Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “Mr. Jardine,” she said. “Still got the cats, I see.” She plucked a couple of hairs from his lapel.

  He gave a short, nervous laugh, shuffling to one side so his wife could step in and shake hands with Siobhan. But instead of shaking, she squeezed Siobhan’s hand and held it quite still in her own. Her eyes were reddened, and Siobhan felt there was something the woman was hoping she’d read in them.

  “They tell us you’re a sergeant now,” John Jardine was saying.

  “Detective sergeant, yes.” Siobhan was still holding Alice Jardine’s stare.

  “Congratulations on that. We went to your old place first, and they told us to come here. Something about CID being reorganized . . . ?” He was rubbing his hands together as though washing them. Siobhan knew he was in his midforties, but he looked ten years older, as did his wife. Three years ago, Siobhan had suggested family therapy. If they’d taken her advice, it hadn’t worked. They were still in shock, still dazed and confused and in mourning.

  “We’ve lost one daughter,” Alice Jardine said quietly, finally releasing her grip. “We don’t want to lose another . . . that’s why we need your help.”

  Siobhan looked from wife to husband and back again. She was aware that the Desk Sergeant was watching; aware, too, of the peeling paint on the walls, the scored graffiti, and Wanted posters.

  “How about a coffee?” she said with a smile. “There’s a place just round the corner.”

  So that was where they went. A café which doubled as a restaurant at lunchtime. A businessman was seated at one of the window tables, finishing a late meal while talking into his mobile phone and sifting through paperwork in his briefcase. Siobhan led the couple to a booth, not too near the wall-mounted speakers. It was instrumental music, background pap to fill the silence. Probably meant to be vaguely Italian. The waiter, however, was one hundred percent local.

  “Anythin’ to eat wi’ that?” His vowels were flat and nasal, and there was a venerable dollop of bolognese sauce on the belly of his short-sleeved white shirt. His arms were thick and showed fading tattoos of thistles and saltires.

  “Just the coffees,” Siobhan said. “Unless . . . ?” She looked at the couple seated opposite her, but they shook their heads. The waiter headed off in the direction of the espresso machine, only to be diverted by the businessman, who also wanted something and obviously merited a level of service which an order of three coffees couldn’t hope to match. Well, it wasn’t as if Siobhan was in any great rush to return to her desk, though she wasn’t sure she was going to take much pleasure from the conversation ahead.

  “So how are things with you?” she felt obliged to ask.

  The couple looked at each other before replying. “Difficult,” Mr. Jardine said. “Things have been . . . difficult.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Alice Jardine leaned forward across the table. “It’s not Tracy. I mean, we still miss her . . .” She lowered her eyes. “Of course we do. But it’s Ishbel we’re worried about.”

  “Worried sick,” her husband added.

  “Because she’s gone, you see. And we don’t know why or where.” Mrs. Jardine burst into tears. Siobhan looked towards the businessman, but he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than his own existence. The waiter, however, had paused by the espresso machine. Siobhan glared at him, hoping he’d take the hint and hurry up with their drinks. John Jardine had an arm around his wife’s shoulders, and it was this which took Siobhan back three years, to an almost identical scene: the terraced house in the West Lothian village of Banehall, and John Jardine comforting his wife as best he knew how. The house was neat and tidy, a place its owners could take pride in, having used the right-to-purchase scheme to buy it from the local council. Streets of near-identical houses all around, but you could tell the ones in private ownership: new doors and windows, tidied gardens with new fencing and wrought-iron gates. At one time, Banehall had thrived on coal mining, but that industry was long gone, and with it much of the town’s spirit. Driving down Main Street for the first time, Siobhan had been aware of boarded-up shops and “For Sale” signs; people moving slowly under the weight of carrier bags; kids hanging around the war memorial, aiming playful high kicks at one another.

  John Jardine worked as a delivery driver; Alice was on the production line at an electronics factory on the outskirts of Livingston. Striving to do well for themselves and their two daughters. But one of those daughters had been attacked during a night out in Edinburgh. Her name was Tracy. She’d been drinking and dancing with a gang of friends. Towards the end of the evening, they’d piled into taxis to go to some party. But Tracy had been a straggler, and the address of the party had slipped her mind during the wait for a cab. The battery on her mobile was flat, so she went back inside, asked one of the lads she’d been up for a dance with if he’d lend her his. He went outside with her, started walking with her, telling her the party wasn’t that far.

  Started kissing her; not taking no for an answer. Slapped her and punched her, dragged her into an alley and raped her.

  All of this Siobhan had already known as she’d sat in the house in Banehall. She’d worked the case, spoken with the victim and the parents. The attacker hadn’t been hard to find: he was from Banehall himself, lived only three or four roads away, the other side of Main Street. Tracy had known him at school. His defense was fairly typical: too much drink, couldn’t remember . . . and she’d been willing enough anyway. Rape always made for a tough prosecution, but to Siobhan’s relief, Donald Cruikshank, known to his friends as Donny, face permanently scarred by the raking of his victim’s fingernails, had been found guilty and sentenced to five years.

  Which should have been the end of Siobhan’s involvement with the family, except that a few weeks after the trial had ended had come news of Tracy’s suicide, her life ending at nineteen years of age. An overdose of pills, found in her bedroom by her sister, Ishbel, four years younger than her.

  Siobhan had visited the parents, all too aware that nothing she could say would change anything, but still feeling the need to say something. They had been failed, not so much by the system as by life itself. The one thing Siobhan hadn’t done—the thing she’d had to grit her teeth to stop herself from doing—was visit Cruikshank in jail. She’d wanted him to feel her anger. She remembered the way Tracy had given evidence in court, her voice fading away to nothing as the phrases stuttered out; not looking at anyone; almost ashamed to be there. Unwilling to touch the bagged exhibits: her torn dress and underwear. Wiping silent tears away. The judge had been sympathetic, the defendant trying not to look shamefaced, playing the role of the real victim: wounded, a large muslin patch covering one cheek; shaking his head in disbelief, raising his eyes to heaven.

  And afterwards, the verdict delivered, the jury had been allowed to hear of his previous convictions: two for assault, one for attempted rape. Donny Cruikshank was nineteen years old.

  “Bastard’s got his whole life ahead of him,” John Jardine had told Siobhan as they left the cemetery. Alice had both arms around her surviving daughter. Ishbel was crying into her mother’s shoulder. Alice looking straight ahead, something dying behind her eyes . . .

  The coffees came, jarring Siobhan back to the present. She waited until the waiter had gone, off to fetch the businessman’s bill.

  “So tell me what’s happened,” she said.

  John Jardine poured a sachet of sugar into his cup and started stirring. “Ishbel left school last year. We wanted her to go to college, get some kind of qualification. But she had her heart set on hairdressing.”

  “Of course, you need a qualification to do that, too,” his wife interrupted. “She’s going part-time to the college in Livingston.”

  Siobhan just nodded.

  “Well, she was until she disappeared,” John Jardine stated quietly.

  “When was this?”

  “A week today.”

  “She just upped and went?”

  “We thought
she’d gone to work as usual—she’s at the salon on Main Street. But they phoned to see if she was sick. Some of her clothes had gone, enough to fill a backpack. Money, cards, mobile . . .”

  “We’ve tried phoning it umpteen times,” his wife added, “but it’s always switched off.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone apart from me?” Siobhan asked, lifting her cup to her lips.

  “Everyone we could think of—her pals, old school friends, the girls she worked with.”

  “College?”

  Alice Jardine nodded. “They’ve not seen her either.”

  “We went to the police station in Livingston,” John Jardine said. He was still stirring the contents of his cup, showed no inclination to drink it. “They said she’s eighteen, so she’s not breaking the law. Packed a bag, so it’s not like she was abducted.”

  “That’s true, I’m afraid.” There was more Siobhan could have added: that she saw runaways all the time; that if she herself lived in Banehall, maybe she would run away, too . . . “There hadn’t been any fights at home?”

  Mr. Jardine shook his head. “She was saving for a flat . . . already making lists of the stuff she’d buy for it.”

  “Any boyfriends?”

  “There was one until a couple of months back. The split was . . .” Mr. Jardine couldn’t find the word he was looking for. “They were still friends.”

  “It was amicable?” Siobhan suggested. He smiled and nodded: she’d found his word for him.

  “We just want to know what’s going on,” Alice Jardine said.

  “I’m sure you do, and there are people who can help . . . agencies who look out for people like Ishbel who’ve left home for whatever reason.” Siobhan realized that the words were coming too easily: she’d said them so many times to anxious parents. Alice was looking to her husband.

  “Tell her what Susie told you,” she said.

  He nodded, finally placing the spoon back on its saucer. “Susie works with Ishbel at the salon. She told me she’d seen Ishbel getting into a flash car . . . she thought it might be a BMW or something.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of times . . . the car was always parked a bit farther down the street. Older guy driving.” He paused. “Well, my age at least.”

  “Did Susie ask Ishbel who he was?”

  He nodded. “But Ishbel wouldn’t say.”

  “So maybe she’s gone to stay with this friend of hers.” Siobhan had finished her coffee but didn’t want another.

  “But why not tell us?” Alice asked plaintively.

  “I’m not sure I can help you answer that.”

  “Susie mentioned something else,” John Jardine said, lowering his voice still further. “She said this man . . . she told us he looked a bit shady.”

  “Shady?”

  “What she actually said was, he looked like a pimp.” He glanced up at Siobhan. “You know, like off the films and TV: sunglasses and a leather jacket . . . flash car.”

  “I’m not sure that gets us any further,” Siobhan said, immediately regretting the use of “us,” tying her to their cause.

  “Ishbel’s a real beauty,” Alice said. “You know that yourself. Why would she just run off like that without telling us? Why did she keep this man a secret from us?” She shook her head slowly. “No, there’s got to be more to it.”

  Silence fell on the table for a few moments. The businessman’s phone was ringing again as the waiter held the door open for him. The waiter even gave a little bow: either the man was a regular, or a decent tip had changed hands. Now there were only three customers left in the place, not the most thrilling prospect.

  “I can’t see any way of helping you,” Siobhan told the Jardines. “You know I would if I could . . .”

  John Jardine had taken his wife’s hand. “You were very good to us, Siobhan. Sympathetic and all that. We appreciated it at the time, and so did Ishbel . . . That’s why we thought of you.” He fixed her with his milky eyes. “We’ve already lost Tracy. Ishbel’s all we’ve got left.”

  “Look . . .” Siobhan took a deep breath. “I can maybe put her name into circulation, see if she turns up anywhere.”

  His face softened. “That’d be great.”

  “‘Great’ is an exaggeration, but I’ll do what I can.” She saw that Alice Jardine was about to reach out for her hand again, so she started to rise from the table, checking her watch as if she had some pressing appointment awaiting her at the station. The waiter came over, John Jardine insisting on paying. As they finally made to leave, the waiter was nowhere to be seen. Siobhan pulled open the door.

  “Sometimes people just need a bit of time to themselves. You’re sure she hadn’t been having any problems?”

  Husband and wife looked at each other. It was Alice who spoke up. “He’s out, you know. Back in Banehall, bold as brass. Maybe that’s got something to do with it . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Cruikshank. Three years, that’s all he served. I saw him one day when I was at the shops. I had to go down a side street so I could throw up.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “I wouldn’t even spit on him.”

  Siobhan looked to John Jardine, but he was shaking his head.

  “I’d kill him,” he said. “If I ever met him, I’d have to kill him.”

  “Careful who you say that to, Mr. Jardine.” Siobhan thought for a moment. “Ishbel knew this? Knew he was out, I mean?”

  “Whole town knew. And you know what it’s like: hairdressers are first with the gossip.”

  Siobhan nodded slowly. “Well . . . like I said, I’ll make a few phone calls. A photo of Ishbel might help.”

  Mrs. Jardine dug in her handbag and brought out a folded sheet of paper. It was a picture blown up on a sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper, printed from a computer. Ishbel on a sofa, a drink in her hand, cheeks ruddy with alcohol.

  “That’s Susie from the salon next to her,” Alice Jardine said. “John took it at a party we had three weeks ago. It was my birthday.”

  Siobhan nodded. Ishbel had changed since she’d last seen her: allowed her hair to grow and dyed it blond. More makeup, too, and a hardening around the eyes, despite the grin. The hint of a double chin developing. The hair was center-parted. It took Siobhan a second to realize who she reminded her of. It was Tracy: the long blond hair, that part, the blue eyeliner.

  She looked just like her dead sister.

  “Thanks,” she said, placing the photo in her pocket.

  Siobhan checked that they were still at the same telephone number. John Jardine nodded. “We moved one street away but didn’t need to change numbers.”

  Of course they’d moved. How could they have gone on living in that house, the house where Tracy had taken the overdose? Fifteen, Ishbel had been when she’d found the lifeless body. The sister she doted on, idolized. Her role model.

  “I’ll be in touch, then,” Siobhan said, turning and walking away.

  2

  So what were you up to all afternoon?” Siobhan asked, placing the pint of IPA in front of Rebus. As she sat down opposite, he blew some cigarette smoke ceilingwards: his idea of a concession to any nonsmoking companion. They were in the back room of the Oxford Bar, and every table was filled with office workers stopping to refuel before the trek home. Siobhan hadn’t been back in the office long when Rebus’s text message had appeared on her mobile:

  fancy a drink i am in the ox

  He’d finally mastered the sending and receiving of texts but had yet to work out how to add punctuation.

  Or capitals.

  “Out at Knoxland,” he said now.

  “Col told me there’d been a body found.”

  “Homicide,” Rebus stated. He took a gulp from his drink, frowning at Siobhan’s slender, nonalcoholic glass of lime with soda.

  “So how come you ended up out there?” she asked.

  “Got a call. Someone at HQ had alerted West End to the fact that I’m surplu
s to requirements at Gayfield Square.”

  Siobhan put down her glass. “They didn’t say that?”

  “You don’t need a magnifying glass to read between the lines, Shiv.”

  Siobhan had long since given up trying to get people to use her full name rather than this shortened form. Likewise, Phyllida Hawes was “Phyl,” and Colin Tibbet “Col.” Apparently, Derek Starr could sometimes be referred to as “Deek,” but she’d never heard it used. Even DCI James Macrae had asked her to call him “Jim,” unless they were in some formal meeting. But John Rebus . . . for as long as she’d known him, he’d been “John”: not Jock or Johnny. It was as if people knew, just by looking at him, that he wasn’t the sort to endure a nickname. Nicknames made you seem friendly, more approachable, more likely to play along. When DCI Macrae said something like “Shiv, have you got a minute?” it meant he had some favor to ask. If this became “Siobhan, my office, please,” then she was no longer in his good books; some misdemeanor had occurred.

  “Penny for them,” Rebus said now. He’d already demolished most of the pint she’d just bought him.

  She shook her head. “Just wondering about the victim.”

  Rebus shrugged. “Asian-looking, or whatever the politically correct term of the week is.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Could have been Mediterranean or Arabic . . . I didn’t really get that close. Surplus to requirements again.” He shook his cigarette pack. Finding it empty, he crushed it and finished his beer. “Same again?” he said, rising to his feet.

  “I’ve hardly started this one.”

  “Then put it to one side and have a proper drink. Not got anything else on tonight, have you?”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m ready to spend the evening helping you get hammered.” He stood his ground, giving her time to reconsider. “Go on then: gin and tonic.”