‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘I’m on my way to Whitemire.’
‘The detention centre?’
‘Actually, I have it on good authority that it’s an Immigration Removal Centre. It also happens to be home to the victim’s wife and kids.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Well, I can’t do eight o’clock. I’m meeting someone for a drink. I was hoping you might’ve been there too.’
‘There’s a fair chance I will be, if that’s what you want. We can hit the pubic triangle afterwards.’
‘When it’s getting lively, you mean?’
‘An accident of timing, Siobhan, that’s all.’
‘Well... go easy on them, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m assuming you’re going to be the bearer of bad news at Whitemire.’
‘Why is it nobody thinks I can do the sympathy thing?’ Wylie glanced at him and smiled. ‘I can be the caring new-age cop when I want to.’
‘Sure you can, John. I’ll see you in the Ox around eight.’
Rebus put his phone away and concentrated on the road ahead. They were driving west out of Edinburgh. Whitemire was situated between Banehall and Bo’ness, sixteen or so miles from the city centre. It had been a prison up until the late 1970s, Rebus visiting on just the one occasion, shortly after he’d joined the force. This much he told Ellen Wylie.
‘Before my time,’ she commented.
‘They shut it down soon after. Only thing I remember is someone showing me where they used to do the hangings.’
‘Lovely.’ Wylie hit the brakes. They were in the middle of the rush hour, commuters crawling home to their towns and villages. No clever route or short-cut available, every set of traffic lights seemingly against them.
‘I couldn’t do this every day,’ Rebus said.
‘Be nice to live in the country though.’
He looked at her. ‘Why?’
‘More space, less dog-shit.’
‘Have they banned dogs from the countryside then?’
She smiled again. ‘Plus, for the price of a two-bed flat in the New Town, you could have a dozen acres and a billiard room.’
‘I don’t play billiards.’
‘Me neither, but I could learn.’ She paused. ‘So what’s the plan for when we get there?’
Rebus had been considering this. ‘We might need a translator.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Maybe they’ve got one on the staff... they could break the news...’
‘She’ll have to ID her husband.’
Rebus nodded. ‘The translator can tell her that too.’
‘After we’ve gone?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘We ask our questions, get out of there quick.’
She looked at him. ‘And people say you can’t do sympathy...’
They drove in silence after that, Rebus finding a news channel on the radio. There was nothing about the scuffle at Knoxland. He hoped nobody would pick up on it. Eventually, a sign pointed to the turn-off for Whitemire.
‘I just thought of something,’ Wylie said. ‘Shouldn’t we have warned them we were coming?’
‘Bit late for that.’ The road became a pot-holed single track. Signs warned trespassers that they would be prosecuted. The twelve-foot perimeter fence had been augmented by runs of pale green corrugated iron.
‘Means no one can see in,’ Wylie commented.
‘Or out,’ Rebus added. He knew that there had been demonstrations against the holding centre, and guessed that these were the reason for the recently installed cladding.
‘And what on earth is this?’ Wylie asked. A lone figure was standing by the side of the road. It was a woman, wrapped heavily against the cold. Behind her was a tent just big enough for one person, and next to it a smouldering camp-fire with a kettle hanging over it. The woman held a candle, cupping her free hand around the spluttering flame. Rebus stared at her as they passed. She kept her eyes on the ground in front, her mouth moving slightly. Fifty yards on stood the gatehouse. Wylie stopped the car and sounded her horn, but no one appeared. Rebus got out and approached the booth. A guard sat behind the window, chewing a sandwich.
‘Evening,’ Rebus said. The man pressed a button, his voice issuing from a speaker.
‘You got an appointment?’
‘I don’t need one.’ Rebus showed his ID. ‘Police officer.’
The man appeared unimpressed. ‘Slide it through.’
Rebus placed the card in a metal drawer and watched as the guard picked it up and studied it. A phone call was made, Rebus unable to hear any of it. Afterwards, the guard jotted down Rebus’s details and pressed the button again.
‘Car registration.’
Rebus obliged, noting that the last three letters were WYL. Wylie had bought herself a vanity plate.
‘Anyone else with you?’ the guard asked.
‘Detective Sergeant Ellen Wylie.’
The guard asked him to spell Wylie, then noted these details down, too. Rebus looked back towards the woman at the side of the road.
‘Is she always here?’ he asked.
The guard shook his head.
‘She got family inside or something?’
‘Just a nutter,’ the guard said, sliding Rebus’s ID back through. ‘Park in one of the visitor bays in the car park. Someone will come to meet you.’
Rebus nodded his thanks and walked back to the Volvo. The barrier opened automatically, but the guard had to venture outside to unlock the gates. He waved them through, Rebus pointing Wylie in the direction of their parking space.
‘I see you’ve got a vanity plate,’ he commented.
‘So?’
‘I thought they were boys’ toys.’
‘Present from my boyfriend,’ she admitted. ‘What else was I going to do with it?’
‘So who’s the boyfriend?’
‘None of your business,’ she said, giving him a glare which told him the subject was closed.
The car park was separated from the main compound by another fence. There was building work going on, foundations being laid.
‘Nice to see at least one growth industry in West Lothian,’ Rebus muttered.
A guard had emerged from the main building. He opened a gate in the fence and asked if Wylie had locked her doors.
‘And set the alarm,’ she confirmed. ‘Lot of car crime around here?’
He failed to see the joke. ‘We’ve some fairly desperate people in here.’ Then he led them to the main entrance. A man was standing there, dressed in a suit rather than the grey uniform of a guard. The man nodded to the guard to let him know he’d take over. Rebus was studying the unadorned stone-clad building, its small windows set high into its walls. There were much newer whitewashed annexes to left and right.
‘My name’s Alan Traynor,’ the man was saying. He shook first Rebus’s hand and then Wylie’s. ‘How can I be of service?’
Rebus drew a copy of the morning paper from his pocket. It was folded open at the photograph.
‘We think these people are being held here.’
‘Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?’
Rebus didn’t answer. ‘The family’s name is Yurgii.’
Traynor studied the photo again, then nodded slowly. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said.
He led them into the prison. To Rebus’s eye, that was exactly what it was, notwithstanding the tweaked job description. Traynor was explaining the security measures. they’d been ordinary visitors they’d have been fingerprinted and photographed then frisked with metal-detectors. The staff they passed wore blue uniforms, chains of keys jangling by their sides. Just like a prison. Traynor was in his early thirties. The dark blue suit could have been tailored to fit his slim frame. His dark hair was parted from the left, long enough so that he had to push it out of his eyes occasionally. He told them he was the deputy, his boss having taken some sick leave.