Mangold’s eyes were on her. ‘Who told you I owned one?’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m a detective, Mr Mangold.’ She was walking around the car.
‘You won’t find anything,’ he snapped.
‘What is it you think I’m looking for?’ He was right, of course: she was taking in every inch of the interior.
‘Christ knows... more bloody skeletons maybe.’
‘This isn’t about skeletons, Mr Mangold.’
‘No?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s Ishbel I’m wondering about.’ She stopped in front of him. ‘I’m wondering what you’ve done with her.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘How did you get those bruises?’
‘I’ve already told you...’
‘Any witnesses? As far as I recall, when I asked your barman he said he wasn’t involved. Maybe an hour or two in an interview room would help him tell the truth.’
‘Look...’
‘No, you look!’ She’d straightened her back so that she was barely an inch shorter than him. The doors were still a few feet ajar, a passer-by pausing for a moment to take in the argument. Siobhan ignored him. ‘You knew Ishbel from the Albatross,’ she told Mangold. ‘You started seeing her, picked her up a few times from work. I’ve got a witness who saw you. I dare say if I go showing photos of you and your car around Banehall, a few more memories would be jogged. Now Ishbel’s gone missing, and you’ve got bruises on your face.’
‘You think I’ve done something to her?’ He’d reached for the doors, was about to pull them shut. But Siobhan couldn’t have that. She kicked one of them, so it swung wide open. A tour bus was rumbling past, the passengers staring. Siobhan gave them a wave and turned to Mangold.
‘Plenty of witnesses,’ she warned him.
His eyes widened further. ‘Christ... look...’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I haven’t done anything to Ishbel!’
‘So prove it.’ Siobhan folded her arms. ‘Tell me what’s happened to her.’
‘Nothing’s happened to her!’
‘You know where she is?’
Mangold looked at her, lips clamped shut, jaw moving from side to side. When he finally spoke, it was like an explosion.
‘Yes, all right, I know where she is.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘She’s fine... she’s alive and well.’
‘And not answering her mobile.’
‘Because it would only be her mum and dad.’ Now that he’d spoken, it was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He leaned back against the Jaguar’s front wheel-arch. ‘They’re the reason she left in the first place.’
‘So prove it — show me where she is.’
He looked at his watch. ‘She’s probably on a train.’
‘A train?’
‘Coming back to Edinburgh. She’s been shopping in Newcastle.’
‘Newcastle?’
‘Better shops, apparently, and more of them.’
‘What time are you expecting her?’
He shook his head. ‘Some time this afternoon. I don’t know what time the trains get in.’
Siobhan stared at him. ‘No, but I do.’ She took her phone out and called Gayfield CID. Phyllida Hawes answered. ‘Phyl, it’s Siobhan. Is Col there? Put him on, will you?’ She waited a moment, her gaze still on Mangold. Then: ‘Col? It’s Siobhan. Listen, you’re the man with the plan... What time do the trains from Newcastle arrive...?’
Rebus sat in the CID office at Torphichen and stared once more at the sheets of paper on the desk in front of him.
They represented a thorough job. The names from the roster in Peter Hill’s car had been checked against those arrested on the beach at Cramond, then cross-checked against the residents of the flats on the third floor of Stevenson House. The office itself was quiet. With the interviews finished, vans had headed off towards Whitemire, bearing a cargo of fresh inmates. As far as Rebus knew, Whitemire had been near capacity as it was — how they would cope with this influx he could only imagine. As Storey himself had put it:
‘They’re a private company. If there’s profit in it, they’ll manage.’
Felix Storey had not compiled the list on Rebus’s desk. Felix Storey hadn’t paid much attention to it when it had been presented to him. He was already talking about heading back down to London. Other cases crying out for his attention. He would return from time to time, of course, to oversee the prosecution of Stuart Bullen.
In his own words, he would ‘stay in the loop’.
Rebus’s comment: ‘Like a hamster on its wheel.’
He looked up now as Rat-Arse Reynolds came into the room, looking around as though seeking someone. He was carrying a brown paper bag, and seemed pleased with himself.
‘Can I help you, Charlie?’ Rebus asked.
Reynolds grinned. ‘Got a going-away present for your pal.’ He lifted a bunch of bananas from the bag. ‘Trying to figure the best place to leave them.’
‘Because you’ve not got the guts to do it to his face?’ Rebus had risen slowly to his feet.
‘Just a bit of a laugh, John.’
‘For you maybe. Something tells me Felix Storey won’t be quite so easy to please.’
‘That’s true, actually.’ The speaker was Storey himself. As he came into the room he was checking the knot in his tie, smoothing it down against his shirt front.
Reynolds slid the bananas back into their bag, clutching it to his chest.
‘Those for me?’ Storey asked.
‘No,’ Reynolds said.
Storey got right into his face. ‘I’m black, therefore I’m a monkey — that’s your logic, is it?’
‘No.’
Storey had started opening the bag. ‘As it happens, I like a nice banana... but these look past it to me. A bit like yourself, Reynolds: going rancid.’ He closed the bag again. ‘Now off you go and try playing detective for a change. Here’s your challenge — to find out what everyone around here calls you behind your back.’ Storey patted Reynolds’s left cheek, then stood with arms folded to indicate that he was dismissed.
After he’d gone, Storey turned to Rebus and winked.
‘Tell you another funny thing,’ Rebus said.
‘I’m always up for a laugh.’
‘This is more funny-peculiar than funny-ha-ha.’
‘What is?’
Rebus tapped one of the sheets of paper on his desk. ‘Some of the names, we don’t have bodies for.’
‘Maybe they heard us coming and did a runner.’
‘Maybe.’
Storey rested his backside against the edge of the desk. ‘Could be they were working a shift when the raid went down. If they got wind of it, they’re not likely to turn up in Knoxland, are they?’
‘No,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Chinese-looking names, most of them... And one African. Chantal Rendille.’
‘Rendille? You think that sounds African?’ Storey frowned, craned his neck to study the paperwork. ‘Chantal’s a French name, isn’t it?’
‘French is the national language of Senegal,’ Rebus explained.
‘Your elusive witness?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. I might show it to Kate.’
‘Who’s Kate?’
‘A student from Senegal. There’s something I need to ask her anyway...’
Storey eased himself upright from the desk. ‘Best of luck then.’
‘Hang on,’ Rebus said, ‘there’s something else.’
Storey let out a sigh. ‘And what’s that?’
Rebus tapped another of the sheets. ‘Whoever did this went the extra yard.’
‘Oh yes?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Every single one we interviewed, they were asked for an address prior to Knoxland.’ Rebus looked up, but Storey just shrugged. ‘Some of them gave Whitemire.’