The editor shrugged. ‘I’m just speculating...’
Rebus was staring at the reporter. ‘Have you got any notes?’ he asked. Watling nodded, then looked to his boss, who granted permission with a nod. Watling handed Davidson a single folded sheet of notepaper, torn from a lined pad. Davidson took only a few seconds to digest the contents and slide the sheet across the table to Rebus.
Steph... East European???
Journ. story
10 2nite Jenrs
‘Doesn’t add what I’d call a new dimension,’ Rebus stated blandly. ‘He didn’t call again?’
‘No.’
‘Not even to one of the other staffers?’ A shake of the head. ‘And when he spoke to you, that was the first call he’d made?’ A nod. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to get a phone number from him, or trace where he was calling from?’
‘Sounded like a callbox. Traffic was close by.’
Rebus thought of the bus stop on the edge of Knoxland... there was a phone box about fifteen yards from it, next to the roadway. ‘Do we know where the 999 call came from?’ he asked Davidson.
‘Phone box near the underpass,’ Davidson confirmed.
‘Maybe the same one?’ Watling guessed.
‘Almost a news story in itself,’ his editor joked. ‘“Working phone box found in Knoxland”.’
Shug Davidson was looking at Rebus, who offered a twitch of one shoulder, indicating that he’d run out of questions. Both men started to rise.
‘Well, thanks for getting in touch, Mr Allan, we do appreciate it.’
‘I know it’s not much...’
‘Still, it’s another piece of the jigsaw.’
‘And how’s that jigsaw progressing, Inspector?’
‘I’d say we’ve finished the border, just got to fill in the middle.’
‘The most difficult part,’ Allan offered, his voice sympathetic. There were handshakes all round. Watling bustled back to his desk. Allan waved to the two detectives as the lift doors closed. Out on the street, Davidson pointed to a café across the road.
‘My treat,’ he said.
Rebus was lighting a cigarette. ‘Fine, but give me a minute to smoke this...’ He took in a lungful and exhaled through his nostrils, picked a loose shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘So it’s a jigsaw, eh?’
‘Man like Allan works with clichés... thought I’d give him one to chew over.’
‘Thing about jigsaws,’ Rebus commented, ‘is that they all depend on the number of pieces.’
‘That’s true, John.’
‘And how many pieces have we got?’
‘To be honest, half are lying on the floor, maybe even a few under the sofa and the edge of the carpet. Now will you hurry up and smoke that bastard? I need an espresso pronto.’
‘It’s a terrible thing to see someone so addicted to their fix,’ Rebus said, before drawing more deeply on his cigarette.
Five minutes later, they were sitting stirring their coffees, Davidson chewing on sticky gobbets of cherry cake.
‘By the way,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He patted his jacket pockets, and produced a cassette tape. ‘It’s a recording of the emergency call.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I let Gareth Baird hear it.’
‘And was it Yurgii’s girlfriend?’
‘He wasn’t sure. Like he said, it’s not exactly Dolby Pro Logic.’
‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus pocketed the tape.
14
He played it in his car on the way home. Fiddled with the controls for bass and treble, but wasn’t able to improve much on the quality. The voice of a frantic woman, counterpointed by the professional calm of the emergency operator.
Dying... he’s dying... oh my God...
Can you give us an address, madam?
Knoxland... between the buildings... the tall buildings... he is pavement...
You need an ambulance?
Dead... dead... Collapsing into shrieks and sobs.
The police have been alerted. Can you stay there till they arrive, please? Madam? Hello, madam...?
What? What?
Can I take your name, please?
They’ve killed him... he said... oh my God...
We’ll send an ambulance. Is that the only address you can give? Madam? Hello, are you still there...?
But she wasn’t. The line was dead. Rebus wondered again if she’d used the same phone box as Stef, when he’d called Danny Watling. He wondered, too, what the story might be, the one which had necessitated a face-to-face... Stef Yurgii with his own journalistic instincts, talking to Knoxland’s immigrants... reluctant to see his story stolen by others. Rebus wound the tape back.
They’ve killed him... he said...
Said what? Warned her this would happen? Told her his life was in danger?
Because of a story?
Rebus signalled and pulled over to the side of the road. He played the tape one more time, all the way through and with the volume up. The background hiss seemed still to be there once the tape had been stopped. He felt like he was at altitude, needing his ears to pop.
It was a race crime, a hate crime. Ugly but simple, the killer bitter and twisted, his act earthing all that anger.
Well, wasn’t it?
Kids without a father... guards brainwashed into a fear of toys... tyres burning on a roof...
‘What in Christ’s name is happening here?’ he found himself asking. The world passed by, determined not to notice: cars grinding homewards; pedestrians making eye contact only with the pavement ahead of them, because what you didn’t see couldn’t hurt you. A fine, brave world awaiting the new parliament. An ageing country dispatching its talents to the four corners of the globe... unwelcoming to visitor and migrant alike.
‘What in Christ’s name?’ he whispered, hands strangling the steering wheel. He noticed there was a pub just a few yards further on. His car might get a ticket, but he could always risk it.
But no... if he’d wanted a drink, he’d have headed to the Ox. Instead he was going home, same as the other workers. A long hot bath and maybe one or two nips from a bottle of malt. There was a new batch of CDs he hadn’t listened to yet, picked up the weekend before: Jackie Leven, Lou Reed, John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers... Plus the ones Siobhan had loaned him: Snow Patrol and Grant-Lee Phillips... he’d promised them back by last week.
Maybe he could give her a call, see if she was busy. They didn’t have to go drinking: curry and beer at his place or hers, some music and chat. Things had been a bit awkward since the time he’d wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Not that they’d talked about it; he reckoned she just wanted to put it behind them. But it didn’t mean they couldn’t sit in a room together, sharing curry.
Did it?
But then she’d probably have other plans. She had friends, after all. And what did he have? All his years in this city, doing the job he did, and what was waiting for him back home?
Ghosts.
Vigils at his window, staring past his reflection.
He thought of Caro Quinn, surrounded by pairs of eyes... her own ghosts. She interested him in part because she represented a challenge: he had his own prejudices, and she had hers. He was wondering how much common ground they might turn out to share. She had his number, but he doubted she would call. And if he did go drinking, he would drink alone, turning into what his dad had called a ‘barley king’ — the soured hardmen who drank at the bar, facing the row of optics, supping the cheapest brand of whisky. Speaking to no one, because they’d stepped away from society, away from dialogue and laughter. The kingdoms they ruled had populations of one.