‘No, but a jury might just wonder at the coincidence of that list of names on the passenger seat, if it turns out they match the names of the people we’ve detained.’
‘What list?’ Finally, Hill’s eyes met those of his questioner. ‘If there’s any list been found, it’s been planted.’
‘So we won’t expect to find your fingerprints on it then?’
‘And none of the workers will be able to identify you?’ Davidson added, twisting the knife.
‘Not against the law, is it?’
‘Actually,’ Storey confided, ‘I think slavery may have come off the statute book a few centuries back.’
‘That why they let a nigger like you wear a suit?’ the Irishman spat.
Storey gave a wry smile, as if satisfied that things had come to this so readily. ‘I’ve heard the Irish referred to as the blacks of Europe — does that make us brothers beneath the skin?’
‘It means you can go arse yourself.’
Storey tipped his head back and laughed from deep within his chest. Davidson had closed the file again — leaving the two photographs out, facing Peter Hill. He was tapping a finger against the file, as if drawing to Hill’s attention the thickness of it, the sheer quantity of information within.
‘So how long have you been in the slave trade?’ Rebus asked the Irishman.
‘I’m saying nothing till I get a mug of tea.’ Hill leaned back and folded his arms. ‘And I want it brought in by my lawyer.’
‘You’ve got a lawyer then? Seems to suggest you thought you’d be needing one.’
Hill turned his gaze towards Rebus, but his question was aimed across the table. ‘How long do youse think you can keep me here?’
‘That depends,’ Davidson told him. ‘You see, these links of yours to the paramilitaries...’ He was still tapping the file. ‘Thanks to the legislation on terrorism, we can hold you a bit longer than you might think.’
‘So now I’m a terrorist?’ Hill sneered.
‘You were always a terrorist, Peter. The only thing that’s changed is how you go about funding it. Last month you were a dealer; today you’re a slaver...’
There was a knock at the door. The head of a detective constable appeared.
‘Have you got it?’ Davidson asked. The head nodded. ‘Then you can come in here and keep the suspect company.’ Davidson started rising to his feet, intoning for the benefit of the various recording devices that the interview was being suspended, checking his watch to give the exact time. The machines were switched off. Davidson offered the DC his chair, and accepted a scrap of paper in return. Outside in the corridor, once the door was firmly closed, he unfolded the paper, stared at it, then handed it to Storey, whose mouth broke open in a gleaming grin.
Finally, the paper was passed to Rebus. It contained a description of the red BMW, along with its licence plate. Below it, written in capitals, were the owner’s details.
The owner was Stuart Bullen.
Storey snatched the note back from Rebus and planted a kiss on it. Then he did a little shuffle of a dance.
The high spirits seemed infectious. Davidson was grinning too. He patted Felix Storey on the back. ‘Not often surveillance brings a result,’ he offered, looking to Rebus for his agreement.
But it wasn’t the surveillance, Rebus couldn’t help thinking. It was another mysterious tip-off.
That, and Storey’s own intuition about the BMW’s ownership.
If intuition was indeed all it had been...
25
When they arrived at the Nook, they met another raiding party — Siobhan and Les Young. Offices were emptying for the day, and a few suits were heading past the doormen. Rebus was asking Siobhan what she was doing there when he saw one of the doormen place a hand to the mouthpiece of his radio headset. The man was turning his face to one side, but Rebus knew they’d been clocked.
‘He’s telling Bullen we’re here!’ Rebus called out to the others. They moved quickly, pushing past the businessmen and into the premises. The music was loud, the place busier than on Rebus’s first visit. There were more dancers, too: four of them on the stage. Siobhan held back, studying faces, while Rebus led the way towards Bullen’s office. The door with the keypad was locked. Rebus looked around, saw the barman — recalled his name: Barney Grant.
‘Barney!’ he yelled. ‘Get over here!’
Barney put down the glass he was filling, came out from behind the bar. Punched in the numbers. Rebus shouldered the door and immediately felt the ground fall away beneath him. He was in the short corridor leading to Bullen’s office, only now the cover of a trapdoor had been lifted and it was through this opening that he’d fallen, landing awkwardly on the wooden steps which led down into darkness.
‘What the hell’s this?’ Storey yelped.
‘Sort of tunnel,’ the barman offered.
‘Where does it lead?’
He just shook his head. Rebus hobbled down the steps as best he could. His right leg felt like he’d grazed it all the way from ankle to knee, and he’d managed to twist his left ankle for good measure. He peered up at the faces above him. ‘Go outside, see if you can work out where it might lead.’
‘Could be anywhere,’ Davidson muttered.
Rebus peered along the tunnel. ‘It’s heading down towards the Grassmarket, I think.’ He closed his eyes, trying to get them accustomed to the dark, and started moving, keeping his hands against the side walls to steady himself. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again, blinking a few times. He could make out the damp earthen floor, the curved walls and sloping ceiling. Probably man-made, going back centuries: the Old Town was a warren of tunnels and catacombs, mostly unexplored. They had sheltered the inhabitants from invasion, made assignations and plots possible. Smugglers might have used them. In more recent times, people had tried growing everything from mushrooms to cannabis in them. A few had been opened as tourist attractions, but the bulk were like this: cramped and unloved and filled with stale air.
The tunnel was veering left. Rebus took out his mobile, but there was no signal, no way of letting the others know. He could hear movement ahead of him, but nothing visible.
‘Stuart?’ he called out, voice echoing. ‘This is bloody stupid, Stuart!’
And kept moving, seeing a faint glow in the distance, a body disappearing into it. Then the glow was gone. It was another door, this time in the side wall, and Bullen had closed it after him. Rebus placed both hands to the right wall, fearing he’d miss the opening. His fingers hit something hard. A doorknob of all things. He turned and pulled, but the door opened the other way. Tried again, but something heavy had been placed against it. Rebus called out for help, pushed with his shoulder. A noise from the other side: someone attempting to slide a box out of the way.
Then the door opened, leaving a space of only a couple of feet. Rebus crawled through. The door was at floor level. As he stood up, he saw that a box of books had been used for the barricade. An elderly man was staring at him.
‘He went out of the door,’ was all he said. Rebus nodded and limped in that direction. Once outside, he knew exactly where he was: West Port. Emerging from a second-hand bookshop not a hundred yards from the Nook. He had his mobile in his hand. It had picked up a signal again. Glanced back towards the traffic lights at Lady Lawson Street, then to his right, down towards the Grassmarket. Saw what he’d been hoping for.
Stuart Bullen being marched up the middle of the road towards him. Felix Storey behind him with Bullen’s right arm twisted upwards. Bullen’s clothes torn and dirty. Rebus looked down at his own. They didn’t look much better. He pulled up his trouser leg, glad to see there was no blood, just scrape marks. Shug Davidson was emerging at a jog from Lady Lawson Street, face red from running. Rebus bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Wanted a cigarette, but knew he wouldn’t have the breath to smoke one. Stood up straight again and was face to face with Bullen.