Rebus could see that Mo Dirwan didn’t know what to do next. There was a look of consternation on his face, as if he were realising that he was a human rather than a superman. This situation was beyond even his control, because his powers depended on the willingness of others to listen to his arguments, and no one here was going to listen to anything. Rebus reckoned Martin Luther King could have been standing there with a bullhorn and gone unheeded. One young man seemed bewildered by it all. His eyes rested on Rebus’s for a moment. He was Asian, but wore the same clothes as the white kids. There was a single hooped earring through one of his lobes. His bottom lip was puffy and crusted with old blood, and Rebus saw that he stood awkwardly, as though trying to keep the weight off his left leg. That leg was hurting. Was this the reason for his bewilderment? Was he the latest victim, the one who’d led to the meeting being called? If he looked anything, it was scared... scared that a single act could escalate so ceaselessly.
Rebus would have tried for reassurance if he’d known how, but the doors were bursting open, more uniforms crowding in. There was a senior face there: more silver on his lapels and cap than any of the others. Silver, too, in the hair that emerged from below his cap.
‘Let’s have some order!’ he yelled, marching confidently towards the front of the hall and the microphone, which he snatched without ceremony from the now mumbling woman.
‘A bit of order, please, people!’ The voice booming through the loudspeakers. ‘Let’s try and calm things down.’ He looked down at one of the figures seated at the table. ‘I think this meeting’s probably best adjourned for now.’ The man he’d been looking towards nodded just perceptibly. Maybe the local councillor, Rebus guessed; certainly someone the policeman had to pretend to defer to.
But there was only one man in charge now.
When a hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder, he flinched, but it was a grinning Mo Dirwan, who’d somehow spotted him and made his approach unseen.
‘My very good friend, what in God’s name brings you here at this time?’
Close up, Rebus saw that Dirwan’s injuries were no more serious than would be sustained during a weekend brawl between drunks: just a minimum of scrapes and nicks. He was suddenly dubious of the plaster and the bandage, wondering if they were for show.
‘Wanted to see how you were.’
‘Ha!’ Dirwan pounded his shoulder again. The fact that he was using his bandaged hand reinforced Rebus’s suspicions. ‘You were feeling perhaps a little bit of guilt?’
‘I also want to know how it happened.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s easily told — I was jumped. Didn’t you read your newspaper this morning? Whichever one you chose, I was in them all.’
And Rebus didn’t doubt those papers would be spread across the floor of Dirwan’s living room...
But now the lawyer’s attention was diverted by the fact that everyone was being ushered from the hall. He squeezed through the crowd until he met the senior uniform, whose hand he shook, sharing a few words. Then it was on to the councillor, whose expression told Rebus that one more wasted, thankless Saturday like this and he’d be tapping out that letter of resignation. Dirwan had strong words for this man, but when he attempted to grip his arm, it was shrugged off with a force which had probably been building for the whole length of the meeting. Dirwan wagged a finger instead, then patted the man’s shoulder and headed back towards Rebus.
‘Bloody hell, isn’t this an absolute mêlée?’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
Dirwan stared at him. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’d say that whatever the circumstances in front of you?’
‘Happens to be true,’ Rebus told him. ‘So... can I have that word now?’
‘What word?’
But Rebus said nothing. Instead, it was his turn to slap a hand down on Dirwan’s shoulder, holding it there as he steered the lawyer out of the building. A scuffle was taking place, one of the BNP man’s minions having come to blows with a young Asian. Dirwan looked ready to step in, but Rebus held him back, and the uniforms waded in. The BNP man was standing on a grassy bank across the road, hand held high in what looked like a Nazi salute. To Rebus’s mind, he seemed ridiculous, which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
‘Shall we go to my house?’ Dirwan was suggesting.
‘My car,’ Rebus said, shaking his head. They got in, but there was too much still happening all around. Rebus started the ignition, figuring he’d drive into one of the side streets, the better to talk without distractions. As they made to pass the BNP man, he pushed his foot a little harder on the accelerator, and steered the car close to the kerb, sending up a spray which doused the man, much to Mo Dirwan’s delight.
Rebus reversed into a tight kerbside space, switched off the ignition, and turned to face the lawyer.
‘So what happened?’ he asked.
Dirwan shrugged. ‘It is quickly told... I was doing as you asked, questioning as many of Knoxland’s incomers as would speak with me...’
‘Some refused?’
‘Not everyone trusts a stranger, John, not even when he boasts the same colour of skin.’
Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘So where were you when they jumped you?’
‘Waiting for one of the lifts in Stevenson House. They came from behind, maybe four or five of them, faces hidden.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘One of them did... right at the end.’ Dirwan looked uncomfortable, and Rebus was reminded that he was dealing with the victim of an assault. No matter how minor the injuries, it was unlikely to be the sort of memory the lawyer would cherish.
‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘I should have said right at the start — I’m sorry this had to happen.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, John. I should have been better prepared.’
‘I’m assuming you were targeted?’
Dirwan nodded slowly. ‘The one who spoke, he told me to get out of Knoxland. He said I’d be dead otherwise. He held a knife to my cheek as he spoke.’
‘What sort of knife?’
‘I can’t be sure... You’re thinking of the murder weapon?’
‘I suppose so.’ And, he could have added, the knife found on Howie Slowther. ‘You didn’t recognise any of them?’
‘I spent most of my time on the ground. Fists and shoes were about the only things I saw.’
‘What about the one who spoke. Did he sound local?’
‘As opposed to what?’
‘I don’t know... Irish maybe.’
‘I find Irish and Scots hard to tell apart sometimes.’ Dirwan shrugged an apology. ‘Shocking, I know, in someone who has spent some years here...’
Rebus’s mobile sounded from deep within one of his pockets. He dug it out and studied the screen. It was Caro Quinn. ‘I have to take this,’ he told Dirwan, opening the car door. He walked a few paces along the pavement and held the phone to his ear.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘How could you do that to me?’
‘What?’
‘Let me drink like that,’ she groaned.
‘Nursing a sore head, are we?’
‘I’m never touching alcohol again.’