He just wasn’t sure he believed it.
‘Highly unusual,’ the woman at the registry said, not for the first time. She had led Rebus across the quadrangle to another set of offices in Old College. Rebus seemed to remember that this had once been the medical faculty, a place where grave-robbers brought their wares to sell to inquisitive surgeons. And hadn’t the serial killer William Burke been dissected here after his hanging? He made the mistake of asking his guide. She peered at him over her half-moon glasses. If she thought him exotic, she was hiding it well.
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ she trilled. Her walk was brisk, feet kept close together. Rebus reckoned she was around the same age as him, but it was hard to imagine her ever having been younger. ‘Highly irregular,’ she said now, as if to herself, stretching her vocabulary.
‘Any help you can give would be appreciated.’ It was the same line he’d used during their initial conversation. She’d listened closely, then made a call to someone higher up the admin ladder. Assent had been given, but with a caution — personal data was a confidential matter. There would need to be a written request, a discussion, a good reason for the handing over of any information.
Rebus had agreed to all of this, adding that it would be irrelevant should there turn out to be no Senegalese students registered at the university.
As a result of which, Mrs Scrimgour was going to make a search of the database.
‘You could have waited in the office, you know,’ she said now. Rebus just nodded as they turned into an open doorway. A younger woman was working at a computer. ‘I’ll need to relieve you, Nancy,’ Mrs Scrimgour said, managing to make it sound like admonishment rather than request. Nancy almost tipped over the chair in her rush to comply. Mrs Scrimgour nodded to the other side of the desk, meaning for Rebus to stand there, where he couldn’t see the screen. He complied up to a point, leaning forward so his elbows rested against the edge of the desk, eyes at a level with Mrs Scrimgour’s own. She frowned at this, but Rebus just smiled.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
She was tapping keys. ‘Africa’s divided into five zones,’ she informed him.
‘Senegal’s in the north-west.’
She peered at him. ‘North or west?’
‘One or the other,’ he said with a shrug. She gave a little sniff and kept typing, eventually pausing with her hand on the mouse.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘we do have one student from Senegal... so that’s that.’
‘But I’m not allowed to know name and whereabouts?’
‘Not without the procedures we discussed.’
‘Which just end up taking more time.’
‘Proper procedures,’ she intoned, ‘as laid down by law, if you need reminding.’
Rebus nodded slowly. His face had inched closer to hers. She pulled back in her seat.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think that’s as much as we can do today.’
‘And it’s unlikely that you’d absent-mindedly leave the screen showing when you walked away...?’
‘I think we both know the answer to that, Inspector.’ Saying which, she clicked twice with the mouse. Rebus knew that the information had disappeared, but that was all right. He’d seen just about enough from the reflection in her lenses. A smiling photo of a young woman with dark curly hair. He was pretty sure her name was Kawake, with an address at the university’s halls of residence on Dalkeith Road.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he told Mrs Scrimgour.
She tried not to look too disappointed at this news.
Pollock Halls was sited at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, on the edge of Holyrood Park. A sprawling, maze-like compound which mixed old architecture with new, crow-stepped gables and turrets with boxy modernity. Rebus stopped his car at the gatehouse, getting out to meet the uniformed guard.
‘Hiya, John,’ the man said.
‘You’re looking well, Andy,’ Rebus offered, shaking the proffered hand.
Andy Edmunds had been a police constable from the age of eighteen, meaning he’d been able to retire on a full pension while still well shy of his fiftieth birthday. The guard’s job was part-time, a way of filling some of the hours in the day. The two men had been useful to one another in the past: Andy feeding Rebus info on any dealers attempting to sell to the students at Pollock; Andy feeling still part of the force as a result.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked now.
‘A bit of a favour. I’ve got a name — could be her first or last — and I know this is her most recent address.’
‘What’s she done?’
Rebus looked around, as if to emphasise the importance of what he was about to say. Edmunds took the bait, moved a step closer.
‘That murder at Knoxland,’ Rebus said under his breath. ‘There may be a tie-in.’ He placed his finger to his mouth, Edmunds nodding his understanding.
‘What’s said to me stays with me, John, you know that.’
‘I know, Andy. So... is there any way we can track her down?’
The ‘we’ seemed to galvanise Edmunds. He retreated to his glass box and made a call, then returned to Rebus. ‘We’ll go talk to Maureen,’ he said. Then he winked. ‘Wee thing going on between the two of us, but she’s married...’ It was his turn to place a finger to his mouth.
Rebus just nodded. He had shared a confidence with Edmunds, so a confidence had to be traded in return. Together, they walked the ten yards or so to the main admin building. This was the oldest structure on the site, built in the Scots baronial style, the interior dominated by a vast wooden staircase, the walls panelled with more slabs of dark-stained wood. Maureen’s office was on the ground floor, boasting an ornate green marble fireplace and a panelled ceiling. She wasn’t quite what Rebus had been expecting — small and plump, almost mousy. Hard to imagine her carrying on an illicit affair with a man in uniform. Edmunds was staring at Rebus, as though seeking some sort of appraisal. Rebus raised an eyebrow and gave a little nod, which seemed to satisfy the ex-cop.
Having shaken Maureen’s hand, Rebus spelled the name for her. ‘I might have the odd letter in the wrong place,’ he cautioned.
‘Kawame Mana,’ Maureen corrected him. ‘I’ve got her here.’ Her screen was showing the identical information to Mrs Scrimgour’s. ‘She’s got a room in Fergusson Hall... studying psychology.’
Rebus had flipped open his notebook. ‘Date of birth?’
Maureen tapped the screen and Rebus jotted down what was printed there. Kawame was a second-year student, aged twenty.
‘Calls herself Kate,’ Maureen added. ‘Room two-ten.’
Rebus turned to Andy Edmunds, who was already nodding. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
The narrow, cream-coloured corridor was quieter than Rebus had expected.
‘Nobody playing hip-hop full blast?’ he queried. Edmunds snorted.
‘They’ve all got earphones these days, John, shuts them right away from the world.’
‘So even if we knock, she won’t hear us?’
‘Time to find out.’ They paused at the door marked 210. It boasted stickers of flowers and smiley faces, plus the name Kate picked out in tiny silver stars. Rebus made a fist and gave three hard thumps. The door across the corridor opened a fraction, male eyes gazing at them. The door closed again quickly and Edmunds made a show of sniffing the air.
‘One hundred per cent herbal,’ he said. Rebus’s mouth twitched.
When there was still no answer at the second attempt, he kicked the other door, causing it to rattle in its frame. By the time it opened, he already had his warrant card out. He reached forward and plucked at the tiny earphones, dislodging them. The student was in his late teens, dressed in baggy green combats and a shrunken grey T-shirt. A breeze was coming from a just-opened window.