‘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.
‘Post-mortem 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 much in the dark, and you seem to be holding the only candle.’ He was trying for a light-hearted 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 centre?’
‘We’re actually an Immigration Removal Centre.’
‘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?’
Rebus shook his head. Last thing he needed was Dirwan sparring with the guards. He went in search of Shug Davidson, found him in conversation with Ellen Wylie, in the corridor next to the interview room.
‘Reynolds told you?’ Davidson asked.
Rebus nodded. ‘Not the same knife.’
‘We’ll sweat the little sod a while longer anyway; might be he knows something we can use. He’s got a fresh tattoo on his arm — red hand and the letters UVF.’ Meaning the Ulster Volunteer Force.
‘Never mind that, Shug.’ Rebus held up the note. ‘Our victim was on the run from Whitemire. His family are still there.’
Davidson stared at him. ‘Someone saw the photo?’
‘Bingo. Time to pay a visit, wouldn’t you say? Your car or mine?’
But Davidson was rubbing his jaw. ‘John...’
‘What?’
‘The wife... the kids... they don’t know he’s dead, do they? You really think you’re right for the job?’
‘I can do tea and sympathy.’
‘I’m sure you can, but Ellen’s going with you. You okay with that, Ellen?’
Wylie nodded, then turned to Rebus. ‘My car,’ she said.
9
Her car was a Volvo S40 with only a couple of thousand miles on the clock. There were CDs on the passenger seat, which Rebus had flicked through.
‘Put something on if you like,’ she’d said.
‘I’ve got to text Siobhan first,’ he countered: his excuse for not having to choose between Norah Jones, the Beastie Boys and Mariah Carey. It took him several minutes to send the message sorry cant do six might manage eight. Afterwards, he wondered why he hadn’t just called her instead, guessing it would have taken half the time. Almost immediately, she rang back.