‘You’ve no way of calling him back?’
‘No.’
Rebus glanced over his shoulder at the glowering figure of the Immigration man. ‘He’s hardly real at all, is he, Felix?’
‘Real enough,’ Storey growled. ‘Else we wouldn’t be here.’
Rebus just shrugged.
‘We’ve got him,’ Les Young told Siobhan as she walked into Banehall Library. Roy Brinkley was on the desk, and she’d smiled at him as she passed. The murder room was buzzing, and now she knew why.
They’d caught Spider Man.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘You know I sent Maxton to Barlinnie to ask about any friends Cruikshank might have made? Well, the name Mark Saunders came up.’
‘Spider’s-web tattoo?’
Young nodded. ‘Served three years of a five for indecent assault. He got out the month before Cruikshank. Moved back to his home town.’
‘Not Banehall?’
Young shook his head. ‘Bo’ness. It’s only ten miles north.’
‘Is that where you found him?’ She watched Young nod again. She couldn’t help being reminded of the toy dogs she used to see on the back shelves of cars. ‘And he’s confessed to Cruikshank’s murder?’
The nodding came to an abrupt halt.
‘I suppose that was asking too much,’ she admitted.
‘The thing is, though,’ Young argued, ‘he didn’t come forward when the story broke.’
‘Meaning he has something to hide? Couldn’t be he just thinks we’d try fitting him up for it...’
Now Young frowned. ‘That’s pretty much exactly the excuse he gave.’
‘You’ve talked to him then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask him about the flick?’
‘What about it?’
‘Why he made it.’
Young folded his arms. ‘He has this idea he’s going to be some kind of porn baron, selling over the internet.’
‘He obviously did a lot of thinking in the Bar-L.’
‘That’s where he studied computers, Web design...’
‘Nice to see we’re offering such useful skills to our sex offenders.’
Young’s shoulders slumped a little. ‘You don’t think he did it?’
‘Give me a motive and ask me again.’
‘Guys like that... they fall out all the time.’
‘I fall out with my mum every time I talk to her on the phone — I don’t think I’m going to go for her with a hammer...’
Young noticed the look which suddenly came to her face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘Where’s Saunders being held?’
‘Livingston. I’ve got another session with him in an hour or so, if you fancy sitting in...’
But Siobhan was shaking her head. ‘Few things I need to do.’
Young was studying his shoes. ‘Maybe we can hook up later then?’
‘Maybe,’ she allowed.
He made to move off, but seemed to think of something. ‘We’re interviewing the Jardines, too.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped, Siobhan.’
‘I know — you’re doing your job. But go easy on them.’
‘Don’t worry, my strongarm days are behind me.’ He seemed pleased by the smile he received. ‘And those names you gave us — Tracy Jardine’s friends — we’re finally getting round to them, too.’
Meaning Susie...
Angie...
Janet Eylot...
Janine Harrison...
‘You think there’s a cover-up?’ she asked.
‘Let’s just say Banehall’s not exactly been cooperative.’
‘They’re letting us use their library.’
It was Les Young’s turn to smile. ‘That’s true.’
‘Funny,’ Siobhan said, ‘Donny Cruikshank died in a town full of enemies, and the one person we’ve zoned in on is just about the only friend he had.’
Young shrugged. ‘You’ve seen it yourself, Siobhan — when friends fall out, it can be uglier than any vendetta.’
‘That’s true,’ she said quietly, nodding to herself.
Les Young was playing with his watch. ‘Got to get going,’ he told her.
‘Me too, Les. Good luck with Spider Man. I hope he spills his guts.’
He was standing in front of her. ‘But you wouldn’t bank on it?’
She smiled again and shook her head. ‘Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.’
Mollified, he gave her a wink and headed for the door. She waited until she heard a car starting outside, then headed for the reception desk, where Roy Brinkley was sitting at his computer screen, checking a title’s availability for one of his customers. The woman was tiny and frail-looking, hands gripping her walking-frame, head twitching slightly. She turned towards Siobhan and gave a beaming smile.
‘Cop Hater,’ Brinkley was saying, ‘that’s the one you want, Mrs Shields. I can order it by inter-library loan.’
Mrs Shields nodded that this was satisfactory. She started shuffling away.
‘I’ll give you a bell when it comes in,’ Brinkley called after her. Then, to Siobhan: ‘One of my regulars.’
‘And she hates cops?’
‘It’s Ed McBain — Mrs Shields likes the hard-boiled stuff.’ He finished typing in the request, adding a flourish to his final keystroke. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ he asked, standing up.
‘I’ve noticed you keep newspapers,’ Siobhan said, nodding towards the circular table where four pensioners were swapping tabloid sections between them.
‘We get most of the dailies, plus some magazines.’
‘And when you’re finished with them?’
‘We chuck them.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘Some of the bigger libraries have room to keep them.’
‘But not you?’
He shook his head. ‘Something you were looking for?’
‘An Evening News from last week.’
‘Then you’re in luck,’ he said, emerging from behind his desk. ‘Follow me.’
He led her to a locked door. The sign said ‘Staff Only’. Brinkley punched numbers into the keypad and pushed the door open. It led to a small staff room with kitchen sink, kettle and microwave. Another door led to a toilet cubicle, but Brinkley went to the door next to it, turning the handle.
‘Storage,’ he said.
It was a place where old books went to die — shelves of them, some missing their covers or with loose pages seeping from within.
‘Every now and again we try to flog them off,’ he explained. ‘If that doesn’t work, there are charity shops. But then there are some that even the charities don’t want.’ He opened one to show Siobhan that the last few pages had been torn out. ‘Those we recycle, along with old magazines and papers.’ He tapped his shoe against a bulging carrier-bag. There were others next to it, filled with newsprint. ‘As luck would have it, our recycling run’s tomorrow.’
‘You’re sure “luck” is the right word?’ Siobhan said sceptically. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea which of these bags might hold last week’s papers?’
‘You’re the detective.’ The faint sound of a buzzer came from outside: a customer was waiting at Brinkley’s desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said with a smile.
‘Thanks.’ Siobhan stood there, hands on hips, and took a deep breath. The air was musty, and she considered her alternatives. There were a few, but they all involved a drive back into Edinburgh, after which she’d just have to come back out to Banehall.
Decided, she crouched down and pulled a paper from the first bag, checking the date. Kept it out and tried another from further back. Kept that one out, too, and tried another. Same procedure with the second and third bags. In the third, she found papers from a fortnight back, so she cleared a space and pulled out the whole lot, sifting through them. She usually took an Evening News home with her at night, sometimes flicking through it over the next morning’s breakfast. It was a good way to find out what the councillors and politicians were up to. But now the recent headlines seemed stale to her. Most of them she couldn’t recall from first time around. Finally she found what she was looking for and tore the entire page out, folding it and sliding it into her pocket. The papers wouldn’t all fit back in the bag, but she did her best. Then stopped at the sink for a mug of cold water. Making to leave, she gave Brinkley the thumbs-up, and headed to her car.