‘The case I’m working, I can’t take chances.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because a bent cop or two might sidle into the picture...’ Storey let this sink in. ‘Not that I’ve any evidence to back that up. It’s just the sort of thing that can happen. The sort of people I deal with, they wouldn’t think twice about buying off a whole division.’
‘Maybe there are more bent cops in London.’
‘Maybe there are.’
‘If the dancers aren’t illegal, it must be Stuart Bullen,’ Rebus stated. The Immigration official nodded slowly. ‘And for someone to make the trip from London... go to the expense of setting up a surveillance...’
Storey was still nodding. ‘It’s big,’ he said. ‘Could be very big.’ He shifted position on the sofa. ‘My own parents arrived here in the fifties: Jamaica to Brixton, just two among many. A proper migration that was, but dwarfed by the situation we’ve got now. Tens of thousands a year, coming ashore illegally... often paying handsomely for the privilege. Illegals have become big business, Inspector. Thing is, you never see them until something goes wrong.’ He paused, allowing Rebus room for a question.
‘How’s Bullen involved?’
‘We think he might run the whole Scottish operation.’
Rebus snorted. ‘That wee nyaff?’
‘He’s his father’s son, Inspector.’
‘Chicory Tip,’ Rebus muttered. Then, to answer Storey’s quizzical look: ‘They had a big hit with “Son of My Father”... before your time, though. How long have you been watching the Nook?’
‘Just the past week.’
‘The closed-down newsagent’s?’ Rebus guessed. He was remembering the shop across the road from the club, with its whited-out windows. Storey nodded. ‘Well, having been inside the Nook, I can tell you it doesn’t look to me like there are rooms heaped high with illegal immigrants.’
‘I’m not suggesting he stashes them there...’
‘And I didn’t see any hoards of fake passports.’
‘You went into his office?’
‘He didn’t look like he was hiding anything: the safe was wide open.’
‘Throwing you off the scent?’ Storey speculated. ‘When he found out why you were there, did you notice a change in him? Maybe he relaxed a little?’
‘Nothing that told me he might have other worries. So what is it exactly that you think he does?’
‘He’s a link in a chain. That’s one of the problems: we don’t know how many links there are, or what part each one plays.’
‘Sounds to me like you know the square root of bugger-all.’
Storey decided not to argue. ‘Had you met Bullen before?’
‘Didn’t even know he was in Edinburgh.’
‘So you knew who he was?’
‘I know of the family, yes. Doesn’t mean I tuck them in at night.’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Inspector.’
‘You’re sounding me out, which amounts to the same thing — and none too subtly, I might add.’
‘Sorry if it seems that way...’
‘It is that way. And here I am, sharing my whisky with you...’ Rebus shook his head.
‘I know your reputation, Inspector. Nothing I’ve heard leads me to believe you’d cosy up to Stuart Bullen.’
‘Maybe you’ve just not been talking to the right people.’ Rebus poured himself a little more whisky, offering none to Storey. ‘So what is it you hope to find by spying on the Nook? Apart from cops on the take, naturally...’
‘Associates... hints and a few fresh leads.’
‘Meaning the old ones have gone cold? How much hard evidence do you have?’
‘His name’s been mentioned...’
Rebus waited for more, but there wasn’t any. He gave a snort. ‘Anonymous tip-off? Could be any one of his competitors in the pubic triangle, looking to dump on him.’
‘The club would make for good cover.’
‘Ever been inside?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Because you think you’d stick out?’
‘You mean my skin colour?’ Storey shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Not many black faces on your streets, but that’ll change. Whether you choose to see them or not is another matter.’ He looked around the room again. ‘Nice place...’
‘So you said.’
‘Been here long?’
‘Just the twenty-odd years.’
‘That’s a long time... Am I the first black person you’ve invited in?’
Rebus considered this. ‘Probably,’ he admitted.
‘Any Chinese or Asians?’ Rebus chose not to answer. ‘All I’m saying is...’
‘Look,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘I’ve had enough of this. Finish your drink and vamoose... and that’s not me being racist, just bloody annoyed.’ He rose to his feet. Storey did the same, handing the glass back.
‘It was good whisky,’ he said. ‘See? You’ve taught me not to say “Scotch”.’ He reached into his breast pocket and produced his business card. ‘In case you feel the need to get in touch.’
Rebus took the card without looking at it. ‘Which hotel are you in?’
‘It’s near Haymarket, on Grosvenor Street.’
‘I know the one.’
‘Drop in some night, I’ll buy you a drink.’
Rebus said nothing to this, just: ‘I’ll see you out.’
Which he did, switching off the lights on his way back to the living room, standing by the uncurtained window, peering down towards pavement level. Sure enough, Storey emerged. As he did so, a car cruised to a stop and he got in the back. Rebus could make out neither driver nor number plate. It was a big car, maybe a Vauxhall. It turned right at the bottom of the street. Rebus walked over to the table and picked up the house phone, called for a taxi. Then he headed downstairs himself, waiting for it outside. As it drew up, his mobile chirped: Siobhan.
‘You finished with our mystery guest?’ she asked.
‘For now.’
‘What the hell was that all about?’
He explained it to her as best he could.
‘And this arrogant prick thinks we’re in Bullen’s pocket?’ was her first question. Rebus guessed it was rhetorical.
‘He might want to talk to you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for him.’ An ambulance pulled out from a side street, siren wailing. ‘You’re in the car,’ she commented.
‘Taxi,’ he corrected her. ‘Last thing I need right now is a conviction for drunk-driving.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Just out on the town.’ The cab had passed the Tollcross intersection. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Have fun.’
‘I’ll try.’
He ended the call. The cabbie was taking them around the back of Earl Grey Street, making best use of the oneway system. They would cross Lothian Road at Morrison Street... next stop: Bread Street. Rebus handed over a tip, and decided to take a receipt. He could try adding it to his expenses on the Yurgii case.
‘Not sure lap-dancing’s tax-deductible, pal,’ the cabbie warned him.
‘Do I really look the type?’
‘How honest an answer do you want?’ the man called, crunching gears as he moved off.
‘Last time you get a tip,’ Rebus muttered, pocketing the receipt. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock. Packs of men prowled the streets, looking for their next watering-hole. Bouncers protecting most of the harshly lit doorways: some wore three-quarter-length coats, others bomber jackets. Rebus saw them as clones beneath the clothing: it wasn’t so much that they looked identical, more in the way they saw the world — divided into two groups: threat and prey.
Rebus knew he couldn’t linger outside the closed-down shop — if one of the Nook’s doormen became suspicious, it could mean the end of Storey’s operation. Instead, he crossed the road, on the same side now as the Nook, but ten yards shy of the entrance. He stopped and lifted his phone to his ear, conducting one side of an inebriated conversation.