Davidson nodded. ‘Then go fetch.’ Reynolds made to move off. ‘Oh, and Charlie? The clock’s running — don’t get too comfy in there...’
‘I’ll remain professional, sir, don’t worry.’ Giving Rebus a leer as he passed him.
Davidson turned to Rebus. ‘Who was that with the uniforms?’
Rebus lit a cigarette. ‘Gareth Baird. He’s going to see if the victim’s lady friend is hiding behind one of those doors.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff?’ Davidson commented.
Rebus just shrugged. Ellen Wylie had disappeared inside the Portakabin. Davidson was only now registering the fresh daubs. ‘Filth, eh? I’ve always thought that the people who call us that are that.’ He pushed his hair back from his forehead, scratching at his scalp. ‘Anything else on today?’
‘Victim’s wife’s ID-ing the body. Thought I’d maybe attend.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to do it.’
‘It’s all yours. Nothing waiting for you back at Gayfield then?’
‘Not even a proper desk.’
‘They’re hoping you’ll take the hint?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Think I should?’
Davidson looked sceptical. ‘What’s waiting for you when you retire?’
‘Liver disease, probably. I’ve already made the down-payment...’
Davidson smiled. ‘Well, I’d say we’re still short-handed, which means I’m happy for you to stick around.’ Rebus was about to say something — thanks, perhaps — but Davidson raised a finger. ‘So long as you don’t go off on any wild tangents, understood?’
‘Crystal clear, Shug.’
Both men turned at a sudden bellow from two storeys up: ‘Good morning to you, Inspector!’ It was Mo Dirwan, waving down to Rebus from the walkway. Rebus gave a half-hearted wave back, but then remembered that he had a few questions for the lawyer.
‘Stay there, I’m coming up!’ he called.
‘I’m in flat two-o-two.’
‘Dirwan’s been working for the Yurgii family,’ Rebus reminded Davidson. ‘Few things I need to clear up with him.’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Davidson placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘But no more photo-calls, eh?’
‘Don’t worry, Shug, there won’t be.’
Rebus took the lift to the second floor, and walked to the door marked 202. Looking down, he saw that Davidson was studying the damage to the outside of the Portakabin. There was no sign of Reynolds with the promised tea.
The door was ajar, so Rebus walked in. The place was carpeted with what looked like off-cuts. A broom rested against the lobby wall. A plumbing problem had left a large brown stain on the cream ceiling.
‘In here,’ Dirwan called. He was seated on a sofa in the living room. Again, the windows were frosted with condensation. Both bars of the electric fire were glowing. Ethnic music was playing softly from a tape machine. An elderly couple were standing in front of the sofa.
‘Join me,’ Dirwan said, slapping the cushion beside him with one hand, cup and saucer gripped in the other. Rebus sat down, the couple bowing slightly at his smiled greeting. It was only when he was seated that he realised there were no other chairs, nothing for the couple to do but stand there. Not that this seemed to bother the lawyer.
‘Mr and Mrs Singh have been here eleven years,’ he was saying. ‘But not for much longer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rebus replied.
Dirwan chuckled. ‘They’re not being deported, Inspector: their son has done very well for himself in business. Big house in Barnton...’
‘Cramond,’ Mr Singh corrected, naming one of the city’s better areas.
‘Big house in Cramond,’ the lawyer ploughed on. ‘They’re moving in with him.’
‘Into the granny flat,’ Mrs Singh said, seeming to take pleasure in the phrase. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘I’m fine actually,’ Rebus apologised. ‘But I do need a word with Mr Dirwan.’
‘You would like us to leave?’
‘No, no... we’ll talk outside.’ Rebus gave Dirwan a meaningful look. The lawyer handed his cup to Mrs Singh.
‘Tell your son I wish him everything he could wish himself,’ he barked, his voice seeming out of all proportion to what was necessary. The room echoed as he stopped.
The Singhs bowed again, and Rebus got to his feet. Hands had to be shaken before Rebus could lead Dirwan out on to the walkway.
‘A lovely family, you must agree,’ Dirwan said after the door had closed. ‘Immigrants, you see, can make a vital contribution to the community at large.’
‘I’ve never doubted it. You know we have a name for the victim? Stef Yurgii.’
Dirwan sighed. ‘I just found out this morning.’
‘You didn’t see the photos we placed in the tabloids?’
‘I do not read the gutter press.’
‘But you were going to come and talk to us, to let us know you knew him?’
‘I didn’t know him: I know his wife and children.’
‘And you hadn’t had any contact with him? He didn’t try getting a message to his family?’
Dirwan shook his head. ‘Not through me. I would not hesitate to tell you.’ He fixed his eyes on Rebus. ‘You must trust me on that, John.’
‘Only my best friends call me John,’ Rebus warned, ‘and trust has to be earned, Mr Dirwan.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘You didn’t know he was in Edinburgh?’
‘I did not.’
‘But you’ve been working on the wife’s case?’
The lawyer nodded. ‘It’s not right, you know: we call ourselves civilised, but are happy to let her rot with her children in Whitemire. You’ve seen them?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Then you will know — no trees, no freedom, the bare minimum of education and nourishment...’
‘But nothing to do with this inquiry,’ Rebus felt the need to say.
‘My God, I don’t believe I just heard that! You’ve seen first-hand the problems with racism in this country.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be harming the Singhs.’
‘Just because they smile doesn’t mean anything.’ He broke off suddenly, started rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I should not drink so much tea. It heats the blood, you know.’
‘Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, talking to all these people...’
‘Regarding which, would you like to know what I’ve gleaned?’
‘Sure.’
‘I was knocking on doors all of last evening, and from first thing this morning... Of course, not everyone was relevant or would speak with me.’
‘Thanks for trying anyway.’
Dirwan received the praise with a motion of his head. ‘You know that Stef Yurgii was a journalist in his own country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, people here — the ones who knew him — did not know that. However, he was good at getting to know people; at getting them to talk — it is in a journalist’s nature, yes?’
Rebus nodded.
‘So,’ the lawyer continued, ‘Stef spoke to people about their lives, asking many questions without revealing much of his own past.’
‘You think he was going to write about it?’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘What about the girlfriend?’
Dirwan shook his head. ‘No one seems to know about her. Of course, with a family in Whitemire, it is entirely possible that he would want her existence to remain a secret.’
Rebus nodded again. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Not as yet. You wish me to continue knocking on doors?’
‘I know it’s a chore...’
‘But that’s exactly what it isn’t! I am gaining a feel for this place, and I’m meeting people who may wish to form their own collective.’
‘Like the one in Glasgow?’
‘Exactly. People are stronger when they act together.’