Past Lying, page 11
‘Good evening, Karen,’ he said, his diction careful and precise. ‘How are you?’
‘As good as can be expected in these strange days, Miran. I don’t like being cooped up for so long, but I know compared to a lot of people, I’m very fortunate. And you?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s so much better than what we left in Syria, so I have no complaints. I like the chance to get to know my baby, and to spend time with Amina.’
‘I miss getting to Aleppo. I can’t wait for this to be over so I can get a good cup of coffee and a pastry.’ Deep breath. ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about, Miran?’
He frowned. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘I do complicated just fine. Tell me.’
A deep sigh. ‘We have a friend. Well, he is a distant cousin of Amina. His name is Rafiq. Rafiq Yasin. He is a doctor.’ Another sigh. Miran looked pained, his dark eyebrows drawn together. ‘You remember the torture photographs that escaped from Assad’s prisons? The ones that shocked everyone over here?’
They were the kind of images that, once seen, you could never forget, she thought. ‘I remember.’
‘Rafiq was a doctor in one of the prisons. He hated what he was seeing there. He took some of the pictures. He passed them over to a journalist.’ He cleared his throat.
‘That was incredibly brave. I don’t think I could have done that.’
Miran’s mouth twisted. ‘I pray you never have to make that choice. Rafiq paid a high price. The journalist, he was a man Rafiq did not know well. And when the photos appeared in the West, he was arrested and he gave them the name of Rafiq and the others who had passed photographs to him.’
Karen felt her stomach tighten. She had an idea of what was coming. ‘They came for him?’
Miran nodded. ‘But he was not there.’ He pressed his eyes closed momentarily. ‘They raped his wife in front of his five-year-old son. The boy tried to run away, but he fell on the stairs and . . . ’ His voice faltered. ‘He broke his neck. One of the neighbours saw, he told Rafiq the boy died straight away. When Rafiq came home, he found his wife had hanged herself.’
There were no words, Karen knew that. But still, something had to be said. ‘I’m so sorry, Miran.’
His eyes glistened with tears. ‘I know.’ A pause. ‘Rafiq helped many people over the years, Karen. He is a good doctor, he is surgeon for . . . ’ He waved his hand in a circular motion, frowning because he didn’t know the word. ‘Bones,’ he said at last. ‘If you break your knee, Rafiq is the man who can fix it.’
‘Orthopaedics?’
He nodded, doubtful. ‘I think so. But he has helped many patients to walk again and one of them was able to help him to leave Syria. And now he is here in Edinburgh. He is in a hostel. And yesterday, one of the other men spoke to him and said, “They are still looking for you.” ’ His eyes beseeched her. ‘Someone knows where he is and they will kill him.’
‘Surely, with lockdown, there’s some sort of security? Some kind of control?’ Karen wanted to believe that, but she knew she was probably whistling in the dark.
Miran shrugged. ‘Rafiq says the staff don’t pay much attention. He says we all look the same to them. He’s scared for his life, Karen. We don’t know what to do. He can’t come here, there is no room, even if it wasn’t against the law. Can you help?’
‘I don’t know.’ He’d put her firmly on the spot. She needed time to work out whether there was anything she could do. ‘I need to think about it. Talk to some people. Give me twenty-four hours, Miran. I’ll try to come up with something.’
He broke into a smile. ‘You have been our saviour before, Karen, Amina says you are the one who can help us.’
Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I can fix this, Miran. These are strange times. Even though I’m a polis, I can’t just break the rules without good reason.’
‘Is a man’s life not good reason?’ The smile was gone, a flash of frustration crossed his face.
Karen sighed. ‘Believe me, I understand it seems absurd that I can’t just sort this out. But it doesn’t help anybody if I get this wrong. I have to figure out what might be possible. We’re the ones who have to enforce the law. We can’t be seen breaking the rules when it suits us.’
He bowed his head. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Leave it with me till tomorrow. I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.’
Karen threw herself down on the bed and considered the options. She ran through all the people she’d usually turn to for advice. River Wilde, forensic anthropologist, her closest friend and professional ally, was locked down in the Lake District with her partner. But he was a senior police officer, and what Karen wanted to talk about was a breach of the COVID regulations for starters. Whatever she did next, she’d be doing something that could land her with a fixed penalty notice at the very least. So River was out.
There was no point in running it past Hamish. He’d either have some mad flamboyant ‘solution’ or else he’d tell her it wasn’t her problem. Besides, he was too busy building another wee empire to replace the coffee shop one that COVID was holding to ransom. For a brief moment, she let herself be diverted. Really, was he the man for her? He’d been the right one at the right time when she was trying to get past her grief. But was he still the right one now she was further along the path towards healing? Sure, he was a lovely distraction – clever, funny, sexy and generous. Was that enough, though? Hamish always seemed to see her through the prism of what he wanted her to be; but Karen had known what it was to be seen for what she was, and sometimes that made anything less seem insubstantial.
She gave herself a mental shake and returned to the problem at hand. Obviously she couldn’t discuss it with Daisy. It was never a good idea to let your subordinates see you bending the rules for your own ends, even if it was in a noble cause. Karen didn’t want to give Daisy wriggle room for becoming one of those cops who always managed to find the right reason for doing the wrong thing. Daisy had already walked that line on their first case together. On that occasion, there was no argument that the outcome had justified her action. But it was the thin end of a wedge Karen didn’t want to drive in any deeper.
Her thoughts skated across Craig Grassie, the SNP MP whose help she’d enlisted when she had first crossed paths with Miran and the other Syrians. He’d refused to take no for an answer from the bureaucrats who had stood in the way of the community café and he’d stayed in touch with the refugees since. But he wasn’t a natural comrade in arms for anything dodgy. And this was definitely going to have to be dodgy. Rafiq was a refugee; the Home Office wouldn’t be about to devote any kind of police protection to him, in spite of his part in exposing the worst excesses of the Syrian regime. There would be no straight way of doing this, even in the best of times. Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Nobody in their right mind would call this the best of times.
Then there was DCI Jimmy Hutton. Their fortnightly Monday gin evenings had become a safety valve for both of them, a secure place to let off steam and bounce ideas off each other. Jimmy wouldn’t betray her confidence, she knew that. But she didn’t feel she had the right to put him in the position of knowing a colleague was breaking the rules. This was no trivial matter, like clearing off a parking ticket. The Prime Minister was in hospital with COVID; the Chief Medical Officer of Scotland had ended up having to resign after she’d made a couple of trips to her second home in Fife.
Karen knew she was likely skating on thin ice when it came to her own walks to her empty flat. It was too tempting when she felt overwhelmed with sharing her space with Daisy. Maybe the answer was to make it impossible?
She sighed again. Since she couldn’t have a useful conversation, she might as well have an obligatory one. She dialled up a familiar number on FaceTime and let it ring more times than most people needed. At last, her father’s face swam into view, his eyes screwed up in their usual FaceTime mode. ‘Och, it’s you,’ he said cheerily. He turned away and shouted, ‘It’s Karen, come and say hello.’
And they were off. The state of the allotment now he was only allowed an hour a day; the jams and pickles her mother was making to fill her days; who from the bowling club had got the COVID; what they’d been watching on TV. Their general bonhomie was reassuring; although their interests were not hers, there was a certain comfort in their apparent calm. As the conversation wound down, her mother said, ‘You look after yourself, Karen. Don’t do anything daft. And don’t let yon Hamish do anything daft either.’
She’d given a wry chuckle. ‘Hamish is in the Highlands. Whatever daftness he’s up to, thankfully I don’t have to give it a thought.’ As she said the words, their truth struck home. She ended the call, wondering what this new revelation might mean for her.
10
Karen was up ahead of the sun. The faint glow of dawn was giving the streetlights a run for their money as she threaded her way through the silent streets to Gayfield Square police station. She fumbled a mask into place and walked in. The Historic Cases Unit was tucked away at the back of the shop, invisible from the reception area. But that wasn’t her destination this morning.
She rang the bell and after a few moments, a uniformed PC emerged. A newly installed screen had replaced the former sliding glass window that separated them. ‘DCI Pirie?’ He sounded surprised, rather than dubious of her identity.
‘That’s right. I need the use of a patrol car,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to a witness and the Perspex screen means we can do it safely.’
He frowned. ‘Is that right?’
‘Trust me, that’s right. I only need it for a couple of hours.’
He looked around, as if he’d expected a senior officer to have materialised. ‘I’ll need to go and check.’
Karen sighed. ‘I outrank you by several degrees, son. I’m really not asking your permission. Away and get me a set of keys.’ She tried to soften her words with a smile. By the look on his face, all it did was unnerve him further. He nodded several times and backed out.
A couple of minutes passed, then a sergeant Karen knew appeared. ‘You’re wanting a motor, then, Chief Inspector?’
‘That’s right. I need to interview a witness and I’m mindful of the COVID restrictions. And no, before you ask, it won’t wait. You know my mantra – we might be historic, but every day counts to grieving families.’
He nodded with the weary air of a man who’d had to listen to Karen for longer than was reasonable. ‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ he said, pulling a car key from his trouser pocket. ‘You’ll need to sign for it.’
Karen rolled her eyes. She really didn’t want to leave a paper trail on today’s excursion. If the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) Ann Markie got wind that Karen was running operations off the books, she’d leap at the chance to cut her off at the knees. They were old adversaries and it wouldn’t take much to set Markie’s antennae quivering. ‘Really?’ she said.
‘You know the rules, Karen.’ His voice was patient and paternal.
It made her hackles rise. ‘ACC Markie’s got enough on her plate without me waving a red rag. And if you’re the one who signed the key out to me . . . ’
Without another word, he gave a rueful smile and handed her the key. ‘Second on the left in the car park. Don’t hurt the paintwork and don’t go blues and twos past the Dog Biscuit’s office.’
Karen gave him the thumbs up and took the key before he could have second thoughts. It had cheered her up to be reminded of Ann Markie’s nickname, inflicted because of a brand of dog treats that shared her surname, and because she was always trying to reward the top brass. ‘Woof, woof,’ she said under her breath as she got behind the wheel of the car. She didn’t need blues and twos; the chequerboard markings along the side of the car were all the ID required in the deserted streets.
The hostel had been a residential children’s home in a previous life, tucked away in a depressed side street near Saughton prison. Karen had no idea where the kids were now, but it could hardly be less uplifting than this scabby two-storey building with the dirty terracotta harling peeling off at the corners. There were bars on the windows on both floors and the door was a bare steel sheet. CCTV cameras festooned the building, giving full cover from the gate. The building and its tarmacked forecourt were surrounded by a wall, deterrent rather than preventative. Karen reckoned a reasonably fit and determined person could be over it and away within five minutes. But they’d have to get out of the building first and that was clearly a much bigger ask.
She parked on the street. Showtime. Karen felt the flush of adrenaline pulsing in her heart and consciously pushed down her nerves. If this went south, she’d be facing more than a rap on the knuckles for breaching COVID rules. ‘Just be gallus,’ she told herself. She walked up the pavement and pressed the intercom by the gate. Almost immediately it crackled into life. ‘Yes?’
She held her ID up to the tiny camera lens. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie, Police Scotland. I’m here to collect a Rafiq Yasin.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Can you let me in and I’ll explain?’
Crackle and pause. She was about to press the button again when the gate buzzed loudly. Karen pushed it open and strode across the pitted tarmac. Fake it till you make it, she reminded herself. As she approached, putting on her mask again, the steel door swung open to reveal a whey-faced dumpy man in his thirties, stuffed into trackie bottoms and a Hibs replica shirt two sizes bigger than any actual footballer would ever need. His haircut had a careful fade at the sides to reveal a saltire flag tattoo. His mask covered his mouth but was tucked under his nose in what Karen was coming to consider a mark of stupidity. He peered at the ID card Karen held out in front of her, getting close enough for her to smell his onion breath. ‘OK, you’re a polis. I get that.’
‘And you are?’
‘Brian Ryan. I’m the duty manager.’ Karen was surprised. She’d expected a uniform and an element of organisation. Things were really slipping in lockdown. He stood back to let her in.
Karen found herself in a sally port vestibule. At the far end, another steel door. To one side, an open door led to an office. It had a window on to the vestibule with a sliding glass partition. ‘I’m here to collect this Rafiq Yasin,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got no notice of that.’
‘That might be because you’re not a member of Police Scotland.’ She managed not to sound sarcastic. ‘We don’t always advertise our moves ahead of schedule.’
‘Usually there’s two of you.’
‘We’re keeping contacts to a minimum because of the COVID. And by the way, you need to wear that mask properly. Nose and mouth.’ He flushed and yanked it over his nose. ‘Now, if we can just get on? I need to take Yasin in for a witness interview. We believe he has information that could lead to a series of major arrests.’
He gave a self-satisfied grunt. ‘Drugs, eh? I’m no’ surprised. Half of this lot are dodgy as fuck, you ask me.’
‘So, can you get Rafiq Yasin for me? And tell him to bring his stuff with him. He might not be coming back here. The people he knows about . . . Well, let’s just say he’ll be safer someplace else.’ Always keep the lies as close to the truth as possible.
‘Sounds like a big deal.’ He took a key card from his pocket and said, ‘I’ll be back.’
If he was going for Arnold Schwarzenegger, he’d scored an epic fail, she thought, watching him let himself into the main part of the building. Ten minutes passed slowly. The little office offered nothing worth snooping. The desk was bare except for an unplugged computer terminal. The desk drawers only contained forms waiting to be filled in. Karen sighed. Just her luck. If this was a movie, there would be something damning. She knew from what she’d read and heard that there would be plenty going on behind these walls to provoke her to outrage. The reports of the conditions endured by asylum seekers and illegal immigrants made her ashamed of the UK government. Calling them hostels made people think warmly of bunkhouses they’d stayed in on holidays before they could afford hotels. The reality was often overcrowded spaces unfit for human habitation. She shuddered to think of what COVID would wreak in those conditions. But none of it was visible on this side of the sally port.
At last the inner door opened again. Ryan led the way, followed by a tall man with thick dark hair, head bowed. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a thick brown polo-neck sweater. In one hand, he carried a plastic bag. Behind him came a burly woman in the uniform of a security guard – navy V-necked sweater, white shirt, black tie, black trousers and a utility belt that would have put the Batman to shame. ‘Keep moving, pal,’ she said loudly.
There was nowhere for Rafiq to move to. He flashed Karen a quick look, fear the most obvious element. ‘I am a police officer. I need to take you in for questioning,’ she said, brisk but not unpleasant. ‘We have a statement from Miran that implicates you.’
He looked up again. This time she caught a glimmer of hope. ‘Very well,’ he mumbled. He held his hands out, wrists together.
Karen took his cue and produced a pair of plastic handcuffs and a spare mask from her backpack. ‘Put on the mask, first.’
He did as she asked without a protest. She turned towards the outer door, glancing back at Ryan. ‘You’ll need to sign for him,’ he said. He’d acquired a clipboard from somewhere and had written Rafiq’s name in block capitals. Her confidence almost slipped, but she reminded herself that nobody ever chased up illegals who vanished off the radar. She scribbled something that bore no relationship to her signature and gestured to the door. ‘Come on, Brian, I haven’t got all day.’
And they were out and in the fresh air. ‘What is going on?’ Rafiq asked, his voice tight with tension.
