‘Promise to get us back to Edinburgh in one piece?’ the artist pleaded.
‘Where do you want to be dropped?’
‘Are you going anywhere near Leith Walk?’
‘I’m based at Gayfield.’
‘Perfect... I’m just off Pilrig Street, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Fine by me.’ They were quiet for a few minutes until Quinn spoke.
‘You couldn’t move sheep around Europe the way some of these families have been moved... nearly two thousand of them in detention in Britain.’
‘But a lot of them get to stay, right?’
‘Not nearly enough. Holland’s getting ready to deport twenty-six thousand.’
‘Seems a lot. How many are there in Scotland?’
‘Eleven thousand in Glasgow alone.’
Rebus whistled.
‘Go back a couple of years, we took more asylum-seekers than any country in the world.’
‘I thought we still did.’
‘Numbers are dropping fast.’
‘Because the world’s a safer place?’
She looked at him, decided he was being ironic. ‘Controls are tightening all the time.’
‘Only so many jobs to go round,’ Rebus said with a shrug.
‘And that’s supposed to make us less compassionate?’
‘Never found much room for compassion in my job.’
‘That’s why you went to Whitemire with a car full of toys?’
‘My friends call me Santa...’
Rebus double-parked, as directed, outside her tenement flat. ‘Come up for a minute,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘Something I’d like you to see.’
He locked his car, hoping the owner of the boxed-in Mini wouldn’t mind. Quinn lived on the top floor — in Rebus’s experience the usual haunt of student renters. Quinn had another explanation.
‘I get two storeys,’ she said. ‘There’s a stair into the roof-space.’ She unlocked the door, Rebus lagging half a flight behind her. He thought he heard her call out something — a name maybe — but when he entered the hallway there was no one there. Quinn had rested her rucksack against the wall and was beckoning him up the steep, narrow stairway into the eaves of the building. Rebus took a few deep breaths and started climbing again.
There was just the one room, illuminated by natural light from four large Velux windows. Canvases were stacked against the walls, black and white photographs pinned to every available inch of the eaves.
‘I tend to work from photos,’ Quinn told him. ‘These are what I wanted you to see.’ They were close-ups of faces, the camera seeming to focus on the eyes specifically. Rebus saw mistrust, fear, curiosity, indulgence, good humour. Surrounded by so many stares, he felt like an exhibit himself, and said as much to the artist, who seemed gratified.
‘My next exhibition, I don’t want any wall-space showing, just ranks of painted faces demanding we pay them some attention.’
‘Staring us down.’ Rebus nodded slowly. Quinn was nodding too. ‘So where did you take them?’
‘All over: Dundee, Glasgow, Knoxland.’
‘They’re all immigrants?’
She nodded, studying her work.
‘When were you in Knoxland?’
‘Three or four months back. I was kicked out after a couple of days...’
‘Kicked out?’
She turned to him. ‘Well, let’s say made to feel unwelcome.’
‘Who by?’
‘Locals... bigots... people with a grudge.’
Rebus was looking more closely at the photos. He didn’t see anyone he recognised.
‘Some don’t want to be photographed, of course, and I have to respect that.’
‘Do you ask their names?’ He watched her nod. ‘No one called Stef Yurgii?’
She started to shake her head, then went rigid, her eyes widening. ‘You’re interrogating me!’
‘Just asking a question,’ he countered.
‘Seeming friendly, giving me a lift...’ She shook her head at her own stupidity. ‘Christ, and to think I invited you in.’
‘I’m trying to solve a case here, Caro. And for what it’s worth, I gave you a lift out of natural curiosity... no other agenda.’
She stared at him. ‘Natural curiosity about what?’ Folding her arms defensively.
‘I don’t know... Maybe about why you’d hold a vigil like that. You didn’t look the type.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The type?’
He shrugged. ‘No matted hair or combat jacket, no ratty-looking dog on a length of clothes-line... and not too many body piercings either, by the look of it.’ He was trying to lighten the mood, and was relieved to see her shoulders relax. She gave a half-twitch of a smile and unfolded her arms, sliding her hands into her pockets instead.
There was a noise from downstairs: a baby crying. ‘Yours?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’m not even married these days...’ She turned and started down the narrow stairs again, Rebus lingering a moment before following, feeling all those eyes on him as he went.
One of the doors off the hallway was open. It led to a small bedroom. There was a single bed inside, on which sat a dark-skinned, sleepy-eyed woman, a baby suckling at her breast.
‘Is she okay?’ Quinn was asking the young woman.
‘Okay,’ came the reply.
‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’ Quinn started closing the door.
‘Peace,’ came the quiet voice from within.
‘Guess where I found her?’ the artist asked Rebus.
‘On the street?’
She shook her head. ‘At Whitemire. She’s a trained nurse, only she’s not allowed to work here. Others in Whitemire are doctors, teachers...’ She smiled at the look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t sneak her out or anything. If you offer an address and bail money, you can free any number of them.’
‘Really? I didn’t know. How much does it cost?’
Her smiled widened. ‘Someone you’re thinking of helping out, Inspector?’
‘No... I was just wondering.’
‘Plenty have been bailed already by people like me... Even the odd MSP has done it.’ She paused. ‘It’s Mrs Yurgii, isn’t it? I saw them bringing her back with her kids. Then, not much more than an hour later, you turn up with the doll’s house.’ She paused again. ‘They won’t give her bail.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s listed as an “abscond risk” — probably because her husband did the same thing.’
‘Only now he’s dead.’
‘I’m not sure that’ll change their minds.’ She angled her head, as though seeking his potential as a future portrait. ‘You know something? Maybe I was too quick to judge you. Have you got time for some coffee?’
Rebus made a show of studying his watch. ‘Things to do,’ he said. The sound of a car horn blared from below. ‘Plus I’ve a Mini driver downstairs to mollify.’
‘Another time maybe.’
‘Sure.’ He handed her his card. ‘My mobile’s on the back.’
She held the card in the palm of her hand, as though weighing it. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said.
‘Let me know when the exhibition opens.’
‘Just two things you’ll need to bring — your chequebook, for one...’
‘And?’
‘Your conscience,’ she said, opening the door for him.
13
Siobhan was fed up waiting. She’d called ahead to the hospital, and they’d tried paging Dr Cater — to no effect. So she’d driven out there anyway and asked for him at reception. Again he’d been paged — again, to no effect.
‘I’m sure he’s here,’ a passing nurse had said. ‘I saw him half an hour back.’
‘Where?’ Siobhan had demanded.