Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (12 page)

“Immigrants, you mean?”

“Your First Minister says he is worried about the decline in the population. He is correct in this. We need young people to fill the jobs, otherwise how can we hope to support the aging population? We also need people with skills. Yet at the same time, the government makes immigration so difficult . . . and as for asylum seekers . . .” He shook his head again, slowly this time, as if in disbelief. “You know Whitemire?”

“The detention center?”

“Such a godforsaken place, Inspector. I’m not made welcome there. You can perhaps appreciate why.”

“You’ve got clients in Whitemire?”

“Several, all of them appealing their cases. It used to be a prison, you know, and now it houses families, individuals scared out of their wits . . . people who know that to be sent back to their native land is a death sentence.”

“And they’re kept in Whitemire because otherwise they’d ignore the judgment and do a runner.”

Dirwan looked at Rebus and gave a wry smile. “Of course, you are part of the same apparatus of state.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rebus bristled.

“Forgive my cynicism . . . but you do believe, don’t you, that we should just send all these black bastards home? That Scotland would be a Utopia if only it weren’t for the Pakis and gypsies and sambos?”

“Christ almighty . . .”

“Maybe you have Arab or African friends, Inspector? Any Asians you go drinking with? Or are they just faces behind the till of your local newsagent’s . . . ?”

“I’m not getting into this,” Rebus stated, tossing an empty coffee mug into the bin.

“It’s an emotional subject, to be sure . . . and yet one I have to deal with every single day. I think Scotland was complacent for many years: we don’t have room for racism, we’re too busy with bigotry! But this is not the case, alas.”

“I’m not racist.”

“I was making a point merely. Don’t upset yourself.”

“I’m not upset.”

“I’m sorry . . . I find it hard to switch off.” Dirwan shrugged. “It comes with the job.” His eyes darted around the room, as if seeking a change of subject. “You think the killer will be found?”

“We’ll do our damnedest.”

“That’s good. I’m sure you are all dedicated and professional people.”

Rebus thought of Reynolds but said nothing.

“And you know that if there’s anything I personally can do to assist you . . .”

Rebus nodded, then thought for a moment. “Actually . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks like the victim had a girlfriend . . . or at any rate a young woman he knew. We could do with tracing her.”

“She lives in Knoxland?”

“Possibly. She’s darker-skinned than the victim; probably speaks better English than him.”

“That’s all you know?”

“It’s all I know,” Rebus confirmed.

“I can ask around . . . the incomers may not be as fearful of talking to me.” He paused. “And thank you for requesting my help.” There was a warmth to his eyes. “You can be assured I will do what I can.”

Both men turned as Reynolds came lumbering into the room, chewing on a shortbread biscuit which had left a trail of crumbs down his shirt and tie.

“We’re charging him,” he said, pausing for effect. “But not with murder. Lab says it wasn’t the same knife.”

“That was quick,” Rebus commented.

“Postmortem says a serrated blade, this one’s got a smooth edge. They’re still going to test for blood, but it’s not promising.” Reynolds glanced in Dirwan’s direction. “We can maybe get him for attempted assault and carrying a concealed weapon.”

“Such is justice,” the lawyer said with a sigh.

“What do you want us to do? Chop his hands off?”

“Was that remark addressed to me?” The lawyer had risen to his feet. “It is hard to tell when you refuse to look at me.”

“I’m looking at you now,” Reynolds retorted.

“And what do you see?”

Rebus stepped in. “What DC Reynolds sees or doesn’t see is neither here nor there.”

“I’ll tell him if he likes,” Reynolds said, bits of biscuit flying from his mouth. Rebus, however, was steering him to the door. “Thank you, DC Reynolds.” Doing everything but giving him a push into the corridor. Reynolds gave one final glower towards the lawyer, then turned and left.

“Tell me,” Rebus asked Dirwan, “do you ever make friends, or just enemies?”

“I judge people by my standards.”

“And a two-second hearing is enough for you to make up your mind?”

Dirwan thought about this. “Actually, yes, sometimes it is.”

“Then you’ve made up your mind about me?” Rebus folded his arms.

“Not so, Inspector . . . you are proving difficult to pin down.”

“But all cops are racist?”

“We are
all
racist, Inspector . . . even me. It is how we deal with that ugly fact that is important.”

The phone started ringing on Wylie’s desk. Rebus answered it.

“CID, DI Rebus speaking.”

“Oh, hello . . .” A tentative female voice. “Are you looking into that murder? The asylum seeker on the housing estate?”

“That’s right.”

“In the paper this morning . . .”

“The photograph?” Rebus sat down hurriedly, reached for pen and paper.

“I think I know who they are . . . I mean, I
do
know who they are.” Her voice was so brittle, Rebus feared she might take fright and hang up.

“Well, we’d be very interested in any help you can give, Miss . . . ?”

“What?”

“I need your name.”

“Why?”

“Because callers who won’t give their name tend not to be taken so seriously.”

“But I’m . . .”

“It’ll just be between us, I assure you.”

There was silence for a moment. Then: “Eylot, Janet Eylot.”

Rebus wrote the name down in scrawled capitals.

“And can I ask how you know the people in the photo, Miss Eylot?”

“Well . . . they’re here.”

Rebus was staring at the lawyer without really seeing him. “Where’s here?”

“Look . . . maybe I should have asked permission first.”

Rebus knew he was close to losing her. “You’ve done absolutely the right thing, Miss Eylot. I just need a few more details. We’re keen to catch whoever did this, but right now we’re pretty much in the dark, and you seem to be holding the only candle.” He was trying for a lighthearted tone; couldn’t risk frightening her off.

“Their names are . . .” It took Rebus an effort of will not to shout out encouragement. “Yurgii.” He asked her to spell it, wrote it down as she did so.

“Sounds East European.”

“They’re Turkish Kurds.”

“You work with refugees, do you, Miss Eylot?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She sounded a little more confident, now she’d given him the name. “I’m calling from Whitemire—do you know it?”

Rebus’s eyes focused on Dirwan. “Funnily enough, I was just talking about it. I’m assuming you mean the detention center?”

“We’re actually an Immigration removal center.”

“And the family in the photograph . . . they’re there with you?”

“The mother and two children, yes.”

“And the husband?”

“He fled just before the family were picked up and brought here. It happens sometimes.”

“I’m sure it does . . .” Rebus tapped pen against notepad. “Look, can I take a contact number for you?”

“Well . . .”

“Work or home, whichever suits.”

“I don’t . . .”

“What is it, Miss Eylot? What are you scared of?”

“I should have spoken to my boss first.” She paused. “You’ll be coming here now, won’t you?”

“Why didn’t you talk to your boss?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would your job be threatened if your boss knew?”

She seemed to consider this. “Do they have to know it was me that called you?”

“No, not at all,” Rebus said. “But I’d still like to be able to contact you.”

She relented and gave him her mobile number. Rebus thanked her and warned that he might need to talk to her again.

“In confidence,” he reassured her, not at all sure that this would actually be the case. Call finished, he tore the sheet from the pad.

“He has family in Whitemire,” Dirwan stated.

“I’d ask you to keep that to yourself for the time being.”

The lawyer shrugged. “You saved my life—it’s the least I can do. But would you like me to come with you?”

Rebus shook his head. Last thing he needed was Dirwan sparring with the guards. He went in search of Shug Davidson, found him in conversation with Ellen Wylie, in the corridor next to the interview room.

“Reynolds told you?” Davidson asked.

Rebus nodded. “Not the same knife.”

“We’ll sweat the little sod a while longer anyway; might be he knows something we can use. He’s got a fresh tattoo on his arm—red hand and the letters ‘UVF.’” Meaning the Ulster Volunteer Force.

“Never mind that, Shug.” Rebus held up the note. “Our victim was on the run from Whitemire. His family are still there.”

Davidson stared at him. “Someone saw the photo?”

“Bingo. Time to pay a visit, wouldn’t you say? Your car or mine?”

But Davidson was rubbing his jaw. “John . . .”

“What?”

“The wife . . . the kids . . . they don’t know he’s dead, do they? You really think you’re right for the job?”

“I can do tea and sympathy.”

“I’m sure you can, but Ellen’s going with you. You okay with that, Ellen?”

Wylie nodded, then turned to Rebus. “My car,” she said.

9

H
er car was a Volvo S40 with only a couple of thousand miles on the clock. There were CDs on the passenger seat, which Rebus had flicked through.

“Put something on if you like,” she’d said.

“I’ve got to text Siobhan first,” he countered: his excuse for not having to choose between Norah Jones, the Beastie Boys, and Mariah Carey. It took him several minutes to send the message
sorry cant do six might manage eight
. Afterwards, he wondered why he hadn’t just called her instead, guessing it would have taken half the time. Almost immediately, she rang back.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m on my way to Whitemire.”

“The detention center?”

“Actually, I have it on good authority that it’s an Immigration removal center. It also happens to be home to the victim’s wife and kids.”

She was silent for a moment. “Well, I can’t do eight o’clock. I’m meeting someone for a drink. I was hoping you might’ve been there, too.”

“There’s a fair chance I will be, if that’s what you want. We can hit the pubic triangle afterwards.”

“When it’s getting lively, you mean?”

“An accident of timing, Siobhan, that’s all.”

“Well . . . go easy on them, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming you’re going to be the bearer of bad news at Whitemire.”

“Why is it nobody thinks I can do the sympathy thing?” Wylie glanced at him and smiled. “I can be the caring New Age cop when I want to.”

“Sure you can, John. I’ll see you in the Ox around eight.”

Rebus put his phone away and concentrated on the road ahead. They were driving west out of Edinburgh. Whitemire was situated between Banehall and Bo’ness, sixteen or so miles from the city center. It had been a prison up until the late 1970s, Rebus visiting on just the one occasion, shortly after he’d joined the force. This much he told Ellen Wylie.

“Before my time,” she commented.

“They shut it down soon after. Only thing I remember is someone showing me where they used to do the hangings.”

“Lovely.” Wylie hit the brakes again. They were in the middle of the rush hour, commuters crawling home to their towns and villages. No clever route or shortcut available, every set of traffic lights seemingly against them.

“I couldn’t do this every day,” Rebus said.

“Be nice to live in the country, though.”

He looked at her. “Why?”

“More space, less dog shit.”

“Have they banned dogs fom the countryside, then?”

She smiled again. “Plus, for the price of a two-bed flat in the New Town, you could have a dozen acres and a billiard room.”

“I don’t play billiards.”

“Me neither, but I could learn.” She paused. “So what’s the plan for when we get there?”

Rebus had been considering this. “We might need a translator.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Maybe they’ve got one on the staff . . . they could break the news . . .”

“She’ll have to ID her husband.”

Rebus nodded. “The translator can tell her that, too.”

“After we’ve gone?”

Rebus shrugged. “We ask our questions, get out of there quick.”

She looked at him. “And people say you can’t do sympathy . . .”

They drove in silence after that, Rebus finding a news channel on the radio. There was nothing about the scuffle at Knoxland. He hoped nobody would pick up on it. Eventually, a sign pointed to the turnoff for Whitemire.

“I just thought of something,” Wylie said. “Shouldn’t we have warned them we were coming?”

“Bit late for that.” The road became a pot-holed single track. Signs warned trespassers that they would be prosecuted. The twelve-foot perimeter fence had been augmented by runs of pale green corrugated iron.

“Means no one can see in,” Wylie commented.

“Or out,” Rebus added. He knew that there had been demonstrations against the holding center, and guessed that these were the reason for the recently installed cladding.

“And what on earth is this?” Wylie asked. A lone figure was standing by the side of the road. It was a woman, wrapped heavily against the cold. Behind her was a tent just big enough for one person and next to it a smoldering campfire with a kettle hanging over it. The woman held a candle, cupping her free hand around the spluttering flame. Rebus stared at her as they passed. She kept her eyes on the ground in front, her mouth moving slightly. Fifty yards on stood the gatehouse. Wylie stopped the car and sounded her horn, but no one appeared. Rebus got out and approached the booth. A guard sat behind the window, chewing a sandwich.

“Evening,” Rebus said. The man pressed a button, his voice issuing from a speaker.

“You got an appointment?”

“I don’t need one.” Rebus showed his ID. “Police officer.”

The man appeared unimpressed. “Slide it through.”

Rebus placed the card in a metal drawer and watched as the guard picked it up and studied it. A phone call was made, Rebus unable to hear any of it. Afterwards, the guard jotted down Rebus’s details and pressed the button again.

“Car registration.”

Rebus obliged, noting that the last three letters were WYL. Wylie had bought herself a vanity plate.

“Anyone else with you?” the guard asked.

“Detective Sergeant Ellen Wylie.”

The guard asked him to spell Wylie, then noted these details down, too. Rebus looked back towards the woman at the side of the road.

“Is she always here?” he asked.

The guard shook his head.

“She got family inside or something?”

“Just a nutter,” the guard said, sliding Rebus’s ID back through. “Park in one of the visitor bays in the car park. Someone will come to meet you.”

Rebus nodded his thanks and walked back to the Volvo. The barrier opened automatically, but the guard had to venture outside to unlock the gates. He waved them through, Rebus pointing Wylie in the direction of their parking space.

“I see you’ve got a vanity plate,” he commented.

“So?”

“I thought they were boys’ toys.”

“Present from my boyfriend,” she admitted. “What else was I going to do with it?”

“So who’s the boyfriend?”

“None of your business,” she said, giving him a glare which told him the subject was closed.

The car park was separated from the main compound by another fence. There was building work going on, foundations being laid.

“Nice to see at least one growth industry in West Lothian,” Rebus muttered.

A guard had emerged from the main building. He opened a gate in the fence and asked if Wylie had locked her doors.

“And set the alarm,” she confirmed. “Lot of car crime around here?”

He failed to see the joke. “We’ve some fairly desperate people in here.” Then he led them to the main entrance. A man was standing there, dressed in a suit rather than the gray uniform of a guard. The man nodded to the guard to let him know he’d take over. Rebus was studying the unadorned stone-clad building, its small windows set high into its walls. There were much newer whitewashed annexes to left and right.

“My name’s Alan Traynor,” the man was saying. He shook first Rebus’s hand and then Wylie’s. “How can I be of service?”

Rebus drew a copy of the morning paper from his pocket. It was folded open at the photograph.”

“We think these people are being held here.”

“Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?”

Rebus didn’t answer. “The family’s name is Yurgii.”

Traynor studied the photo again, then nodded slowly. “You’d better come with me,” he said.

He led them into the prison. To Rebus’s eye, that’s exactly what it was, notwithstanding the tweaked job description. Traynor was explaining the security measures. If they’d been ordinary visitors they’d have been fingerprinted and photographed, then frisked with metal detectors. The staff they passed wore blue uniforms, chains of keys jangling by their sides. Just like a prison. Traynor was in his early thirties. The dark blue suit could have been tailored to fit his slim frame. His dark hair was parted from the left, long enough so that he had to push it out of his eyes occasionally. He told them he was the deputy, his boss having taken some sick leave.

“Nothing serious?”

“Stress.” Traynor shrugged to show that it was only to be expected. They followed him up some stairs and through a small open-plan office. A young woman sat hunched over a computer.

“Working late again, Janet?” Traynor asked with a smile. She didn’t respond, but watched and waited. Rebus, unseen by Traynor, rewarded Janet Eylot with a wink.

Traynor’s office was small and functional. Through the glass sat a bank of CCTV screens, flicking between a dozen on-site locations. “Only one chair, I’m afraid,” he said, retreating behind his desk.

“I’m fine standing, sir,” Rebus told him, nodding for Wylie to take the seat. But she decided to stand, too. Traynor, having lowered himself onto his own chair, now found himself having to look up at the detectives.

“The Yurgiis
are
here?” Rebus asked, feigning interest in the CCTV screens.

“They are, yes.”

“But not the husband?”

“Slipped away . . .” He shrugged. “Not our problem. It was the Immigration Service that screwed up.”

“And you’re not part of the Immigration Service?”

Traynor snorted. “Whitemire is run by Cencrast Security, which in turn is a subsidiary of ForeTrust.”

“The private sector, in other words?”

“Exactly.”

“ForeTrust’s American, isn’t it?” Wylie added.

“That’s right. They own private prisons in the United States.”

“And here in Britain?”

Traynor admitted as much with a bow of the head. “Now, about the Yurgiis . . .” He played with his watch strap, hinting that he had better things to do with his time.

“Well, sir,” Rebus began, “I showed you that piece in the newspaper, and you didn’t bat an eye . . . didn’t seem interested in the headline or the story.” He paused. “Which gives me the feeling you already know what happened.” Rebus pressed his knuckles to the desktop and leaned down. “And that makes me wonder why you didn’t get in touch.”

Traynor met Rebus’s eyes for a second, then turned his attention to the CCTV screens. “Know how much bad press we get, Inspector? More than we deserve—a hell of a lot more. Ask the inspection teams—we’re audited quarterly. They’ll tell you this place is humane and efficient and we don’t cut corners.” He pointed to a screen showing a group of men playing cards around a table. “We
know
these are people, and we treat them as such.”

“Mr. Traynor, if I’d wanted the brochure I could have sent away for one.” Rebus leaned down farther so the young man could not escape his gaze. “Reading between the corporate lines, I’d say you were afraid Whitemire would become part of the story. That’s why you did nothing . . . and that, Mr. Traynor, counts as obstruction. How long do you think Cencrast would keep you on with a criminal record?”

Traynor’s face began to flush from the neck up. “You can’t prove I knew anything,” he blustered.

“But I can try, can’t I?” Rebus’s smile was perhaps the least pleasant the young man had ever been treated to. Rebus stood up straight and turned towards Wylie, giving her a completely different kind of smile before returning his attention to Traynor.

“Now, let’s get back to the Yurgiis, shall we?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t know everyone’s life story,” Traynor said defensively.

“Then you might want to refer to their file.”

Traynor nodded and got up, heading out to ask Janet Eylot for the relevant documents.

“Nice going,” Wylie said under her breath.

“And lots of fun, to boot.”

Rebus’s face hardened again as Traynor returned. The young man sat down and riffled through the sheets of paper. The story he told was simple enough on the surface. The Yurgii family were Turkish Kurds. They had arrived first in Germany, claiming to have been under threat in their own country. Family members had disappeared. The father gave his name as Stef . . . Traynor looked up at this.

“They’d no papers on them, nothing to prove he was telling the truth. Doesn’t sound a very Kurdish name, does it? Then again . . . says here he was a journalist . . .”

Yes, a journalist, writing stories critical of the government. Working under various aliases in an attempt to keep his family safe. When an uncle and cousin had gone missing, it was assumed they’d been arrested and would be tortured for details about Stef.

“Gives his age as twenty-nine . . . could be lying there, too, of course.”

Wife, twenty-five, children, six and four. They’d told the authorities in Germany that they wanted to live in the UK, and the Germans had obliged—four fewer refugees for them to worry about. However, upon hearing the family’s case, it had been decided by Immigration in Glasgow that they should be deported: back to Germany at first, and from there probably to Turkey.

“Any reason given?” Rebus asked.

“They hadn’t proved they weren’t economic migrants.”

“Tough one,” Wylie said, folding her arms. “Like proving you’re not a witch . . .”

“These matters are gone into with great thoroughness,” Traynor said defensively.

“So how long have they been here?” Rebus asked.

“Seven months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Mrs. Yurgii refuses to leave.”

“Can she do that?”

“She has a lawyer working for her.”

“Not Mo Dirwan?”

“How did you guess?”

Rebus cursed silently: if he’d taken up Dirwan’s offer,
he
could have been the one to break the news to the widow. “Does Mrs. Yurgii speak English?”

“A little.”

“She needs to come to Edinburgh to identify the body. Will she understand that?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Is there anyone who could translate?”

Traynor shook his head.

“Her kids stay with her?” Wylie asked.

“Yes.”

“All day?” She watched him nod. “They don’t go to school or anything?”

“There’s a teacher comes here.”