Baird considered this. ‘So, how much is this going to cost me?’
‘The answers to a few questions. One of your tenants got himself killed the other day.’
‘I tell them to keep themselves to themselves,’ Baird started to argue, ready to defend himself against any implication that he was an uncaring landlord. Rebus was standing by the window, staring down at the beach and promenade. An old couple walked past, hand in hand. It annoyed him that they might be subsidising the schemes of a shark like Baird. Or maybe their grandkids were languishing on a waiting list for a council flat.
‘Very public-spirited of you, I’m sure,’ Rebus said. ‘What I need to know is his name and where he came from.’
Baird snorted. ‘I don’t ask where they come from — made that mistake once and got my ear bent for my sins. Thing that concerns me is, they all need roofs over their heads. And if the council won’t or can’t help... well, I will.’
‘For a price.’
‘A fair price.’
‘Yes, you’re all heart. So you never knew his name?’
‘Used the first name Jim.’
‘Jim? Was that his idea or yours?’
‘Mine.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Customers have a way of finding me. Word of mouth, you could call it. Wouldn’t happen if they didn’t like what they were getting.’
‘They’re getting council flats... and paying you over the odds for the privilege.’ Rebus waited in vain for Baird to say something; knew what the man’s eyes were telling him — Got that off your chest? ‘And you’ve no idea of his nationality? Where he was from? How he got here...?’ Baird was shaking his head.
‘Gareth, go fetch us a beer out the fridge.’ Gareth was quick to comply. Rebus wasn’t fooled by the plural ‘us’ — he knew there’d be no drink forthcoming for him.
‘So how can you communicate with all these people if you don’t know their language?’
‘There are ways. A few signs and bits of miming...’ Gareth came back with a single can, which he handed to his father. ‘Gareth did French at school, I reckoned that might be useful to us.’ His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, and Rebus assumed that once again Gareth had fallen short of expectations.
‘Jim didn’t need to mime though,’ the boy added, keen to contribute something to the conversation. ‘He spoke a bit of English. Not as good as his pal, mind...’ His father glared at him, but Rebus stepped between them.
‘What pal?’ he asked Gareth.
‘Just some woman... about my age.’
‘They were living together?’
‘Jim lived on his own. I got the feeling she was just someone he knew.’
‘From the estate?’
‘I suppose...’
But now Baird was on his feet. ‘Look, you’ve got what you came for.’
‘Have I?’
‘Okay, I’ll put it another way — you’ve got all you’re getting.’
‘That’s for me to decide, Mr Baird.’ Then to the son: ‘What did she look like, Gareth?’
But Gareth had taken the hint. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘What? Not even her skin colour? You seemed to remember how old she was.’
‘Lot darker-skinned than Jim... that’s all I know.’
‘She spoke English though?’
Gareth tried looking to his father for guidance, but Rebus was doing his best to block his eye-line.
‘She spoke English and she was a friend of Jim’s,’ Rebus persisted. ‘And she lived on the estate... Just give me a bit more.’
‘That’s everything.’
Baird stepped past Rebus and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘You’ve got the boy all confused,’ he complained. ‘If he remembers anything else, he’ll let you know.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Rebus said.
‘And you meant what you said about leaving us be?’
‘Every word of it, Mr Baird... Of course, the Housing Department may have their own feelings on the matter.’
Baird’s face twisted into a sneer.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ Rebus said.
On the promenade, there was a stiff breeze blowing. It took him four attempts to get his cigarette lit. He stood there for a while, staring up at the drawing-room window, then remembered that he’d missed lunch. There were plenty of pubs on the High Street, so he left his car where it was and took a short stroll to the nearest one. Called Mrs Mackenzie and told her about Baird, ending the call as he pushed open the pub door. Ordered a half of IPA to wash down the chicken salad roll. Earlier, they’d been serving soup and stovies, and the aroma lingered. One of the regulars asked the barman to find the horse-racing channel. Flipping the TV remote through a dozen stations, he passed on one that made Rebus stop chewing.
‘Go back,’ he ordered, debris flying from his mouth.
‘Which one?’
‘Whoah, right there.’ It was a local news programme, an outside broadcast of a demo in what was recognisably Knoxland. Hastily contrived banners and placards:
NEGLECTED
WE CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS
LOCALS NEED HELP TOO...
The reporter was interviewing the couple from the flat next to the victim. Rebus caught the odd word and phrase: council has a responsibility... feelings ignored... dumping ground... no consultation... It was almost as if they’d been briefed on which buzz-words to use. The reporter turned to a well-dressed Asian-looking man wearing silver-rimmed spectacles. His name appeared onscreen as Mohammad Dirwan. He was from something called the Glasgow New Citizens Collective.
‘Load of nutters over there,’ the barman commented.
‘They can shove as many into Knoxland as they like,’ a regular agreed. Rebus turned to him.
‘As many what?’
The man shrugged. ‘Call them what you like — refugees or con artists. Whatever they are, I know damned fine who ends up paying for them.’
‘Right enough, Matty,’ the barman said. Then, to Rebus: ‘Seen enough?’
‘More than enough,’ Rebus said, leaving the rest of his drink untouched as he headed for the door.
8
Knoxland hadn’t calmed much by the time Rebus arrived. Press photographers were busy comparing shots, huddled around the screens of their digital cameras. A radio reporter was interviewing Ellen Wylie. Rat-Arse Reynolds was shaking his head as he walked across waste ground to his car.
‘What’s up, Charlie?’ Rebus asked.
‘Might clear the air a bit if we left them to get on with it,’ Reynolds growled, slamming his car door shut on the world and picking up an already open packet of crisps.
There was a scrum beside the Portakabin. Rebus recognised faces from the TV pictures: the placards were already showing signs of wear and tear. Fingers were being pointed as an argument continued between the locals and Mohammad Dirwan. Close up, Dirwan looked to Rebus like a lawyer: new-looking black woollen coat, polished shoes, silver moustache. He was gesturing with his hands, voice rising to compete against the noise. Rebus peered through the mesh grille covering the Portakabin’s window. As suspected, there was no one home. He looked around, eventually took the walkway to the other side of the tower block. He remembered the little bunch of flowers at the murder scene. They’d been scattered now, trampled on. Maybe Jim’s friend had left them...
A transit van sat on its own in a cordoned zone which normally would have provided parking for residents. There was no one in the front, but Rebus banged on the back doors. The windows were blackened, but he knew he could be seen from within. The door opened and he climbed in.
‘Welcome to the toy box,’ Shug Davidson said, sitting down again next to the camera operator. The back of the van had been filled with recording and monitoring equipment. Any civil disorder in the city, police liked to keep a record. Useful for identifying the troublemakers, and for compiling a case if necessary. From the video screen, it looked to Rebus as though someone had been filming from a second- or third-floor landing. Shots zoomed in and out, blurred close-ups suddenly coming into focus.