‘Then we’ll meet for a drink in town and you can tell me all about it. The Dome on George Street... six thirty?’
‘Six thirty it is,’ he said.
Maybury was as good as gold: called Rebus back at five fifteen. He jotted the time down so it could be added to the case notes... One of the truly great Who songs, he thought to himself. Out of my brain on the five fifteen...
‘I’ve played her the tape,’ Maybury was saying.
‘You didn’t waste any time.’
‘I found her mobile number. Extraordinary how they seem to work anywhere these days.’
‘She’s in France then?’
‘Bergerac, yes.’
‘So what did she say?’
‘Well, the sound quality wasn’t brilliant...’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘And the connection kept breaking up.’
‘Yes?’
‘But after I’d played it back to her a few times, she came up with Senegal. She’s not a hundred per cent sure, but that’s her best guess.’
‘Senegal?’
‘It’s in Africa, French-speaking.’
‘Okay, well... thanks for that.’
‘Good luck, Inspector.’
Rebus put the phone down, found Wylie working at her computer. She was typing a report of the day’s activities, to be added to the Murder Book.
‘Senegal,’ he told her.
‘Where’s that?’
Rebus sighed. ‘In Africa, of course. French-speaking.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Maybury just told you that, didn’t she?’
‘Oh ye of little faith.’
‘Little faith, but big resources.’ She closed down her document and logged on to the Web, typed Senegal into a search engine. Rebus pulled a chair up next to her.
‘Just there,’ she said, pointing to an onscreen map of Africa. Senegal was on the continent’s north-west coast, dwarfed by Mauritania to the north and Mali to the east.
‘It’s tiny,’ Rebus commented.
Wylie clicked on an icon and a reference page opened up. ‘Just the seventy-six thousand square miles,’ she said. ‘I think that’s three-quarters the size of Britain. Capitaclass="underline" Dakar.’
‘As in the Dakar rally?’
‘Presumably. Population: six and a half million.’
‘Minus one...’
‘She’s sure the caller was from Senegal?’
‘I think we’re talking best guess.’
Wylie’s finger ran down the list of statistics. ‘No sign here that the country’s in turmoil or anything.’
‘Meaning what?’
Wylie shrugged. ‘She might not be an asylum-seeker... maybe not even an illegal.’
Rebus nodded, said he might know someone who’d know, and called Caro Quinn.
‘You’re crying off?’ she guessed.
‘Far from it — I’ve even bought you a present.’ For Wylie’s information, he patted his jacket pocket, from which jutted the folded newspaper. ‘Just wondering if you can shed any light on Senegal?’
‘The country in Africa?’
‘That’s the one.’ He peered at the screen. ‘Mostly Muslim and an exporter of ground nuts.’
He heard her laugh. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you know of any refugees from there? Maybe in Whitemire?’
‘Can’t say I do... Refugee Council might help.’
‘That’s a thought.’ But as he said it, Rebus was having another thought entirely. If anyone would know, Immigration would.
‘See you later,’ he said, ending the call.
Wylie had her arms folded, a smile on her face. ‘Your friend from outside Whitemire?’ she guessed.
‘Her name’s Caro Quinn.’
‘And you’re meeting her later.’
‘So?’ Rebus twitched his shoulders.
‘So what was she able to tell you about Senegal?’
‘Just that she doesn’t think there are any Senegalese in Whitemire. She says we should talk to the Refugee Council.’
‘What about Mo Dirwan? He seems the sort who might know.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Why don’t you give him a call?’
Wylie pointed at herself. ‘Me? You’re the one he seems to worship.’
Rebus’s face creased. ‘Give me a break, Ellen.’
‘But then I forgot... you’ve got a date tonight. You probably want to nip home for a facial.’
‘If I hear that you’ve been blabbing about this...’
She raised both hands in a show of surrender. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Don Juan. Now skedaddle... I’ll see you after the weekend.’
Rebus stared at her, but she fluttered her hands, shooing him off. He’d gone three steps towards the door when she called out his name. He turned his head towards her.
‘Take a tip from one who knows.’ She gestured towards the newspaper in his pocket. ‘A bit of gift-wrapping goes a long way...’
19
That evening, fresh from a bath and a shave, Rebus arrived at Caro Quinn’s flat. He looked around, but there seemed no sign of mother and child.
‘Ayisha’s gone to visit friends,’ Quinn explained.
‘Friends?’
‘She’s allowed to have friends, John.’ Quinn was bending over to hook a low-heeled black shoe on to her left foot.
‘I didn’t mean anything,’ he said defensively.
She straightened up. ‘Yes you did, but don’t worry about it. Did I tell you Ayisha was a nurse back in her homeland?’
‘Yes.’
‘She wanted work here, doing the same thing... but asylum-seekers aren’t allowed to work. Still, she made friends with some nurses. One of them’s having a get-together.’
‘I brought something for the baby,’ Rebus said, sliding a rattle from his pocket. Quinn came towards him, took the rattle and tried it out. She looked at him and smiled.
‘I’ll put it in her room.’
Left on his own, Rebus realised he was sweating, his shirt clinging to his back. He thought of removing his jacket, but feared the stain would be visible. It was the jacket’s fault: hundred per cent wool, too warm for indoors. He visualised himself at dinner, beads of perspiration falling into his soup...
‘You haven’t told me how nicely I scrub up,’ Quinn said, coming back into the room. She still had only the one shoe on. Her feet were covered in black tights, which disappeared beneath a knee-length black skirt. Her top was mustard-coloured, with a wide neckline stretching almost to both shoulders.
‘You look great,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ She slipped the other shoe on.
‘I’ve got you a present, too.’ He handed over the newspaper.
‘And here I was, thinking you’d brought it along in case you got bored of my company.’ Then she saw that he’d tied a narrow red bow around it. ‘Nice touch,’ she added, removing it.
‘Reckon the suicide will make any difference?’
She seemed to consider this, patting the newspaper against the palm of her left hand. ‘Probably not,’ she finally conceded. ‘As far as the government’s concerned, they have to be kept somewhere. Might as well be Whitemire.’
‘The newspaper talks about a “crisis”.’
‘That’s because the word “crisis” sounds like news.’ She’d opened the paper to the page with her photograph. ‘That circle around my head makes me look like a target.’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘John, I’ve been a radical all my life. Nuclear subs at Faslane, the Torness power station, Greenham Common... You name it, I’ve been there. Is my phone tapped right this second? I couldn’t tell you. Has it been tapped in the past? Almost certainly.’
Rebus stared at the telephone apparatus. ‘Do you mind if I...?’ Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the receiver, pressed the green button and listened. Then he closed the connection, opened it and closed it again. Looked at her and shook his head, replacing the handset.