The boy translated some of this for his father. The father stared at Rebus and shook his head.
‘Tell your dad,’ Rebus told the boy, ‘that a visit from the Immigration Service can be arranged, if he’d rather talk to them.’
The boy’s eyes widened in fear. The translation this time took longer. The man looked at Rebus again, this time with a kind of sad resignation, as if he were used to being kicked around by authority, but had been hoping for some respite. He muttered something, and the boy padded back down the hall. He returned with a folded piece of paper.
‘He comes for money. If we have problem, we this...’
Rebus unfolded the note. A mobile phone number and a name: Gareth. Rebus showed the note to Mackenzie.
‘Gareth Baird is one of the names on the list,’ she said.
‘Can’t be that many of them in Edinburgh. Chances are it’s the same one.’ Rebus took the note back, wondering what effect a phone call would have. He saw that the man was trying to offer him something: a handful of cash.
‘Is he trying to bribe us?’ Rebus asked the boy. The son shook his head.
‘He does not understand.’ He spoke to his father again. The man mumbled something, then stared at Rebus, and immediately Rebus thought of what Mackenzie had said in the car. It was true: the eyes were eloquent of pain.
‘This day,’ the boy told Rebus. ‘Money... this day.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Gareth is coming here today to collect the rent?’
The son checked with his father and then nodded.
‘What time?’ Rebus asked.
Another discussion. ‘Maybe now... soon,’ the boy translated. Rebus turned to Mackenzie. ‘I can call a car to take you back to your office.’
‘You’re going to wait for him?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘If he’s abusing his tenancy, I should be here, too.’
‘Could be a long wait... I’ll keep you in the picture. The alternative is hanging around with me all day.’ He shrugged, telling her it was her choice.
‘You’ll phone me?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Meantime, you could be following up some of those other addresses.’
She saw the sense in this. ‘All right,’ she said.
Rebus took out his mobile. ‘I’ll send for a patrol car.’
‘What if that scares him off?’
‘Good point... a taxi then.’ He made the call, and she headed back downstairs, leaving Rebus facing father and son.
‘I’m going to wait for Gareth,’ he told them. Then he peered down their hall. ‘Mind if I come in?’
‘You are welcome,’ the boy said. Rebus walked inside.
The flat needed decorating. Towels and strips of material had been pressed to the gaps in the window frames to minimise draughts. But there was furniture, and the place was tidy. One narrow element of the living room’s gas fire was lit.
‘Coffee?’ the boy asked.
‘Please,’ Rebus answered. He gestured towards the sofa, requesting permission to sit. The father nodded, and Rebus sat down. Then he got up again to study the photographs on the mantelpiece. Three or four generations of the same family. Rebus turned to the father, smiling and nodding. The man’s face softened a little. There wasn’t much else in the room to attract Rebus’s attention: no ornaments or books, no TV or stereo. There was a small portable radio on the floor by the father’s chair. It was shrouded in sellotape, presumably to stop it falling apart. Rebus couldn’t see an ashtray, so kept his cigarettes in his pocket. When the boy returned from the kitchen, Rebus accepted the tiny cup from him. There was no offer of milk. The drink was thick and black, and when Rebus took his first sip, he couldn’t decide whether the jolt it gave him was caffeine or sugar. He nodded to let his hosts know it was good. They were staring at him as if he were an exhibit. He decided he would ask for the boy’s name, and some of the family’s history. But then his mobile rang. He muttered something resembling an apology as he answered it.
It was Siobhan.
‘Anything earth-shattering to report?’ she asked into her phone. She was sitting in some sort of waiting room. She hadn’t expected to be able to see the doctors right away, but had anticipated an office or anteroom. Here, she was in with outpatients and visitors, noisy toddlers, and staff who ignored all outsiders as they purchased snacks from the two vending machines. Siobhan had spent a lot of time examining the contents of those machines. One boasted a limited range of sandwiches — triangles of thin white bread with mixtures of lettuce, tomato, tuna, ham and cheese. The other was more popular: crisps and chocolate. There was a drinks machine, too, but it bore the legend ‘Out of Order’.
Once the lure of the machines had worn off, she’d perused the reading material on the coffee table — out-of-date women’s mags with the pages just about hanging together, except where photos and offers had been torn out. There were a couple of kids’ comics, too, but she was saving those for later. Instead, she’d started tidying up her phone, deleting unwanted text messages and call records. Then she’d texted a couple of friends. And finally she’d crumbled altogether and called Rebus.
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ was all he said. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Hanging around the Infirmary. You?’
‘Hanging about in Leith.’
‘Anyone would think we didn’t like Gayfield.’
‘But we know they’re wrong, don’t we?’
She smiled at this. Another kid had come in, barely old enough to push open the door. He stood on tiptoe to feed coins into the chocolate machine, but then couldn’t decide. He pressed nose and hands to the glass display, mesmerised.
‘We still meeting up later on?’ Siobhan asked.
‘If not, I’ll let you know.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re expecting a better offer.’
‘You never can tell. Did you see Steve Holly’s rag this morning?’
‘I only read grown-up newspapers. Did he print the photograph?’
‘He did... and then he went to town on asylum-seekers.’
‘Oh, hell.’
‘So if any other poor sod ends up in the deep-freeze, we’ll know who to blame.’
The waiting-room door was opening again. Siobhan thought it might be the child’s mum, but instead it was the woman from the reception desk. She motioned for Siobhan to follow her.
‘John, we’re going to have to talk later.’
‘You were the one who phoned me, remember?’
‘Sorry, but it looks like I’m wanted.’
‘And suddenly I’m not? Cheers, Siobhan.’
‘I’ll see you this afternoon...’
But Rebus had already hung up. Siobhan followed the receptionist down first one corridor and then another, the woman walking briskly, so that there was no possibility of conversation between them. Finally she pointed to a door. Siobhan nodded her thanks, knocked and entered.
It was some sort of office: rows of shelves, a desk and computer. One white-coated doctor sat swivelling on the only chair. The other rested against the desk, arms stretched above his head. Both were good-looking and knew it.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke,’ Siobhan said, shaking the first one’s hand.
‘Alf McAteer,’ he told her, his fingers brushing over hers. He turned to his colleague, who was rising from the chair. ‘Isn’t it a sign that you’re getting old?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘When the police officers start getting more ravishing.’
The other one was grinning. He squeezed Siobhan’s hand. ‘I’m Alexis Cater. Don’t worry about him, the Viagra’s almost run its course.’
‘Has it?’ McAteer sounded horrified. ‘Time for another prescription then.’
‘Look,’ Cater was telling Siobhan, ‘if it’s about that child porn on Alf’s computer...’