‘You trying to endanger our operation?’ Felix Storey asked. Rebus turned. Storey stood with hands in pockets. He wore green combat trousers and an olive T-shirt.
‘Nice disguise,’ Rebus commented. ‘You must be keen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Working a Sunday shift — the Nook doesn’t open till two.’
‘Doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.’
‘No, but the bolts on the door give a pretty big clue...’
Storey slid his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m after a favour actually.’
‘And you couldn’t just leave a message at my hotel?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Not my style, Felix.’ He studied the Immigration man’s clothing again. ‘So what are you supposed to be? Urban guerrilla or something?’
‘A clubber at repose,’ Storey admitted.
Rebus snorted. ‘Still... the van’s not a bad idea. I dare say the shop’s too risky of a daytime — people might spot someone sitting atop a stepladder.’ Rebus looked to left and right. ‘Shame the street’s so quiet: you stick out like a sore thumb.’
Storey just glowered. ‘And you thumping the van doors... that was supposed to look natural, was it?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘It got your attention.’
‘That it did. So go ahead and ask your favour.’
‘Let’s do it over coffee.’ Rebus gestured with his head. ‘There’s a place not two minutes’ walk away.’ Storey thought for a moment, glancing towards the van. ‘I’m assuming you’ve got someone covering for you,’ Rebus said.
‘I just need to tell them...’
‘On you go then.’
Storey pointed down the street. ‘You walk on ahead, I’ll catch you up.’
Rebus nodded. He turned and started to leave, turned back to see that Storey was watching over his shoulder as he made his way to the van.
‘What do you want me to order?’ Rebus called.
‘Americano,’ the Immigration man called back. Then, when Rebus had turned to face the other way, he quickly opened the van doors and jumped in, closing them after him.
‘He wants a favour,’ he said to the person within.
‘I wonder what it is.’
‘I’m going with him to find out. Will you be all right here?’
‘Bored to tears, but I’ll manage somehow.’
‘I’ll be ten minutes at most...’ Storey broke off as the door was yanked open from outside. Rebus’s head appeared.
‘Hiya, Phyl,’ he said with a smile. ‘Want us to fetch you anything?’
Rebus felt better for knowing. Ever since he’d been clocked going into the Nook, he’d wondered who Storey’s source was. Had to be someone who knew him; knew Siobhan, too.
‘So Phyllida Hawes is working with you,’ he said as the two men sat down with their coffees. The café was on the corner of Lothian Road. They got the table only because a couple were leaving as they arrived. People were immersed in reading: newspapers and books. A woman nursed a small baby as she sipped from her mug. Storey busied himself peeling open the sandwich he’d bought.
‘It’s none of your business,’ he growled, working hard at keeping his voice low, not wanting to be overheard. Rebus was trying to place the background music: sixties-style, California-style. He doubted very much it was original; plenty of bands out there trying to sound like the past.
‘None of my business,’ Rebus agreed.
Storey slurped from his mug, wincing at the near-molten temperature. He bit into the refrigerated sandwich to ease the shock.
‘Making any headway?’ Rebus was asking.
‘Some,’ Storey said through a mouthful of lettuce.
‘But nothing you’d care to share?’ Rebus blew across the surface of his own mug: he’d been here before, knew the contents would be super-heated.
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m thinking this whole operation of yours must be costing a fortune. If I was blowing money like that on a surveillance, I’d be sweating a result.’
‘Do I look like I’m sweating?’
‘That’s what interests me. Someone somewhere is either desperate for a conviction, or else scarily confident of getting one.’ Storey was ready with a comeback, but Rebus held up a hand. ‘I know, I know... it’s none of my business.’
‘And that’s the way it’s going to stay.’
‘Scout’s honour.’ Rebus raised three fingers in mock-salute. ‘Which brings me to my favour...’
‘A favour I’m not inclined to help with.’
‘Not even in a spirit of cross-border cooperation?’
Storey pretended to be interested only in his sandwich, flecks of which he was brushing from his trousers.
‘You suit those combats, by the way,’ Rebus flattered him. Finally, this produced the ghost of a smile.
‘Ask your favour,’ the Immigration man said.
‘The murder I’m working on... the one in Knoxland.’
‘What of it?’
‘Looks like there was a girlfriend, and I’ve got word she’s from Senegal.’
‘So?’
‘So I’d like to find her.’
‘Do you have a name?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t even know if she’s here legally.’ He paused. ‘That’s where I thought you could help.’
‘Help how?’
‘The Immigration Service must know how many Senegalese there are in the UK. If they’re here legally, you’ll know how many of them live in Scotland...’
‘I think, Inspector, you may be mistaking us for a fascist state.’
‘You’re telling me you don’t keep records?’
‘Oh, there are records all right, but only of registered migrants. They wouldn’t show up an illegal, or even a refugee.’
‘The thing is, if she’s here illegally, she’d probably try to find other people from her home country. They’d be most likely to help her, and those are the ones you’d have records of.’
‘Yes, I can see that, but all the same...’
‘You’ve got better things to occupy your time?’
Storey took a tentative sip of his drink, brushed the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not even sure the information exists, not in a form you’d find useful.’
‘Right now I’d settle for anything.’
‘You think this girlfriend is involved in the murder?’
‘I think she’s running scared.’
‘Because she knows something?’
‘I won’t know that until I ask her.’
The Immigration man went quiet, making milky circles on the tabletop with the bottom of his mug. Rebus bided his time, watched the world outside the window. People were heading down to Princes Street; maybe with shopping in mind. There was a queue now at the counter, people looking around for a table they could share. There was a spare chair between Rebus and Storey, which he hoped no one would ask to use: refusal could often offend...
‘I can authorise an initial search of the database,’ Storey said at last.
‘That would be great.’
‘I’m not promising anything, mind.’
Rebus nodded his understanding.
‘Have you tried students?’ Storey added.
‘Students?’
‘Overseas students. There may be some around town from Senegal.’
‘That’s a thought,’ Rebus said.
‘Glad to be of service.’ The two men sat in silence until their drinks were finished. Afterwards, Rebus said he’d walk back to the van with Storey. He asked how Stuart Bullen had first appeared on Immigration’s radar.
‘I thought I already told you.’
‘My memory’s not what it was,’ Rebus apologised.
‘It was a tip-off — anonymous. That’s how it often starts: they want to stay anonymous until we get a result. After that, they want paying.’