“The revolution starts here!” one of them yelled. “Up against the wall, wankers!”
“Pathetic,” Siobhan’s mother said.
But now there were objects sailing through the darkening sky.
“Get down,” Siobhan warned, all but pushing her mother into the tent, unsure what protection it would offer from the volley of rocks and bottles. Her father had taken a couple of steps toward the trouble, but she hauled him back, too. Santal was standing her ground, pointing her camera toward the melee.
“You’re just a bunch of tourists!” one of the locals was yelling. “Piss off home on the rickshaws that brought you here!”
Raucous laughter; jeers and gestures. If the campers wouldn’t come outside, they wanted the guards. But the guards weren’t that stupid. Instead, Siobhan’s friend was on his radio for reinforcements. Situation like this, it could die down in moments or flare into all-out war. The guard found her standing by his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure you’re insured…”
It took her a second to get his meaning. “My car!” she shouted, heading for the gate. Had to elbow her way past two more guards. Ran out onto the road. Her hood was dented and scratched, back window fractured, NYT sprayed on one door.
Niddrie Young Team.
They stood there in a line, laughing at her. One of them held up his camera phone to get a picture.
“Take all the photos you want,” she told him. “Makes you even easier to trace.”
“Fuckin’ police!” another of them spat. He was in the center, a lieutenant behind either shoulder.
The leader.
“Police is right,” she said. “Ten minutes in Craigmillar cop-shop and I’ll know more about you than your own mother.” She was pointing for emphasis, but all he did was sneer. Only a third of his face was visible, but she would file it away. A car was drawing up, three men inside. Siobhan recognized the one in the back: local councilman.
“Away you go!” he was yelling as he emerged, waving both arms as if putting sheep back in a pen. The gang’s leader pretended to tremble but could see that his fellow soldiers were wavering. Half a dozen of the security had come from behind the fence, the bearded guard at their head. Sirens in the distance, growing closer.
“Go on, bugger off with you!” the councilman persisted.
“Camp full of lezzies and fags,” the gang’s leader snarled in reply. “And who’s paying for it, eh?”
“I very much doubt you are, son,” the councilman said. The other two men from the car were flanking him now. They were big men, probably hadn’t backed down from a fight in their lives. Just the sort of pollsters a Niddrie politician would need.
The gang leader spat on the ground, then turned and walked off.
“Thanks for that,” Siobhan said, holding out a hand for the councilman to shake.
“Not a problem,” he replied, seeming to dismiss the whole incident, Siobhan included, from his mind. He was shaking the bearded guard’s hand now, the two obviously known to each other.
“Quiet night otherwise?” the councilman asked. The guard chuckled a response.
“Was there something we could do for you, Mr. Tench?”
Councilman Tench looked around him. “Just thought I’d drop by, let all these lovely people know that my district stands firmly behind them in the fight to end poverty and injustice in the world.” He had an audience now, fifty or so campers standing just on the other side of the fence. “We know something about both in this part of Edinburgh,” he bellowed, “but that doesn’t mean we’ve no time for those worse off than us. Bighearted, I like to think we are.” He saw that Siobhan was examining the damage to her car. “Few wild ones in our midst, naturally, but then what community hasn’t?” Smiling, Tench opened his arms again, this time like a brimstone preacher.
“Welcome to Niddrie!” he told his congregation. “Welcome, one and all.”
Rebus was alone in the CID suite. It had taken him half an hour to find the notes for the murder inquiry: four boxes and a series of folders, floppy disks, and a single CD-ROM. He’d left these latter items on their shelf in the storeroom and now had some of the paperwork spread out in front of him. He’d made use of the half dozen desks available, pushing in-boxes and computer keyboards aside. By walking through the room, he could shift between the different stages of the inquiry: crime scene to initial interviews; victim profile to further interviews; prison record; connection with Cafferty; autopsy and toxicology reports…The phone in the DI’s little booth had rung a few times, but Rebus had ignored it. He wasn’t the senior DI here; Derek Starr was. And the smarmy little bastard was out on the town somewhere, it being a Friday night. Rebus knew Starr’s routine because Starr himself shared it with all and sundry each Monday morning: couple of drinks at the Hallion Club, then maybe home for a shower and change of clothes before coming back into town; back to the Hallion if it was lively, but always heading to George Street afterward-Opal Lounge, Candy Bar, Living Room. Nightcap at Indigo Yard if he hadn’t gotten lucky before then. There was a new jazz place opening on Queen Street, owned by Jools Holland. Starr had already made inquiries about membership.
The phone rang again; Rebus ignored it. If it was urgent, they’d try Starr’s cell. If it was being transferred from the front desk…well, they knew Rebus was up here. He’d wait till they tried his extension rather than Starr’s. Could be they were winding him up, hoping he’d answer so they could apologize and say it was DI Starr they were after. Rebus knew his place in the food chain: somewhere down among the plankton, the price for years of insubordination and reckless conduct. Never mind that there’d been results along the way, too: far as the bigwigs were concerned, these days it was all about how you got the result, about efficiency and accountability, public perceptions, strict rules and protocols.
Rebus’s translation: covering your own ass.
He stopped by a folder of photographs. Some he had already removed and spread out across the surface of the desk. But now he sifted through the others. Cyril Colliar’s public history: newspaper clippings, Polaroids offered by family and friends, the official photos from his arrest and trial. Someone had even snapped a grainy shot of him during his time in prison, reclining on his bed, arms behind his head as he watched TV. It had made the front page of the tabloids: “Could Life Be Any Cushier for Rape Beast?”
Not any longer.
Next desk: details of the rape victim’s family. Name kept secret from the public. She was Victoria Jensen, eighteen at the time of the attack. Vicky to those closest to her. Followed from a nightclub…followed as she walked with two pals to the bus stop. Night bus: Colliar had found himself a seat a couple of rows behind the three. Vicky got off the bus alone. Not much more than five hundred yards from home when he’d struck, hand over her mouth, hauling her into an alley…
Surveillance videos showed him leaving the club straight after her. Showed him boarding the bus and taking his seat. DNA from the attack sealed his fate. Some of his associates had attended the trial, made threats toward the victim’s family. No charges brought.
Vicky’s father was a vet; his wife worked for Standard Life. Rebus himself had delivered the news of Cyril Colliar’s demise to the family home in Leith.
“Thanks for telling us,” the father had said. “I’ll break it to Vicky.”
“You don’t understand, sir,” Rebus had responded, “there are questions I need to ask you…”
Did you do it?
Hire someone to do it for you?
Know anyone who might’ve been compelled?