‘The guy behind the camera,’ Siobhan said, ‘did you know him?’
‘I had never met him until we walked into the house.’
‘And where was the house?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Somewhere outside Edinburgh. Alberta was driving... I did not really pay much attention.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘Who else saw this film?’
‘Just me,’ Siobhan lied. Kate turned her attention to Rebus, who shook his head, letting her know he hadn’t viewed it.
‘I’m looking into a murder,’ Siobhan continued.
‘I know... the immigrant in Knoxland.’
‘Actually, that’s DI Rebus’s case. The one I’m involved in happened in a town called Banehall. The man behind the camera...’ She broke off. ‘Do you happen to remember his name?’
Kate looked thoughtful. ‘Mark?’ she eventually offered.
Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘No surname?’
‘He had a big tattoo on his neck...’
‘A spider’s web,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘At one point, another man came in, and Mark handed him the camera.’ Siobhan produced another polaroid, this time a blurred image of Donny Cruikshank. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘To be honest with you, I had my eyes closed most of the time. I was trying to concentrate on the music... it’s how I do the job — by thinking of nothing but the music.’
Siobhan nodded again, to show she understood. ‘He’s the one who got murdered, Kate. Is there anything you can tell me about him?’
She shook her head. ‘I just got the feeling the two of them were enjoying themselves. Like schoolkids, you know? They had that feverish look to them.’
‘Feverish?’
‘Almost as if they were trembling. In a room with three naked women: I got the feeling it was new to them, new and exciting...’
‘You never felt scared?’
She shook her head again. Rebus could see she was thinking back on the scene, with no fond memories at all. He cleared his throat. ‘You say this other dancer took you along with her to the shoot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Stuart Bullen know about it?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘But you can’t be positive?’
She shrugged. ‘Stuart has always played fair with the girls. He knows the other clubs are looking for dancers — if we don’t like where we are, we can always move on.’
‘Alberta must have known the man with the tattoo,’ Siobhan said.
Kate shrugged again. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you know how she knew him?’
‘Maybe he came into the club... that is how Alberta tended to meet men.’ She rattled the ice in her tumbler.
‘Want another?’ Rebus asked.
She looked at her watch and shook her head. ‘Barney will be here soon.’
‘Barney Grant?’ Siobhan guessed. Kate nodded.
‘He’s trying to talk to all the girls. Barney knows if we go a day or two without work, he’ll lose us.’
‘Meaning he intends keeping the Nook open?’ Rebus asked.
‘Just until Stuart comes back.’ She paused. ‘He will be coming back?’
In lieu of answering, Rebus finished his pint.
‘We better leave you to it,’ Siobhan told Kate. ‘Thanks for talking to us.’ She made to get up from the table.
‘I’m sorry I cannot be more help.’
‘If you remember anything else about those two men...’
Kate nodded. ‘I’ll let you know.’ She paused. ‘The film with me in it...’
‘Yes?’
‘How many copies do you think there are?’
‘No way of telling. Your friend Alberta... does she still dance at the Nook?’
Kate shook her head. ‘She left soon afterwards.’
‘You mean, soon after the film was made?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long ago was that?’
‘Two or three weeks.’
They thanked Kate again and headed for the door. Outside, they faced one another. Siobhan spoke first. ‘Donny Cruikshank must’ve just been out of jail.’
‘No wonder he looked feverish. You going to try finding Alberta?’
Siobhan let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know... It’s been a long day.’
‘Fancy another drink someplace?’ She shook her head. ‘Got a date with Les Young?’
‘Why? Have you got one with Caro Quinn?’
‘I was just asking.’ Rebus took out his cigarettes.
‘Give you a lift?’ Siobhan offered.
‘I think I’ll walk, thanks all the same.’
‘Okay then...’ She hesitated, watched him light the cigarette. Then, when he didn’t say anything, she turned and headed for her car. He watched her go. Concentrated on smoking for a moment, then crossed the road. There was a hotel, and he loitered by its entrance. He’d just finished the cigarette when he saw Barney Grant walking downhill from the direction of the Nook. He had his hands in his pockets and was whistling: no sign that he was worried about his job or his boss. He entered the pub, and for some reason Rebus checked his watch, then noted down the time.
And stayed where he was, in front of the hotel. Looking in through the windows, he could see its restaurant. It looked white and sterile, the sort of place where the size of each plate is in inverse proportion to the amount of food served on it. There were only a few tables in use, the staff outnumbering clients. One of the waiters gave him a look, trying to shoo him away, but Rebus just winked back at him. Eventually, just as Rebus was getting bored and deciding to leave, a car drew up outside the pub, engine roaring as it idled, the driver playing with the accelerator. The passenger was talking into a mobile phone. The pub’s door opened and Barney Grant came out, sliding his own mobile back into his pocket as the passenger folded his closed. Grant got into the back seat of the car, which was in movement again even before he’d closed the door. Rebus watched as the car raced up the hill, then began to follow on foot.
It took him a few minutes to reach the Nook, and he arrived just as the car was taking off again. He stared at the locked door of the Nook, then across the street towards the closed-down shop. No more surveillance, no sign of the parked van. He tried the door of the Nook but it was locked tight. All the same, Barney Grant had dropped in for some reason, the car waiting for him. Rebus hadn’t recognised the driver, but he knew the face in the passenger seat, had known it ever since it had screamed at him when he’d wrestled its owner to the ground, cameras capturing the moment for tabloid posterity.
Howie Slowther — the kid from Knoxland, the one with the paramilitary tattoo and the race hate.
Friend of the Nook’s barman...
Either that, or of its owner.
Day nine
Tuesday
26
Dawn raids in Knoxland, the same team who’d chased cockle-pickers along Cramond’s seashore. Stevenson House — the one with no graffiti. Why so? Either fear or respect. Rebus knew he should have seen it right at the start. Stevenson House had looked different, and it had been treated differently, too.
The original door-to-door teams had encountered many unanswered knocks there — almost a whole floor of them. Had they gone back and tried again? They had not. Why? Because the murder squad had been stretched... and maybe because the officers hadn’t been trying too hard, the victim a statistic to them, nothing more.
Felix Storey was being more thorough. This time doors would be pounded, letter-boxes peered into. This time they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Immigration Service — as with Customs and Excise — wielded more power than the police. Doors could be kicked in without the need for search warrants. ‘Due cause’ was the phrase Rebus had heard mentioned, and Storey was clear in his own mind that whatever else they might have, they had due cause aplenty.