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“We can take them, Bobby,” one of the security men said softly.
“No need to.”
“Fat bastard,” the gang’s leader goaded.
“Fat-ass bastard,” one of his lieutenants added.
“Alky.”
“Pop-eyed baldy ass-licking…”
Greig’s eyes were on Siobhan. He seemed to be making up his mind. She shook her head slowly. Don’t let them win.
“Thieving bastard.”
“Asshole.”
“Bloated schmuck.”
Bobby Greig turned his head toward the guard next to him, gave a brief nod. “Count of three,” he said in an undertone.
“Save your breath, Bobby.” The guard leaped for the gate, his comrades right behind him. The gang scattered but regrouped at the other side of the road.
“Come on then!”
“Any time you like!”
“You want us? Here we are!”
Siobhan knew what they wanted. They wanted the security men to chase them into the labyrinth of streets. Jungle warfare, where local knowledge could defeat firepower. Weapons-ready-made or improvised-could be waiting there. A larger army could be hidden behind hedges and down shadowy alleys. And meantime, the camp was left unguarded.
She didn’t hesitate; called it in on her cell. “Officer requiring assistance.” Brief details of where she was. Two, three minutes, they’d start arriving. Craigmillar cop-shop wasn’t farther away than that. The gang’s leader was bending over, making a show of offering his backside to Bobby Greig. One of Greig’s men accepted the insult on his behalf and ran at the leader, who did what Siobhan had feared: appeared to retreat farther down the walkway.
Into the heart of the housing project.
“Careful!” she warned, but no one was listening. Turning, she saw that some of the campers were watching the action. “Police will be here in a minute,” she assured them.
“Pigs,” one of the campers said in evident disgust.
Siobhan jogged out into the road. The gang really had scattered now; at least, that was what it looked like. She traced Bobby Greig’s route, down the path and into a cul-de-sac. Low-rise blocks all around, some of the last and worst of the old streets. The skeleton of a bike lay on the pavement. A supermarket cart’s carcass sat curbside. Shadows and scuffles and yells. The sound of breaking glass. If there was fighting, she couldn’t see it. Back gardens were the battleground. Stairwells, too. Faces at some of the windows, but they withdrew quickly, leaving only the cold blue glare of TV sets. Siobhan kept walking, checking to left and right. She was wondering how Greig would have acted had she not been there to witness the taunts. Bloody men and their bloody machismo…
End of the street: still nothing. She took a left, then a right. In one front garden, a car sat on bricks. A lamppost had had its cover removed, its wiring ripped out. The place was a bloody maze, and how come she couldn’t hear sirens? She couldn’t hear any yells now either, apart from an argument in one of the houses. A kid on a skateboard came toward her, maybe ten or eleven at most, staring hard at her until he was past. She reckoned she could take a left and be back at the main road. But she entered another cul-de-sac and cursed under her breath-not even a footpath to be seen. Knew the quickest route might be to skirt around the end terrace and climb the fence. Next block over and she’d be back where she started.
Maybe.
“In for a pound,” she said, heading down the cracked paving slabs. There wasn’t much of anything behind the row of houses: weeds and ankle-high grass and the twisted remains of a rotary clothesline. The fence was broken-backed, easy to cross into the next set of back gardens.
“That’s my flower bed,” a voice called in mock complaint. Siobhan looked around. Stared into the milky blue eyes of the gang’s leader.
“Tasty,” he said, eyeing her from top to toe.
“Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble?” she asked.
“What trouble’s that then?”
“It was my car you got at last night.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d taken a step closer. Two shapes behind him to the left and right.
“Your best bet right now’s to start walking,” she warned them. The response: low laughter.
“I’m CID,” she said, hoping her voice would hold up. “Anything happens here, we’re talking a lifetime’s payback.”
“So how come you’re quaking in your boots?”
Siobhan hadn’t moved, hadn’t retreated an inch. He was nose to nose with her now. Knee-in-the-groin close. She felt some of her confidence return.
“Walk away,” she said quietly.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Then again,” came a deep, booming voice, “maybe you do.”
Siobhan looked behind her. It was Councilman Tench. He had his hands clasped in front of him, legs slightly apart. He seemed to fill Siobhan’s vision.
“Nothing to do with you,” the gang leader complained, stabbing a finger in Tench’s direction.
“Everything around here’s got something to do with me. Those that know me know that. Now scamper back to your rabbit holes and we’ll say no more.”
“Thinks he’s the big man,” one of the gang sneered.
“Only one big man in my universe, son, and He’s up there.” Tench gestured skyward.
“Dream on, preacher,” the leader said. But he turned and walked into the encroaching darkness, his men following.
Tench unclasped his hands and let his shoulders relax. “Could have turned nasty,” he said.
“Could have,” Siobhan agreed. She introduced herself, and he nodded.
“Thought to myself last night-that lassie looks like a copper.”
“Seems you’re on regular peacekeeping duties,” she told him.
He made a face, as if to play down his role. “Quiet around here most nights. You just picked a bad week for a visit.” His ears picked out a single siren, growing closer. “Your idea of the cavalry?” Tench offered, leading the way back to the camp.
The car-her loaner from St. Leonard ’s-had been sprayed with the letters NYT.
“Beyond a damned joke,” Siobhan told herself through gritted teeth. She asked Tench if he had names for her.
“No names,” he stated.
“But you know who they are.”
“What difference does that make?”
She turned instead to the uniforms from Craigmillar, gave them her description of the leader’s build, clothes, eyes. They shook their heads slowly.
“Camp’s in one piece,” one of them said. “That’s what matters.” His tone said it all-she was the one who’d summoned them here, and there was nothing for them to see or do. Some name-calling and a few (alleged) thrown punches. None of the security men had any injuries to report. They looked exhilarated, brothers in arms. No real threat against the camp, and no damage to report-other than Siobhan’s car.
In other words: a wild-goose chase.
Tench was moving among the tents, introducing himself all over again and shaking hands, rubbing the kids’ heads and accepting a cup of herbal tea. Bobby Greig was nursing bruised knuckles, though all he’d co
“Livens things up, eh?” he said to Siobhan.
She didn’t reply. Walked to the big tent and someone poured her a cup of chamomile. She was outside again, blowing on it, when she saw that Tench had been joined by someone with a handheld tape machine. She recognized the journalist, used to be pals with Rebus…Mairie Henderson, that was the name. Siobhan moved closer and heard Tench talking about the area.
“G8’s all fine and well, but the executive should be looking a damn sight closer to home. Kids here, they can’t see any sort of a future. Investment, infrastructure, industry-what we need here is the rebuilding of a shattered community. Blight’s destroyed this place, but blight is reversible. An injection of aid, and these kids will have something to be proud of, something to keep them busy and productive. Like the slogan says, it’s fine and dandy to think global…but we shouldn’t forget to act local. Thank you very much.”