‘I was gaining,’ he told the young man. ‘Honest.’
They took him back to the Nook. Word had gone around, and the place was empty of punters. Siobhan was quizzing some of the dancers, who sat in a line at the bar, Barney Grant pouring soft drinks for them.
A solitary customer emerged from behind the VIP curtain, puzzled by the sudden lack of music and voices. He seemed to sum up the situation and tightened the knot in his tie as he made to exit. Rebus’s limp caused him to bump shoulders with the man.
‘Sorry,’ the man muttered.
‘My fault, councillor,’ Rebus said, watching him as he left. Then he walked over to Siobhan, nodding a greeting to Les Young. ‘So what’s all this about?’
It was Young who answered. ‘We need to ask Stuart Bullen a few questions.’
‘About what?’ Rebus’s eyes were still on Siobhan.
‘In connection with the murder of Donald Cruikshank.’
Now Rebus’s attention shifted to Young. ‘Well, intriguing as that sounds, you’re going to have to wait in line. I think you’ll find we’ve got first dibs.’
‘We being...?’
Rebus gestured towards Felix Storey, who was finally — and reluctantly — letting go of Bullen, now that his hands had been handcuffed. ‘That man’s Immigration. He’s had Bullen under surveillance for weeks — people-smuggling, white slavery, you name it.’
‘We’ll need access,’ Les Young said.
‘Then go plead your case.’ Rebus stretched an arm out towards Storey and Shug Davidson. Les Young gave him a hard stare, then headed off in that direction. Siobhan was glowering at Rebus.
‘What?’ he asked, all innocence.
‘It’s me you’re pissed off with, remember? Don’t go picking on Les.’
‘Les is a big boy; he can look after himself.’
‘Problem is, in a scrap, he’d play fair... unlike some.’
‘Harsh words, Siobhan.’
‘Sometimes you need to hear them.’
Rebus just shrugged. ‘So what’s this about Bullen and Cruikshank?’
‘Homemade porn in the victim’s home. Featuring at least one of the dancers from this place.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘We just need to talk to him.’
‘I’m willing to bet there are some on the inquiry who’re wondering why. They reckon if a rapist gets topped, why bust a gut over it?’ He paused. ‘Am I right?’
‘You’d know better than me.’
Rebus turned towards where Young and Davidson were in conversation. ‘Maybe you’re trying to impress young Les over there...’
She hauled on Rebus’s shoulder, so she had his full attention again. ‘It’s a murder case, John. You’d be doing everything I’m doing.’
He gave the beginnings of a smile. ‘I’m just teasing, Siobhan.’ He turned to the open doorway, the one leading to Bullen’s office. ‘The first time we were here, did you notice that trapdoor?’
‘I just thought it was the cellar.’ She halted. ‘You didn’t spot it?’
‘Forgot it was there, that’s all,’ he lied, rubbing his right leg.
‘Looks sore, mate.’ Barney Grant was studying the injury. ‘Like you’ve been studded. Used to play a bit of footie, so I know what I’m talking about.’
‘You might have warned us about the trapdoor.’
The barman offered a shrug. Felix Storey was pushing Stuart Bullen towards the hallway. Rebus made to follow, Siobhan trailing him. Storey slammed shut the trapdoor. ‘Good place to hide any illegals,’ he said. Bullen just snorted. The door to the office was ajar. Storey opened it with one foot. It was as Rebus remembered it: cramped and full of junk. Storey’s nose wrinkled.
‘Going to take us a while to empty all this into evidence bags.’
‘Christ’s sake,’ Bullen muttered by way of complaint.
The door of the safe was slightly ajar, too, and Storey used the tip of a polished brogue to open it up.
‘Well now,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better get those evidence bags in here.’
‘This is a fit-up!’ Bullen started to shout. ‘It’s a plant, you bastards!’ He made to shake himself free of Storey’s grip, but the Immigration man was four inches taller and probably twenty pounds heavier. Everyone stood crowded in the doorway, trying for a better view. Davidson and Young had arrived, as had some of the dancers.
Rebus turned to Siobhan, who pursed her lips. She’d seen what he’d just seen. Lying in the open safe — a stack of passports held together with a rubber band; blank credit and debit cards; various official-looking stamps and franking machines. Plus other folded documents, maybe birth or marriage certificates.
Everything you’d need to create a new identity.
Or even a few hundred.
They took Stuart Bullen to Torphichen’s Interview Room 1.
‘We’ve got your pal next door,’ Felix Storey said. He’d removed his jacket and was loosening his cuff links so he could roll up his shirt-sleeves.
‘Who’s that then?’ Bullen’s handcuffs had been removed and he was rubbing his reddened wrists.
‘Peter Hill, I think his name is.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Irish guy... speaks very highly of you.’
Bullen caught Storey’s eye. ‘Now I know this is a fit-up.’
‘Why? Because you’re confident Hill won’t talk?’
‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know him.’
‘We’ve got photos of him coming in and out of your club.’
Bullen stared at Storey, as if trying to gauge the truth of this. Rebus himself didn’t know. It was possible the surveillance had netted Hill; then again, Storey could be bluffing. He had brought nothing with him to this meeting: no files or folders. Bullen turned his gaze on Rebus.
‘Sure you want him around?’ he asked Storey.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Word is, he’s Cafferty’s man.’
‘Who?’
‘Cafferty — he runs this whole city.’
‘And why should that concern you, Mr Bullen?’
‘Because Cafferty hates my family.’ He paused for effect. ‘And someone planted that stuff.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Storey said, almost sorrowfully. ‘Try explaining away your connection to Peter Hill.’
‘I keep telling you,’ Bullen’s teeth were gritted, ‘there isn’t any.’
‘And that’s why we found him in your car?’
The room went quiet. Shug Davidson was walking up and down with arms folded. Rebus stood in his favoured place by the wall. Stuart Bullen was making an examination of his own fingernails.
‘Red BMW seven-series,’ Storey went on, ‘registered in your name.’
‘I lost that car months back.’
‘Did you report it?’
‘Hardly worth the effort.’
‘And that’s the story you’ll be sticking to — planted evidence and a misplaced BMW? I hope you’ve got a good lawyer, Mr Bullen.’
‘Maybe I’ll try that Mo Dirwan... he seems to win a few.’ Bullen shifted his gaze to Rebus. ‘I hear the two of you are good mates.’
‘Funny you should mention it,’ Shug Davidson interrupted, stopping in front of the table. ‘Because your friend Hill has been seen out at Knoxland. We’ve got photos of him from the demo, same day Mr Dirwan was nearly attacked.’
‘That what you do all day, take pictures of people without them knowing?’ Bullen looked around the room. ‘Some men do that and get called pervs.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Rebus said, ‘we’ve got another inquiry waiting to talk to you.’