‘Actually, he got called away.’ Hawes nodded towards the window. Rebus peered out at the car park. Uniforms were packing themselves into the available patrol cars, four or five to each vehicle.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Reinforcements needed at Cramond.’
‘Cramond?’ Rebus’s eyes widened. Sandwiched between a golf course and the River Almond, it was one of the city’s more douce neighbourhoods, with some of the most expensive homes. ‘Are the peasants revolting?’
Hawes had joined him at the window. ‘Something to do with illegal immigrants,’ she said. Rebus stared at her.
‘What exactly?’
She shrugged. Rebus took her arm and guided her back to her desk, lifted the telephone receiver and handed it to her. ‘Give your friend Felix a call,’ he said, making it sound like an order.
‘What for?’
Rebus just shook away the question and watched her punch the numbers.
‘His mobile?’ he guessed. She nodded, and he took the receiver from her. The call was picked up on the seventh ring.
‘Yes?’ The voice impatient.
‘Felix?’ Rebus said, his eyes on Phyllida Hawes. ‘It’s Rebus here.’
‘I’m a bit pushed right now.’ He sounded as if he was in a car, either driving or being driven at speed.
‘Just wondering how my search is coming along?’
‘Your search...?’
‘Senegalese living in Scotland. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’ Trying to sound hurt.
‘I’ve had other things on my mind, John. I’ll get to it eventually.’
‘So what’s been keeping you so busy? Is that you on your way to Cramond, Felix?’
There was silence on the line, Rebus’s face breaking into a grin.
‘Okay,’ Storey said slowly. ‘As far as I’m aware, I never got round to giving you this number... meaning you probably got it from DC Hawes, which in turn means you’re probably calling from Gayfield Square...’
‘And watching the cavalry ride out as we speak. So what’s the big deal at Cramond, Felix?’
More silence on the line, and then the words Rebus had been waiting for.
‘Maybe you’d best come along and find out...’
The car park wasn’t in Cramond itself, but a little way along the coast. People would stop there and take a winding path through grass and nettles towards the beach. It was a barren, windswept spot, probably never before as crowded as now. There were a dozen patrol cars and four marked vans, plus the powerful saloons favoured by Customs and Immigration. Felix Storey was gesticulating as he gave orders to the troops.
‘It’s only about fifty yards to the shore, but be warned — soon as they see us, they’ll start running. The saving grace is, there’s nowhere for them to run to, unless they plan to swim to Fife.’ There were smiles at this, but Storey held up a hand. ‘I’m serious. It’s happened before. That’s why the coastguard’s on stand-by.’ A walkie-talkie crackled into life. He held it to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’ Listened to what seemed to Rebus like a wash of static. ‘Over and out.’ He lowered the handset again. ‘That’s the two flanking teams in position. They’ll start moving in about thirty seconds, so let’s get going.’
He set off, making to pass Rebus, who had just given up trying to get a cigarette lit.
‘Another tip-off?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Same source.’ Storey kept walking, his men — DC Colin Tibbet included — behind him. Rebus started walking too, right by Storey’s shoulder.
‘So what’s happening then? Boats bringing illegals ashore?’
Storey glanced at him. ‘Cockling.’
‘Say again?’
‘Picking cockles. The gangs behind it use immigrants and asylum-seekers, pay them a pittance. The two Land Rovers back there...’ Rebus turned his head, saw the vehicles in question, parked in a corner of the car park. They both had small trailers attached to their tow-bars. A couple of uniforms stood guard beside each. ‘That’s how they bring them in. They sell the cockles to restaurants; some of them probably go overseas...’ At that moment they passed a sign warning them that any crustaceans found on the seashore were likely to be contaminated and unfit for human consumption. Storey gave Rebus another glance. ‘The restaurants aren’t to know what they’re buying.’
‘I’ll never look at paella the same way.’ Rebus was about to ask about the trailers, but he could hear the high whine of small engines, and as they crested the rise he saw two quad bikes, laden with bulging sacks, and dotted all around the shore stooped figures with shovels, reflected in the shimmer of the wet sand.
‘Now!’ Storey called, breaking into a run. The others followed as best they could down the incline, across its powder-dry surface. Rebus held back to watch. He saw the cockle-pickers look up, saw sacks and shovels dropped. Some stood where they were, others started to flee. Uniforms were approaching from both directions. With Storey’s men descending on them from the dunes, the only possible escape route was provided by the Firth of Forth. One or two waded further out, but seemed to come to their senses by the time the icy water started numbing legs and waists.
Some of the invaders were yelling and whooping; others lost their footing and went down on all fours, spattered with sand. Rebus had finally found shelter enough to get his lighter to work. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in as he enjoyed the spectacle. The quad bikes were circling, the two drivers shouting at one another. One of them took the initiative and headed up the slope, perhaps imagining that if he made it to the car park he might manage to escape. But he was going too fast for the cargo still strapped to the bike’s rear. The machine’s front tyres flew upwards, the bike somersaulting, throwing its driver to the ground, where he was pounced on by four uniforms. The other rider saw no reason to follow suit. Instead, he held up his hands, the bike idling until its ignition was switched off by a besuited Immigration officer. It reminded Rebus of something... yes, that was it — the end of the Beatles film Help. All they needed now was Eleanor Bron.
As he walked on to the beach, he saw that some of the workers were young women. A few were sobbing. They all looked Chinese, including the two men on the bikes. One of Storey’s men seemed to know the relevant language. He had his hands cupped to his mouth and was rattling off instructions. Nothing he said seemed to appease the women, who wailed all the harder.
‘What are they saying?’ Rebus asked him.
‘They don’t want to be sent home.’
Rebus looked around. ‘Can’t be any worse than this, can it?’
The officer’s mouth twitched. ‘Forty-kilo sacks... they get paid maybe three quid for each one, and it’s not as if they can go to an employment tribunal, is it?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Slavery’s what it boils down to... turning human beings into something you can buy and sell. In the northeast, it’s fish-gutting. Other places, it’s picking fruit and veg. The gangmasters have a supply for every possible demand.’ He started barking out more advice to the workers, most of whom looked exhausted and glad of any excuse to down tools. The flanking officers had arrived, having picked up a few strays.
‘One call!’ one of the bike-riders was screeching. ‘Get to make one call!’
‘When we get to the station,’ an officer corrected him. ‘If we’re feeling generous.’
Storey had stopped in front of the rider. ‘Who is it you want to call? Got a mobile on you?’ The rider made to move his hands towards his trouser pocket, hampered by the handcuffs. Storey took the phone out for him, held it in front of his face. ‘Give me the number, I’ll dial it for you.’