‘The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!’
Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenalin had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard, she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard... She glanced at the glovebox. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.
‘What’s up, John?’ she asked.
‘Siobhan? What’s up with you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.’
‘Just dashed back to the car.’ She looked out at the pale blue sky. ‘It’s raining here.’
‘Raining? Where the hell are you?’
‘Banehall.’
‘And where’s that when it’s at home?’
‘West Lothian, just off the motorway before you get to Whitburn.’
‘I know it — pub called The Bane?’
Despite herself, she smiled. ‘That’s the place,’ she said.
‘What takes you out there?’
‘It’s a long story. What are you up to?’
‘Nothing that can’t be shoved to one side if a long story’s on offer. Are you heading back to town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll practically be passing Knoxland.’
‘And that’s where I’ll find you?’
‘You can’t miss me — we’ve got the wagons circled to keep the natives at bay.’
Siobhan saw that the door to the pub was opening from within, Donny Cruikshank throwing curses back into the place. A two-fingered salute followed by a volley of saliva. Looked like Malky had had enough of him. Siobhan turned the ignition.
‘I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.’
‘Bring ammunition, will you? Forty Bensons Gold.’
‘I draw the line at cigarettes, John.’
‘The last request of a dying man, Shiv,’ Rebus pleaded.
Watching the mix of anger and despair on Donny Cruikshank’s face, Siobhan couldn’t help breaking into a smile.
4
Rebus’s ‘circled wagons’ actually consisted of a single-roomed Portakabin, placed in the car park next to the nearest tower block. It was dark green on the outside, with a grille protecting the only window and a reinforced door. When he’d parked his car, the ubiquitous draggle of kids had asked for money to look after it. He’d pointed a finger at them.
‘A sparrow so much as farts on my windscreen, you’ll be licking it off.’
He stood in the doorway of the Portakabin now, smoking a cigarette. Ellen Wylie was typing on a laptop. It had to be a laptop, so they could unplug it at day’s end and take it with them. It was either that or post a night-time guard on the door. No way of hooking up a phone line, so they were using mobiles. DC Charlie Reynolds, known behind his back as ‘Rat-Arse’, was approaching from one of the high-rises. He was in his late forties, almost as broad as he was tall. He’d played rugby at one time, including a stint at national level with the police team. As a result, his face was a mangle of botched repairs, rips and nicks. The haircut wouldn’t have looked out of place on a street urchin circa the 1920s. Reynolds had a reputation as a wind-up merchant, but he wasn’t smiling now.
‘Bloody waste of time,’ he snarled.
‘Nobody’s talking?’ Rebus guessed.
‘It’s the ones that are talking, they’re the problem.’
‘How so?’ Rebus decided to offer Reynolds a cigarette, which the big man accepted without thanks.
‘Don’t speak bloody English, do they? Fifty-seven bloody varieties up there.’ He gestured towards the tower block. ‘And the smell... Christ knows what they’re cooking, but I’ve not noticed many cats in the vicinity.’ Reynolds saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Don’t get me wrong, John, I’m not a racist. But you do have to wonder...’
‘About what?’
‘The whole asylum thing. I mean, say you had to leave Scotland, right? You were being tortured or something... You’d make for the nearest safe country, right, ’cos you wouldn’t want to be too far from the old homeland. But this lot...’ He stared up at the tower block, then shook his head. ‘You take my point though, eh?’
‘I suppose I do, Charlie.’
‘Half of them can’t even be arsed to learn the language... just pick up their cash from the government, thank you very much.’ Reynolds concentrated on his cigarette. He smoked with some violence, teeth clamping the filter, mouth drawing hard. ‘Least you can sod off back to Gayfield whenever you like; some of us are stuck out here for the duration.’
‘Wait till I go and get my violin, Charlie,’ Rebus said. Another car was drawing up alongside: Shug Davidson. He’d been to a meeting to fix the budget for the inquiry, and didn’t look thrilled with the result.
‘No interpreters?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Oh, we can have all the interpreters we want,’ Davidson responded. ‘Thing is, we can’t pay them. Our esteemed Assistant Chief Constable says we should ask around, maybe see if the council could provide one or two free of charge.’
‘Along with everything else,’ Reynolds muttered.
‘What’s that?’ Davidson snapped.
‘Nothing, Shug, nothing.’ Reynolds stamped on the remains of his cigarette as if rucking for a ball.
‘Charlie reckons the locals rely a touch too much on handouts,’ Rebus explained.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I can mind-read sometimes. Runs in the family, passed down from father to son. My grandad probably gave it to my dad...’ Rebus stubbed out his own cigarette. ‘He was Polish, by the way, my grandad. We’re a bastard nation, Charlie — get used to it.’ Rebus walked over to greet another arrivaclass="underline" Siobhan Clarke. She spent a few moments studying her surroundings.
‘Concrete was such an attractive option in the sixties,’ she commented. ‘And as for the murals...’
Rebus had ceased to notice them: WOGS OUT... PAKIS sneaking a ‘d’ into ‘power’ to make ‘powder’. Rebus wondered how strong a hold the drug-dealers had around here. Maybe another reason for the general disaffection: immigrants probably couldn’t afford drugs, even supposing they wanted them. SCOTLAND FOR THE SCOTS... A venerable piece of graffiti had been altered from JUNKIE SCUM to BLACK SCUM.
‘This looks cosy,’ Siobhan said. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
‘Did you bring your invitation?’
She held out the packs of cigarettes. Rebus kissed them and slipped them into his pocket. Davidson and Reynolds had disappeared inside the cabin.
‘You going to tell me that story?’ he asked.
‘You going to give me the tour?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Why not?’ They started walking. There were four main tower blocks in Knoxland, each one eight storeys high, and sited as if at the corners of a square, looking down on to the central, devastated play area. There were open walkways on each level, and every flat had a balcony with a view of the dual carriageway.
‘Plenty of satellite dishes,’ Siobhan observed. Rebus nodded. He’d wondered about these dishes, about the versions of the world they transmitted into each living room and life. Daytimes, the ads would be for accident compensation; at night, they’d be for alcohol. A generation growing up in the belief that life could be controlled by a TV remote.
There were kids circling them now on their bikes. Others were congregating against a wall, sharing a cigarette and something in a lemonade bottle that didn’t look like lemonade. They wore baseball caps and trainers, a fashion beamed down to them from another culture.