‘So what was the tip-off?’
‘Just that Bullen’s dirty. People-smuggling.’
‘And you set this whole thing in motion on the evidence of one phone call?’
‘This same tipster, he’s come good before — a cargo of illegals coming into Dover in the back of a lorry.’
‘I thought you had all this high-tech stuff at the ports these days.’
Storey nodded. ‘We do. Sensors that can pick up body-heat... electronic sniffer dogs...’
‘So you’d have picked these illegals up anyway?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Storey stopped and faced Rebus. ‘What exactly is it you’re implying, Inspector?’
‘Nothing at all. What is it you think I’m implying?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Storey echoed. But his eyes gave the lie to his words.
That evening, Rebus sat by his window with the telephone in his hand, telling himself there was still time for Caro to call. He’d gone through his record collection, pulling out albums he hadn’t played in years: Montrose, Blue Oyster Cult, Rush, Alex Harvey... None of them lasted more than a couple of tracks until he reached Goat’s Head Soup. It was a stew of sounds, ideas stirred into the pot with only half the ingredients improving the flavour. Still, it was better — more melancholy — than he remembered. Ian Stewart played on a couple of tracks. Poor Stu, who’d grown up not far from Rebus in Fife and been a fully fledged member of the Stones until the manager decided he didn’t have the right image, the band keeping him around for sessions and touring.
Stu hanging in there, even though his face didn’t fit.
Rebus could sympathise.
Day eight
Monday
22
Monday morning, Banehall Library. Beakers of instant coffee, sugar doughnuts from a bakery. Les Young was wearing a three-button grey suit, white shirt, dark blue tie. There was a faint aroma of shoe polish. His team sat at desks and on desks, some scratching at bleary faces; others sucking on the bitter coffee as though it were elixir. There were posters on the walls advertising children’s authors: Michael Morpurgo; Francesca Simon; Eoin Colfer. Another poster depicted a cartoon hero called Captain Underpants, and for some reason this had become Young’s nickname, Siobhan overhearing an exchange to that effect. She didn’t think he would be flattered.
Having somehow run out of sensible trousers, Siobhan was wearing a skirt and tights — a rare outfit for her. The skirt came to her knees, but she kept tugging at it in the hope that it might magically transform into something a few inches longer. She’d no idea whether her legs were ‘good’ or ‘bad’ — she just didn’t like the idea that people were studying them, maybe even judging her by them. Moreover, she knew that before the end of the day the tights would have contrived to ladder themselves. As a precaution, she’d stuffed a second pair into her bag.
Laundry had failed to be part of her weekend. She’d driven to Dundee on Saturday, spending the day with Liz Hetherington, the two of them swapping work stories as they sat in a wine bar, then hitting a restaurant, the flicks, and a couple of clubs, Siobhan sleeping on Liz’s sofa, then driving home again in the afternoon, still groggy.
She was now on her third cup of coffee.
One reason she’d gone to Dundee was to escape Edinburgh and the possibility that she might bump into or be cornered by Rebus. She hadn’t been so drunk on Friday night; didn’t regret the stance she’d taken or the ensuing shouting-match. It was bar-room politics, that was all. But even so, she doubted Rebus would have forgotten, and she knew whose side he’d be on. She was conscious, too, that Whitemire was less than two miles away, and that Caro Quinn was probably back on sentry duty there, struggling to become the conscience of the place.
Sunday night she’d drifted into the city centre, climbing Cockburn Street, passing through Fleshmarket Close. On the High Street, a group of tourists had huddled around their guide, Siobhan recognising her by her hair and voice — Judith Lennox.
‘... in Knox’s day, of course, rules were much stricter. You could be punished for plucking a chicken on the Sabbath. No dancing, no theatre or gambling. Adultery carried a death sentence, while lesser crimes could be punished by the likes of the branks. This was a padlocked helmet which forced a metal bar into the mouth of liars and blasphemers... At the end of the tour, there’ll be a chance for you to enjoy a drink in the Warlock, a traditional inn celebrating the grisly end of Major Weir...’
Siobhan had wondered whether Lennox was being paid for her endorsement.
‘... and in conclusion,’ Les Young was saying now, ‘blunt trauma’s what we’re looking at. A couple of good whacks, fracturing the skull and causing bleeding in the brain-pan. Death almost certainly instantaneous...’ He was reading from the autopsy notes. ‘And according to the pathologist, circular indentations would indicate that something like an everyday hammer was used... sort of thing you’d find in DIY stores, diameter of two-point-nine centimetres.’
‘What about the force of the blow, sir?’ one of the team asked.
Young gave a wry smile. ‘The notes are a bit coy, but reading between the lines I think we can safely say we’re dealing with a male attacker... and more likely to be right- than left-handed. The pattern of the indents makes it look as though the victim was struck from behind.’ Young walked over to where a room-divider had become a makeshift noticeboard, crime-scene photos pinned to it. ‘We’ll be getting close-ups from the autopsy later today.’ He was pointing to a photo from Cruikshank’s bedroom, the head helmeted in blood. ‘It was the back of the skull that took most damage... that’s hard to do if you’re standing in front of the person you’re attacking.’
‘It definitely happened in the bedroom?’ someone else asked. ‘He wasn’t moved afterwards?’
‘He died where he fell, best as we can tell.’ Young looked around the room. ‘Any more questions?’ There were none. ‘Right then...’ He turned to a roster of the day’s workload, started assigning tasks. The focus seemed to be on Cruikshank’s porn collection, its provenance and who might have been party to it. Officers were being sent to Barlinnie to ask the warders about any friends Cruikshank had made while serving his sentence. Siobhan knew that sex offenders were kept in a separate wing from other prisoners. This stopped them being attacked on a daily basis, but also meant that they tended to form friendships with each other, which only made matters worse on release: a lone offender might be introduced to a whole network of similar-minded individuals, completing a circle which led to further offending and future brushes with the law.
‘Siobhan?’ She focused her eyes on Young, realising he’d been speaking to her.
‘Yes?’ She looked down, saw her cup was once again empty, craved another refill.
‘Did you get round to interviewing Ishbel Jardine’s boyfriend?’
‘You mean her ex?’ Siobhan cleared her throat. ‘No, not yet.’
‘You didn’t think he might know something?’
‘They’d split amicably.’
‘Yes, but all the same...’
Siobhan could feel her face reddening. Yes, she’d been too preoccupied elsewhere, concentrating her efforts on Donny Cruikshank.
‘He was on my list,’ was all she could think to say.
‘Well, would you like to see him now?’ Young checked his watch. ‘I’m due to talk to him as soon as we’re finished here.’
Siobhan nodded her agreement. She could feel eyes on her, knew there were some ill-disguised grins around the room, too. In the team’s collective mind, she and Young were already linked, the DI smitten with this interloper.