The boy turned just the once, as if to gauge Rebus’s reaction. Rebus tried a smile which was not returned.
Ness headed back into the heart of the building, which left only Rebus and Wylie in the waiting area.
‘Do we need to talk to her?’ she asked.
‘Why?’
‘To establish when she last heard from her husband...’
Rebus shrugged. ‘That’s up to you, Ellen.’
She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
Rebus shook his head slowly.
‘It’s tough on the kids,’ she said.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘when do you reckon was the last time life wasn’t tough on those kids?’
She shrugged. ‘Nobody asked them to come here.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’
She was still looking at him. ‘But it’s not the point you were making?’ she guessed.
‘I just think they deserve a childhood,’ he responded. ‘That’s all.’
He went outside to smoke a cigarette, watched Wylie drive off in her Volvo. He paced the small car park, three of the mortuary’s unmarked vans standing there, awaiting their next call. Inside, the attendants would be playing cards and drinking tea. There was a nursery school across the street, and Rebus considered the short journey between the two, then squashed the remains of the cigarette underfoot and got into his own car. Drove towards Gayfield Square, but continued past the police station. There was a toy shop he knew: Harburn Hobbies on Elm Row. He parked outside and headed in. Didn’t bother looking at the prices, just picked out a few things: a simple train-set, a couple of model kits, and a doll’s house and doll. The assistant helped him load the car. Back behind the steering wheel, he had another idea, this time driving to his flat in Arden Street. In the hall cupboard, he found a box full of old annuals and story books from when his daughter was twenty years younger. Why were they still there? Maybe awaiting the grandchildren who’d not yet come. Rebus put them on the back seat beside the other toys, and drove west out of town. Traffic was light, and within half an hour he was at the Whitemire turn-off. There were wisps of smoke from the camp-fire, but the woman was rolling up her tent, paying him no heed. A different guard was on duty at the gatehouse. Rebus had to show his ID, drive to the car park, and be met by another guard, who was reluctant to help with the haul.
There was no sign of Traynor, but that didn’t matter. Rebus and the guard took the toys inside.
‘They’ll have to be checked,’ the guard said.
‘Checked?’
‘We can’t have people just bring anything in here...’
‘You think there are drugs hidden inside the doll?’
‘It’s standard procedure, Inspector.’ The guard lowered his voice. ‘You and I know it’s completely bloody stupid, but it still has to be done.’
The two men shared a look. Rebus nodded eventually. ‘But they will get to the kids?’ he asked.
‘By the end of the day, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
‘Thanks.’ Rebus shook the guard’s hand, then looked around. ‘How do you stand it here?’
‘Would you rather have the place staffed by people different from me? God knows there are enough of them...’
Rebus managed a smile. ‘You’ve got a point.’ He thanked the man again. The guard just shrugged.
Driving out, Rebus noticed that the tent had gone. Its owner was now trudging down the side of the road, a rucksack on her back. He stopped, winding down his window.
‘Need a lift?’ he asked. ‘I’m headed for Edinburgh.’
‘You were here yesterday,’ she stated. He nodded. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘The murder in Knoxland?’ she guessed. Rebus nodded again. She peered into the back of the car.
‘Plenty room for your rucksack,’ he told her.
‘That’s not why I was looking.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just wondering what happened to the doll’s house. I saw a doll’s house on the back seat when you drove in.’
‘Then your eyes obviously deceived you.’
‘Obviously,’ she said. ‘After all, why would a policeman bring toys to a detention centre?’
‘Why indeed?’ Rebus agreed, getting out to help her stash her things.
They drove the first half-mile in silence, then Rebus asked her if she smoked.
‘No, but you go ahead if you like.’
‘I’m all right,’ Rebus lied. ‘How often do you do that vigil thing?’
‘As often as I can.’
‘All by yourself?’
‘There were more of us to start with.’
‘I remember seeing it on the telly.’
‘Others join me when they can: weekends, usually.’
‘They have jobs to go to?’ Rebus guessed.
‘I work too, you know,’ she snapped. ‘It’s just that I can juggle my time.’
‘You’re an acrobat?’
She smiled at this. ‘I’m an artist.’ She paused, awaiting a response. ‘And thank you for not snorting.’
‘Why would I snort?’
‘Most people like you would.’
‘People like me?’
‘People who see anyone who’s different to them as a threat.’
Rebus made a show of taking this in. ‘So that’s what I’m like. I’d always wondered...’
She smiled again. ‘All right, I’m jumping to conclusions, but not without some grounds. You’ll have to trust me on that.’ She leaned forward to operate the seat mechanism, sliding it back as far as it would go, giving her room to put her feet on the dashboard in front of her. Rebus thought she was probably in her mid-forties, long mousy-brown hair woven into braids. Three hooped golden earrings in either lobe. Her face was pale and freckled, and her front two teeth overlapped, giving her the look of an impish schoolgirl.
‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I also take it you’re not a big fan of our asylum laws?’
‘That’s because they stink.’
‘And what do they stink of?’
She turned from the windscreen to look at him. ‘Hypocrisy, for starters,’ she said. ‘This is a country where you can buy your way to a passport if you know the right politician. If you don’t, and we don’t like your skin colour or your politics, then forget it.’
‘You don’t think we’re a soft touch then?’
‘Give me a break,’ she said dismissively, turning her attention back to the scenery.
‘I’m just asking.’
‘A question to which you think you already know the answer?’
‘I know we’ve got better welfare than some countries.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s why people pay their life savings to gangs who smuggle them over borders? That’s why they suffocate in the backs of lorries, or squashed into cargo containers?’
‘Don’t forget the Eurostar: don’t they cling to its undercarriage?’
‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’
‘Just making conversation.’ Rebus concentrated on driving for a few moments. ‘So what kind of art do you do?’
It took her a few moments to answer him. ‘Portraits mostly... the occasional landscape...’
‘Would I have heard of you?’
‘You don’t look like a collector.’
‘I used to have an H.R. Giger on my wall.’
‘An original?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘LP cover — Brain Salad Surgery.’
‘At least you remember the artist’s name.’ She sniffed, running a hand across her nose. ‘Mine’s Caro Quinn.’
‘Caro short for Caroline?’ She nodded. Rebus reached out awkwardly with his right hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’
Quinn slipped off a grey woollen glove and they shook, the car creeping over the carriageway’s central dividing line. Rebus quickly corrected the steering.