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 on to 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-coloured parka.
The captured youth was now swearing between agonised 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.