‘I know this.’
Bedlam Theatre stood at the junction of two diagonals — Forrest Road and Bristo Place — and facing the wider expanse of George IV Bridge. Years back, this had been Rebus’s favourite part of town, with its weird bookshops and second-hand record market. Now Subway and Starbucks had moved in and the record market was a theme bar. Parking had not improved either, and Rebus ended up on a double yellow, trusting to luck that he’d be back before the tow truck could be called.
The main doors were locked tight, but Kate led him around the side and produced a key from her pocket.
‘Marcus?’ he guessed. She nodded and opened the small side door, then turned towards him. ‘You want me to wait here?’ he guessed. But she stared deep into his eyes and then sighed.
‘No,’ she said, decided. ‘You might as well come up.’
Inside, the place was gloomy. They climbed a flight of creaky steps and emerged into an upstairs auditorium, looking down on to the makeshift stage. There were rows of former pews, mostly stacked with empty cardboard boxes, props, and pieces of lighting rig.
‘Chantal?’ Kate called out. ‘C’est moi. Are you there?’
A face appeared above one row of seats. She’d been lying in a sleeping-bag, and was now blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw that there was someone with Kate, her mouth and eyes opened wide.
‘Calme-toi, Chantal. Il est policier.’
‘Why you bring?’ Chantal’s voice sounded shrill, frantic. As she stood up, sloughing off the sleeping-bag, Rebus saw that she was already dressed.
‘I’m a police officer, Chantal,’ Rebus said slowly. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘No! This will not be!’ She waved her hands in front of her, as though he were smoke to be wafted away. Her arms were thin, hair cropped close to her skull. Her head seemed out of proportion to the slender neck atop which it sat.
‘You know we’ve arrested the men?’ Rebus said. ‘The men we think killed Stef. They are going to prison.’
‘They will kill me.’
Rebus kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. ‘They’re going to be spending a lot of time in jail, Chantal. They’ve done a lot of bad things. But if we’re going to punish them for what they did to Stef... well, I’m not sure we can do it without your help.’
‘Stef was good man.’ Her face twisted with the pain of memory.
‘Yes, he was,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And his death needs to be paid for.’ He’d been moving towards her by degrees. Now they stood within arm’s reach. ‘Stef needs you, Chantal, this one final time.’
‘No,’ she said. But her eyes were telling him a different story.
‘I need to hear it from you, Chantal,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to know what you saw.’
‘No,’ she said again, her eyes pleading with Kate.
‘Oui, Chantal,’ Kate told her. ‘It is time.’
Only Kate had eaten breakfast, so they headed for the Elephant House café, Rebus driving them the short distance, finding a parking bay on Chambers Street. Chantal wanted hot chocolate, Kate herbal tea. Rebus ordered a round of croissants and sticky cakes, plus a large black coffee for himself. And then bottles of water and orange juice — if no one else drank them, he would. And maybe a couple more aspirin to go with the three he’d swallowed before leaving his flat.
They sat at a table at the very back of the café, the window next to them giving a view of the kirkyard, where a few winos were starting the day with a shared can of extra-strong lager. Only a few weeks back, some kids had desecrated a tomb, using a skull like a football. ‘Mad World’ was playing quietly over the café’s loudspeakers, and Rebus was forced to agree.
He was biding his time, letting Chantal wolf down her breakfast. The pastries were too sweet for her, but she ate two croissants, washed down with one of the bottles of juice.
‘Fresh fruit would be better for you,’ Kate said, Rebus unsure of her target as he finished an apricot tart. Then it was time for a coffee refill, Chantal saying she might manage more hot chocolate. Kate poured herself more raspberry-coloured tea. As Rebus queued at the counter, he watched the two women. They were talking conversationally: nothing heated. Chantal seemed calm enough. That was why he’d chosen the Elephant House: a police station would not have had the same effect. When he returned with the drinks, she actually smiled and thanked him.
‘So,’ he said, lifting his own mug, ‘finally I get to meet you, Chantal.’
‘You very persistent.’
‘It may be my only strength. Do you want to tell me what happened that day? I think I know some of it. Stef was a journalist, he knew a story when he saw one. I’m guessing it was you who told him about Stevenson House?’
‘He knew already a little,’ Chantal said haltingly.
‘How did you meet him?’
‘In Knoxland. He...’ She turned to Kate and let out a volley of French, which Kate translated.
‘He’d been questioning some of the immigrants he met in the city centre. This made him realise something bad was happening.’
‘And Chantal filled in the gaps?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And became his friend in the process?’ Chantal understood, nodding with her eyes. ‘And then Stuart Bullen caught him snooping...’
‘It was not Bullen,’ she said.
‘Peter Hill then.’ Rebus described the Irishman, and Chantal sat back a little in her seat, as though recoiling from his words.
‘Yes, that is him. He chased... and stabbed...’ She lowered her eyes again, placing her hands on her lap. Kate reached out and covered the nearest hand with her own.
‘You ran away,’ Rebus said quietly. Chantal started speaking French again.
‘She had to,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘They would have buried her in the cellar, with all the other people.’
‘There weren’t any other people,’ Rebus said. ‘It was just a trick.’
‘She was terrified,’ Kate said.
‘But she went back once... to place flowers at the scene.’
Kate translated for Chantal, who gave another nod.
‘She travelled across a continent to reach somewhere she’d feel safe,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘She’s been here almost a year, and still she does not understand this place.’
‘Tell her she’s not the only one. I’ve been trying for over half a century.’ As Kate translated this, Chantal managed a weak smile. Rebus was wondering about her... wondering at her relationship with Stef. Had she been something other than a source to him, or had he simply used her, the way many journalists did?
‘Anyone else involved, Chantal?’ Rebus asked. ‘Anyone there that day?’
‘A young man... bad skin... and this tooth...’ She tapped at the centre of her own immaculate teeth. ‘Not there.’ Rebus reckoned she meant Howie Slowther, might even pick him out from a line-up.
‘How do you think they found out about Stef, Chantal? How did they know he was about to go to the newspapers with the story?’
She looked up at him. ‘Because he tell them.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘He told them?’
She nodded. ‘He want his family brought to him. He know they can do this.’
‘You mean bailing them out of Whitemire?’ More nodding. Rebus found himself leaning across the table towards her. ‘He was trying to blackmail the whole lot of them?’
‘He will not tell what he know... but only in return for his family.’
Rebus sat back again and stared from the window. Right now, that extra-strong lager looked pretty good to him. A mad, mad world. Stef Yurgii might as well have penned himself a suicide note. He hadn’t met with the Scotsman journalist because it had been a bluff, letting Bullen know what he was capable of. All of it for his family... Chantal just a friend, if that. A desperate man — husband and father — taking a fatal gamble.