‘And in the VIP booth?’
‘Couldn’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Never been in. Want another drink?’ He motioned to her glass, which was as full of ice as when it had arrived, but otherwise empty.
‘Trick of the trade,’ Rebus told her. ‘More ice you put in, less room there is for the actual drink.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she told Grant. ‘Do you think any of the girls would talk to us?’
‘Why should they?’
‘What if I leave the photo with you... would you show it around?’
‘Could do.’
‘And my card.’ She handed it over with the photograph. ‘You can phone me if there’s any news.’
‘Okay.’ He placed both items under the bar. Then, to Rebus: ‘What about you? Fancy another?’
‘Not at those prices, Barney, thanks all the same.’
‘Remember,’ Siobhan said, ‘call me.’ She slid from the stool and headed for the exit. Rebus had stopped to study another row of framed photos — copies of the newspaper cuttings in Bullen’s office. He tapped one of them. Siobhan looked closer: Lex Cater and his film-star father, their faces turned ghostly white by the photographer’s flash gun. Gordon Cater had raised his hand to his face, but too late. His eyes looked haunted, but his son was grinning, happy to be captured for posterity.
‘Look at the by-line,’ Rebus told her. Each story was accompanied by an ‘exclusive’ tag, and beneath the headlines sat the same bold-print name: Steve Holly.
‘Funny how he’s always in the right place at the right time,’ Siobhan said.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Rebus agreed.
Outside, he paused to light a cigarette. Siobhan kept walking, unlocking the car and getting in, sitting there with hands gripped around the steering wheel. Rebus walked slowly, inhaling deeply. There was still half a cigarette left by the time he reached the Peugeot, but he flicked it on to the road and climbed into the passenger side.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ She signalled to move away from the kerb.
He turned to her. ‘More than one kind of flesh market,’ he stated. ‘Why did you ask about his car?’
Siobhan considered her reply. ‘Because he looked like a pimp,’ she said, Rebus’s words turning over in her mind:
More than one kind of flesh market...
Day four
Thursday
11
Next morning, Rebus was back in Knoxland. Some of the previous day’s banners and placards were strewn around, their slogans blurred by footprints. Rebus was in the Portakabin, drinking a coffee he’d brought with him and finishing the newspaper. Stef Yurgii’s name had been revealed to the media at a press conference yesterday evening. It merited just the one mention in Steve Holly’s tabloid, while Mo Dirwan got a couple of paragraphs. There was also a series of pictures of Rebus: wrestling the youth to the ground, being proclaimed a hero by an arms-aloft Dirwan, and watched by Dirwan’s followers. The headline — almost certainly the work of Holly himself — was the single word STONED!
Rebus tossed the paper into the bin, aware that someone would in all probability just fish it out again. He found a cup half full of cold slops and poured it over the newsprint, feeling better for it. His watch said it was nine fifteen. Earlier, he’d made the request for a patrol car to head out to Portobello. By his reckoning, it would be here any minute. The Portakabin was quiet. Wise counsel had decided that it would be foolish to keep a computer in Knoxland, so instead all the door-to-door reports were being collated back at Torphichen. Walking over to the window, Rebus scraped some shards of glass into a pile. Despite its grille, the window had been broken: a stick of some kind or a thin metal pole. Something sticky had then been sprayed through the window, marking the floor and the nearest desk. To add a final touch, the word FILTH had been spray-painted on every available surface of the exterior. By close of play today, Rebus knew that the window would be boarded up. In fact, the Portakabin might even have been declared surplus to requirements. They’d gleaned what they could, taken what evidence was available. Rebus knew that Shug Davidson had one main strategy: shame the estate into pointing the finger. So maybe Holly’s stories were no bad thing.
Well, it would be nice to think so, but Rebus doubted many people in Knoxland would read of racism and feel anything but complete justification. However, Davidson was counting on just one person seeing the light — one witness was all he needed.
One name.
There would have been blood; a weapon to dispose of; clothes to be burned or thrown out. Someone knew. Hidden away in one of those blocks, hopefully with guilt gnawing away at them.
Someone knew.
Rebus had called Steve Holly first thing, asked him how come he always seemed to be outside the Nook when a celeb came stumbling out.
‘Just good investigative journalism. But you’re talking ancient history.’
‘How so?’
‘When the place opened, it was hot for a few months. That’s when those pics got taken. Go there often, do you?’
Rebus had hung up without replying.
Now he heard a car approaching, peered through the cracked glass and saw it. Allowed himself a little smile as he drained his coffee.
He walked out to meet Gareth Baird, nodding a greeting at the two uniforms who’d brought him here.
‘Morning, Gareth.’
‘What’s the game then?’ Gareth dug his fists into his pockets. ‘Harassment, is that it?’
‘Not at all. It’s just that you’re a valuable witness. Remember, you’re the one who knows what Stef Yurgii’s girlfriend looks like.’
‘Christ, I barely noticed her!’
‘But she did the talking,’ Rebus said calmly. ‘And I’ve an inkling you’d know her if you saw her again.’
‘You want me to do a photofit for you, is that it?’
‘That comes later. Right now, you’re going to go on a recce with these two officers.’
‘A recce?’
‘Door-to-door. Give you a taste of police work.’
‘How many doors?’ Gareth was scanning the tower blocks.
‘All of them.’
He stared at Rebus, wide-eyed, like a kid given detention on the flimsiest of evidence.
‘Sooner you start...’ Rebus patted the young man on the shoulder. Then, to the uniforms: ‘Take him away, lads.’
Watching Gareth trudge, head down, towards the first of the blocks, sandwiched by the two constables, Rebus felt a buzz of satisfaction. It was good to know the job could still offer the odd perk...
Two more cars were arriving: Davidson and Wylie in one, Reynolds in another. They’d probably travelled in convoy from Torphichen. Davidson carried the morning paper with him, folded open at STONED!
‘Seen this?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t lower myself, Shug.’
‘Why not?’ Reynolds grinned. ‘You’re the towel-heads’ new hero.’
Davidson’s cheeks reddened. ‘One more crack like that, Charlie, and I’ll have you on report — is that clear?’
Reynolds stiffened his back. ‘Slip of the tongue, sir.’
‘You’ve collected more slips than a bookie’s dustbin. Don’t let it happen again.’
‘Sir.’
Davidson let the silence lie for a moment, then decided he’d made his point. ‘Is there anything useful you can be doing?’
Reynolds relaxed a little. ‘Inside gen — there’s a woman in one of the flats does a pot of tea and some biscuits.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Met her yesterday, sir. She said she wouldn’t mind making us a brew as and when.’