‘Maybe he planned to tease her about them.’ Young paused. ‘Maybe she took the teasing to heart...’
‘I don’t see her as a killer,’ Siobhan stated.
‘Problem is, we don’t see her at all. Finding her is going to be your priority, Siobhan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Meantime, we’re setting up a murder room.’
‘Where?’
‘Apparently there’s a space we can use at the library.’ He nodded down the road. ‘Next to the primary school. You can help us set up if you like.’
‘We need to let my boss know where I am first.’
‘Hop in then.’ Young reached for his mobile. ‘I’ll let him know you’ve been poached.’
16
Rebus and Ellen Wylie were back at Whitemire.
An interpreter had been brought in from Glasgow’s Kurdish community. She was a small, bustling woman who spoke with a broad west-coast accent and wore a lot of gold and layers of bright clothing. To Rebus’s eyes, she looked as if she should be reading palms in a fairground caravan. Instead, she was sitting at a table in the cafeteria with Mrs Yurgii, the two detectives, and Alan Traynor. Rebus had told Traynor that they’d be fine on their own, but he’d insisted on being present, sitting a little apart from the group, arms folded. There were staff in the cafeteria — cleaners and cooks. Pots occasionally clanked on to metal surfaces, causing Mrs Yurgii to jump every time. Her children were being looked after in their room. She carried a handkerchief with her, rolled around the fingers of her right hand.
It was Ellen Wylie who had found the interpreter; and it was Wylie who asked the questions.
‘Did she never hear from her husband? Never try contacting him?’
The translated question would follow, and then the answer, translated back into English again.
‘How could she? She didn’t know where he was.’
‘Inmates are allowed to make phone calls out,’ Traynor clarified. ‘There’s a pay-phone... they’re welcome to use it.’
‘If they have the money,’ the interpreter snapped.
‘He never tried contacting her?’ Wylie persisted.
‘It’s always possible he heard things from those on the outside,’ the interpreter answered, without posing the question to the widow.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m assuming people do actually leave this place?’ Again she glared at Traynor.
‘Most are sent home,’ he retorted.
‘To be disappeared,’ she spat back.
‘Actually,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘it’s true that some people are bailed out of here, aren’t they, Mr Traynor?’
‘That’s right. If someone stands as a referee...’
‘And that’s how Stef Yurgii might have heard news of his family — from people he met who’d been in here.’
Traynor looked sceptical.
‘Do you have a list?’ Rebus asked.
‘A list?’
‘Of people who’ve been bailed.’
‘Of course we do.’
‘And the addresses they’re staying at?’ Traynor nodded. ‘So it would be easy to say how many of them are in Edinburgh, maybe even in Knoxland itself?’
‘I don’t think you understand the system, Inspector. How many people in Knoxland do you think would give shelter to an asylum-seeker? I admit I don’t know the place, but from what I’ve seen in the newspapers...’
‘You’ve got a point,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But all the same, maybe you could pull those records for me?’
‘They’re confidential.’
‘I don’t need to see all of them. Just the ones living in Edinburgh.’
‘And just the Kurds?’ Traynor added.
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Well, that’s feasible, I suppose.’ Traynor still sounded less than enthusiastic.
‘Maybe you could do it now, while we’re talking to Mrs Yurgii?’
‘I’ll do it later.’
‘Or one of your staff...?’
‘Later, Inspector.’ Traynor had firmed up his voice. Mrs Yurgii was talking. The interpreter nodded when she’d finished.
‘Stef could not go home. They would kill him. He was a human rights journalist.’ She frowned. ‘I think that’s correct.’ She checked with the widow, nodded again. ‘Yes, he worked on stories of state corruption, of campaigns against the Kurdish people. She tells me he was a hero, and I believe her...’
The interpreter sat back, as if daring them to doubt her.
Ellen Wylie leaned forward. ‘Was there anyone on the outside... anyone he knew? Someone he might have gone to?’
The question was asked and answered.
‘He did not know anyone in Scotland. The family did not want to leave Sighthill. They were beginning to be happy there. The children made friends... they found places in a school. And then they were thrown into a van — a police van — and brought to this place in the middle of the night. They were terrified.’
Wylie touched the interpreter on the forearm. ‘I don’t know how best to phrase this... maybe you can help me.’ She paused. ‘We’re pretty sure Stef had at least one “friend” on the outside.’
It took the interpreter a moment to realise. ‘You mean a woman?’
Wylie nodded slowly. ‘We need to find her.’
‘How can his widow help?’
‘I’m not sure...’
‘Ask her,’ Rebus said, ‘what languages her husband spoke.’
The interpreter looked at him as she asked the question. Then: ‘He spoke a little English, and some French. His French better than his English.’
Wylie was looking at him too. ‘The girlfriend speaks French?’
‘It’s a possibility. Got any French-speakers in here, Mr Traynor?’
‘From time to time.’
‘What countries are they from?’
‘Africa, mostly.’
‘Do you think any of them might have been given bail?’
‘Can I assume you’d like me to check?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’ Rebus’s lips formed a smile of sorts. Traynor just sighed. The translator was talking again. Mrs Yurgii answered by bursting into tears, burying her face in her handkerchief.
‘What did you say to her?’ Wylie asked.
‘I asked if her husband was faithful.’
Mrs Yurgii wailed something. The translator wrapped an arm around her.
‘And now we have her answer,’ she said.
‘Which is...?’
‘“Until death”,’ the translator quoted.
The silence was broken by a blast from Traynor’s walkie-talkie. He placed it to his ear. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. Then, having listened: ‘Oh Christ... I’ll be right there.’
He left without a word. Rebus and Wylie exchanged a look, and Rebus rose to his feet, readying to follow.
It wasn’t hard to keep his distance: Traynor was in a hurry, not quite running exactly but doing everything but. Down one corridor, and then left into another, until, at the far end, he pulled open a door. This led to a shorter corridor dead-ended by a fire exit. There were three small rooms — isolation cells. From inside one, someone was thumping the locked door. Thumping and kicking and yelling in a language Rebus didn’t recognise. But this wasn’t what interested Traynor. He’d entered another room, its door held open by a guard. There were further guards inside, crouched around the prone figure of a near-skeletal man, dressed only in underpants. The rest of his clothing had been removed to form a make-shift noose. It was still tied tight around his throat, his head purple and swollen, tongue bursting from his mouth.
‘Every ten bloody minutes,’ Traynor was saying angrily.
‘We checked every ten minutes,’ a guard was stressing.
‘I’ll bet you did...’ Traynor looked up, saw Rebus standing in the doorway. ‘Get him out of here!’ he roared. The nearest guard started pushing Rebus back into the corridor. Rebus held up both hands.