The man stared at him, then gave a grin and shook his head, letting Storey know he wasn’t falling for it.
‘You want to stay in this country?’ Storey persisted. ‘You better start cooperating.’
‘I am legal... work permit and everything.’
‘Good for you... we’ll be sure to check it’s not a forgery or expired.’
The grin melted, like a sandcastle hit by the incoming tide.
‘I’m always open to negotiation,’ Storey informed the man. ‘Soon as you feel like talking, let me know.’ He nodded for the prisoner to be marched uphill with the others. Then he noticed Rebus standing beside him. ‘Bugger is,’ he said, ‘if his paperwork’s in order, he doesn’t have to tell us a thing. It’s not illegal to pick cockles.’
‘And what about them?’ Rebus gestured in the direction of the stragglers. These were the oldest of the workers, seeming to move with a permanent stoop.
‘If they’re illegals, they’ll be locked up till we can ship them home.’ Storey straightened up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his knee-length camel-hair coat. ‘Plenty more like them to take their place.’
Rebus saw that the Immigration man was staring out at the unceasing grey swell. ‘Canute and the tide?’ he offered by way of comparison.
Storey took out a huge white handkerchief and blew his nose noisily, then started climbing the dune, leaving Rebus to finish his cigarette.
By the time he reached the car park, the vans had moved off. However, a new, handcuffed figure had entered the picture. One of the uniforms was explaining to Storey what had happened.
‘He was heading along the road... saw the patrol cars and did a three-point turn. We managed to head him off...’
‘I told you,’ the man barked, ‘it was nothing to do with youse!’ He sounded Irish. A few days’ growth on his square chin, lower jaw pushed out belligerently. His car had been brought into the car park. It was an old-model BMW 7-series, its red paint fading, sills turning to rust. Rebus had seen it before. He walked around it. There was a notebook visible on the passenger seat, folded open at a list of what looked like Chinese names. Storey caught Rebus’s eye and nodded: he already knew about it.
‘Name, please?’ he asked the driver.
‘Let’s have your ID first,’ the man snapped back. He was wearing an olive-green parka, maybe the same coat he’d been wearing when Rebus had first set eyes on him the previous week. ‘Fuck are you staring at?’ he asked Rebus, looking him up and down. Rebus just smiled and took out his own mobile, made a call.
‘Shug?’ he said when it was answered. ‘Rebus here... Remember at the demo? You were going to come up with a name for that Irishman...’ Rebus listened, eyes on the man in front of him. ‘Peter Hill?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Well, guess what: if I’m not mistaken, he’s standing right in front of me...’
The man just scowled, making no attempt to deny it.
It was Rebus’s suggestion that they take Peter Hill to Torphichen police station, where Shug Davidson was already waiting in the Stef Yurgii murder room. Rebus introduced Davidson to Felix Storey, and the two men shook hands. A few of the detectives couldn’t help staring. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a black man, but it was the first time they’d welcomed one to this particular corner of the city.
Rebus contented himself with listening, while Davidson explained the connection between Peter Hill and Knoxland.
‘You have evidence he was dealing drugs?’ Storey asked at the end.
‘Not enough to convict him... but we did put away four of his friends.’
‘Meaning either he was too small a fish, or...’
‘Too clever to get caught,’ Davidson conceded with a nod.
‘And the connection to the paramilitaries?’
‘Again, hard to pin down, but the drugs had to come from somewhere, and intelligence in Northern Ireland pointed to that particular source. Terrorists need to raise money any way they can...’
‘Even by acting as gangmasters to illegal immigrants?’
Davidson shrugged. ‘First time for everything,’ he speculated.
Storey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘That car he was driving...’
‘BMW seven-series,’ Rebus offered.
Storey nodded. ‘Those weren’t Irish number plates, were they? Northern Ireland, they’re usually three letters and four numbers.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘You’re well informed.’
‘I worked Customs for a while. When you’re checking passenger ferries, you get to know number plates...’
‘I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at,’ Shug Davidson was forced to admit. Storey turned to him.
‘Just wondering how he came by the car, that’s all. If he didn’t bring it over here with him, then he either bought it here, or...’
‘Or it belongs to someone else.’ Davidson nodded slowly.
‘Unlikely he’s working alone, not a set-up of that size.’
‘Something else we can ask him,’ Davidson said. Storey offered a smile, and turned his gaze to Rebus, as if seeking further agreement. But Rebus’s eyes had narrowed slightly. He was still wondering about that car...
The Irishman was in Interview Room 2. He took no notice of the three men when they came in, relieving the uniform who’d been standing guard. Storey and Davidson sat down opposite him at the table, Rebus finding a section of wall to rest his weight against. There was the sound of pneumatic drilling from the roadworks outside. It would punctuate any discussion, ending up on the cassette tapes Davidson was unwrapping. He slotted both into the recording machine and made sure the timer was correct. Then he did the same with a couple of blank videotapes. The camera was above the door, pointing straight at the table. If any suspect wanted to claim intimidation, the tapes would give the lie to the accusation.
The three officers identified themselves for the benefit of the tapes, then Davidson asked the Irishman to give his full name. He seemed content to let the silence lie, flicking threads from his trousers and then clasping his hands in front of him on the edge of the desk.
Hill continued to stare at a patch of wall between Davidson and Storey. Finally, he spoke.
‘I could do with a cup of tea. Milk, three sugars.’ He was missing some teeth from the back of his mouth, giving his cheeks a sunken look, emphasising the skull beneath the sallow skin. His hair was cropped and silver-grey, eyes pale blue, neck scrawny. Probably not much more than five feet nine tall and ten stone in weight.
Most of it attitude.
‘In due course,’ Davidson said quietly.
‘And a lawyer... a phone call...’
‘Same applies. Meantime...’ Davidson opened a manila folder and extracted a large black-and-white photograph. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
Only half the face was showing, the rest hidden by the parka’s hood. It had been taken the day of the Knoxland demo, the day Howie Slowther had gone for Mo Dirwan with a rock.
‘Don’t think so.’
‘How about this?’ The photographer this time had caught a full-face shot. ‘Taken a few months back, also in Knoxland.’
‘And your point is...?’
‘My point is, I’ve been waiting a good long time to get you for something.’ Davidson smiled and turned to Felix Storey.
‘Mr Hill,’ Storey began, crossing one knee over the other, ‘I’m an Immigration officer. We’ll be checking the credentials of all those workers to see how many of them are here illegally.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about. I was out for a drive down the coast — not against the law, is it?’