‘I think we can,’ Rebus replied.
‘And can we further assume that he had full knowledge his tenants were being supplied by Stuart Bullen?’
‘That would seem logical. I’d say half the estate knew what was going on — that’s why the local youths didn’t even dare tag the walls.’
‘This Stuart Bullen,’ Mrs Mackenzie said, ‘he’s a man people have reason to fear?’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Mackenzie,’ Storey assured her, ‘Bullen’s in custody.’
‘And he won’t know how busy you’ve been,’ Rebus added, tapping the diagram.
Storey, who had been leaning over the desk, now pushed himself upright. ‘Maybe time for a little chat with Baird.’
Rebus nodded his agreement.
Bob Baird had been escorted by two uniforms to Portobello police station. They’d made the journey on foot, Baird spending most of that time bellowing in outrage at the humiliation of it all.
‘Which just made people notice us all the more,’ one of the constables reported, with a certain amount of contentment.
‘But it does mean he’s likely to be in a foul temper,’ his colleague warned.
Rebus and Storey looked at one another.
‘Good,’ they said in unison.
Baird was pacing what space there was in the cramped interview room. As the two men walked in, he opened his mouth to utter another list of grievances.
‘Shut it,’ Storey spat. ‘The trouble you’re in, I’d advise you to do absolutely nothing in this room but answer any questions we might see fit to put to you. Understood?’
Baird stared at him, then snorted. ‘Bit of advice, pal — ease up on the sun lamp.’
Storey met the smile with one of his own. ‘I take it that’s a reference to the colour of my skin, Mr Baird? I suppose it helps to be a racist in your game.’
‘And what game’s that?’
Storey had reached into his jacket for his ID. ‘I’m an Immigration official, Mr Baird.’
‘Going to do me under Race Relations, are you?’ Baird snorted again, reminding Rebus of a pig that had missed a meal. ‘All for renting flats to your fellow tribesmen?’
Storey turned to Rebus. ‘You told me he’d be entertaining.’
Rebus folded his arms. ‘That’s because he still thinks this is about diddling the council.’
Storey turned back to Baird, allowed his eyes to widen a little. ‘Is that what you think, Mr Baird? Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
‘Is this one of those hidden-camera shows?’ Baird said. ‘Some comedian pops out to let me in on the joke?’
‘No joke,’ Storey said quietly, shaking his head. ‘You let Stuart Bullen use your flats. He stashed his illegal immigrants there, when he wasn’t working them like the slaves they were. I dare say you met his associate a few times — nice guy by the name of Peter Hill. Tasty connections with the Belfast paramilitaries.’ Storey held up two fingers. ‘Slavery and terrorism: now there’s a combination, eh? And that’s before I get to the people-smuggling — all those fake passports and National Health cards we found in Bullen’s possession.’ Storey held up a third finger, close to Baird’s face. ‘So we get to charge you with conspiracy... not just to defraud the local council and the honest, hardworking taxpayer, but smuggling, slavery, identity theft... sky’s the limit really. Nothing Her Majesty’s lawyers like better than a nice, tight-fitting conspiracy, so if I were you I’d try to retain that sense of humour — you’re going to need it in jail.’ Storey dropped his hand. ‘Mind you... ten, twelve years, the joke might have worn a bit thin.’
There was silence in the room; so quiet, Rebus could hear a watch ticking. He reckoned it was Storey’s: probably a nice model, classy without being showy. It would do the job asked of it, and do it with precision.
A bit, Rebus was forced to admit, like its owner.
The colour had disappeared completely from Baird’s face. He looked calm enough on the surface, but Rebus knew strategic damage had been done. His jaw was set, lips pursed in thought. He’d been in situations before; knew his next few decisions might be the most crucial of his life.
Ten, twelve years, Storey had said. No way would Baird serve anything like that, even with guilty verdicts ringing in his ears. But Storey had pitched it just right: if he’d said fifteen to twenty, chances were Baird would have known he was lying and called his bluff. Or would have decided he might as well take the fall, tell them nothing.
A man with nothing to lose.
But ten to twelve... Baird would be doing the calculations. Say Storey was exaggerating for effect, maybe meaning he’d actually get seven to nine. He’d still have to serve four or five, maybe even a little more. Years became all the more precious when you got to Baird’s age. It had been explained to Rebus once: the great cure for repeat offenders was the ageing process. You didn’t want to die in prison, wanted to be around for kids and grandkids, doing things you’d always wanted to do...
All of this Rebus thought he could read in Baird’s deeply lined face.
And then, finally, the man blinked a few times, stared up at the ceiling and sighed.
‘Ask me your questions,’ he said.
So they asked.
‘Let’s be clear on this,’ Rebus said. ‘You were allowing Stuart Bullen to use some of your flats?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did you know what he was doing with them?’
‘I had an inkling.’
‘How did it start?’
‘He came to see me. He already knew I was sub-letting to needy minorities.’ As he uttered these last two words, Baird’s gaze shifted to Felix Storey.
‘How did he know?’
Baird shrugged. ‘Maybe Peter Hill told him. Hill was hanging around Knoxland, wheeling and dealing — mostly the latter. Chances are, he’d started hearing things.’
‘And you were ready to oblige?’
Baird smiled sourly. ‘I knew Stu’s old man. I’d already met Stu a few times — funerals and what have you. He’s not the sort of fellow you want to say no to.’ Baird lifted the mug to his lips, smacked them afterwards as if savouring the taste. Rebus had made tea for all three of them, poaching from the station’s tiny kitchenette. Only two tea bags remaining in the box: he’d squeezed the life out of them and into three mugs.
‘How well did you know Rab Bullen?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not that well. I was a bit of a wheeler-dealer myself back then. Thought Glasgow might have something to offer... Rab soon put me right. He was pleasant enough — like any other businessman. He just explained the way the city was carved up, and that there was no room for a new boy.’ Baird paused. ‘Shouldn’t you be taping this or something?’
Storey leaned forward in his chair, hands pressed together. ‘This is by way of a preliminary interview.’
‘Meaning there’ll be others?’
Storey nodded slowly. ‘And those will be recorded, videotaped. For now, you might say we’re feeling our way.’
‘Fair enough.’
Rebus had taken out a fresh pack of cigarettes and was offering it round. Storey shook his head, but Baird accepted. There were No Smoking signs on three of the four walls. Baird blew smoke towards one of them.
‘We all break a few rules from time to time, eh?’
Rebus ignored this, asked a question of his own instead. ‘Did you know that Stuart Bullen was part of a people-smuggling operation?’
Baird shook his head emphatically.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ Storey said.
‘Doesn’t alter the truth.’
‘Then where exactly did you think all these immigrants were coming from?’
Baird shrugged. ‘Refugees... asylum-seekers... it wasn’t really my business to ask.’