‘Well?’ Siobhan asked.
‘A pawn shop on Queen Street.’
She looked puzzled, even more so when he smiled.
‘Bloody Drugs Squad,’ he told her. ‘Pawned the stuff for the price of that bloody torch.’ Despite himself, he laughed, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. ‘Go fetch the corkscrew, will you? It’s in the kitchen drawer...’
He picked up the scrap of paper and fell into his chair, staring at it, the laughter subsiding by degrees. And then Siobhan was standing in the doorway, holding another note.
‘Not the corkscrew?’ he said, face dropping.
‘The corkscrew,’ she confirmed.
‘Now that’s vicious. That’s more than flesh and blood can stand!’
‘Maybe you could borrow one from the neighbours?’
‘I don’t know any of the neighbours.’
‘Then this is your chance to get acquainted. It’s either that or no booze.’ Siobhan shrugged. ‘Your decision.’
‘Not to be taken lightly,’ Rebus drawled. ‘You better sit yourself down... this might take a while.’
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Senay Boztas and all the other journalists who helped me research the issues of asylum-seekers and immigration, and to Robina Qureshi of Positive Action In Housing (PAIH) for information on the plight of asylum-seekers in Glasgow and in the Dungavel detention centre.
The village of Banehall doesn’t exist, so please don’t pore over maps looking for it. Nor will you find a detention centre called Whitemire in any part of West Lothian, or an estate called Knoxland on the western outskirts of Edinburgh. In fact, I stole my fictitious estate from my friend, the writer Brian McCabe. He once wrote a brilliant short story called ‘Knoxland’.