by Ian Rankin
“Eighty-five pence,” the barman said, placing the drink in front of her. At this point, she knew she had only one gambit—Does Ishbel Jardine ever come in?—and couldn’t see what she’d gain from it. For one thing, the bar would be alerted to the fact that she was a cop. For another, she doubted these men would add anything to her sum knowledge, even if they had known Ishbel. She raised the glass to her lips, and knew there was too much cordial in it. The drink was sickly sweet, and not gassy enough.
“All right?” the barman said. It was challenge more than query.
“Fine,” she replied.
Satisfied, he came back out from behind the bar and resumed his game. There was a pot of small change on the table, ten- and twenty-pence pieces. The men he was playing with looked like pensioners. They slapped each domino down with exaggerated force, tapped three times if they couldn’t go. Already, they’d lost interest in her. She looked around for a ladies’ loo, spotted it to the left of the dartboard, and headed inside. Now they’d think she’d only come in for a pee, the soft drink conscience money. The toilet was clean, though the mirror above the sink had gone, pen-written graffiti replacing it.
Sean’s a shag
The buns on Kenny Reilly!!!
Sluts unite!
Bane Bunnies Rool
Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.
Donny Cruikshank—Dead Man Walking
Donny Pervo
Fry the fucker
Cook the Cruik
Claimed in blood, sisters!!!
God bless Tracy Jardine
There was more—much more—by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker, blue ballpoint, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realized her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glove box. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the domino players would think.
Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.
Three lines on the right cheek—scar tissue.
Donny Cruikshank.
Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him look so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.
“All right, darling?” he called. She walked towards him.
“Don’t call me that,” she said icily.
“Ooh! ‘Don’t call me that.’” The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. “I like a doll with balls.”
“Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.”
Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.
“Did you ever hear the like, Malky?”
“Pack it in, Donny,” Malky the barman warned.
“Or what? You’ll red-card me again?” He looked around. “Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.” His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. “Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately . . .”
Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.
Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.
“The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!”
Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenaline had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard, she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard . . . She glanced at the glove box. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.
“What’s up, John?” she asked.
“Siobhan? What’s up with you?”
“How do you mean?”
“You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.”
“Just dashed back to the car.” She looked out at the pale blue sky. “It’s raining here.”
“Raining? Where the hell are you?”
“Banehall.”
“And where’s that when it’s at home?”
“West Lothian, just off the motorway before you get to Whitburn.”
“I know it—pub called The Bane?”
Despite herself, she smiled. “That’s the place,” she said.
“What takes you out there?”
“It’s a long story. What are you up to?”
“Nothing that can’t be shoved to one side if a long story’s on offer. Are you heading back to town?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll practically be passing Knoxland.”
“And that’s where I’ll find you?”
“You can’t miss me—we’ve got the wagons circled to keep the natives at bay.”
Siobhan saw that the door to the pub was opening from within, Donny Cruikshank throwing curses back into the place. A two-fingered salute followed by a volley of saliva. Looked like Malky had had enough of him. Siobhan turned the ignition.
“I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.”
“Bring ammunition, will you? Forty Bensons Gold.”
“I draw the line at cigarettes, John.”
“The last request of a dying man, Shiv,” Rebus pleaded.
Watching the mix of anger and despair on Donny Cruikshank’s face, Siobhan couldn’t help breaking into a smile.
4
Rebus’s “circled wagons” actually consisted of a single-roomed Portakabin placed in the car park next to the nearest tower block. It was dark green on the outside, with a grille protecting the only window and a reinforced door. When he’d parked his car, the ubiquitous draggle of kids had asked for money to look after it. He’d pointed a finger at them.
“A sparrow so much as farts on my windscreen, you’ll be licking it off.”
He stood in the doorway of the Portakabin now, smoking a cigarette. Ellen Wylie was typing on a laptop. It had to be a laptop, so they could unplug it at day’s end and take it with them. It was either that or post a nighttime guard on the door. No way of hooking up a phone line, so they were using mobiles. DC Charlie Reynolds, known behind his back as “Rat-Arse,” was approaching from one of the high-rises. He was in his late forties, almost as broad as he was tall. He’d played rugby at one time, including a stint at national level with the police team. As a result, his face was a mangle of botched repairs, rips, and nicks. The haircut wouldn’t have looked out of place on a street urchin circa the 1920s. Reynolds had a reputation as a windup merchant, but he wasn’t smiling now.
“Bloody waste of time,” he snarled.
“Nobody’s talking?” Rebus guessed.
“It’s the ones that are talking, they’re th
e problem.”
“How so?” Rebus decided to offer Reynolds a cigarette, which the big man accepted without thanks.
“Don’t speak bloody English, do they? Fifty-seven bloody varieties up there.” He gestured towards the tower block. “And the smell . . . Christ knows what they’re cooking, but I’ve not noticed many cats in the vicinity.” Reynolds saw the look on Rebus’s face. “Don’t get me wrong, John, I’m not a racist. But you do have to wonder . . .”
“About what?
“The whole asylum thing. I mean, say you had to leave Scotland, right? You were being tortured or something . . . You’d make for the nearest safe country, right, ’cause you wouldn’t want to be too far from the old homeland. But this lot . . .” He stared up at the tower block, then shook his head. “You take my point though, eh?”
“I suppose I do, Charlie.”
“Half of them can’t even be bothered to learn the language . . . just pick up their cash from the government, thank you very much.” Reynolds concentrated on his cigarette. He smoked with some violence, teeth clamping the filter, mouth drawing hard. “Least you can sod off back to Gayfield whenever you like; some of us are stuck out here for the duration.”
“Wait till I go and get my violin, Charlie,” Rebus said. Another car was drawing up alongside: Shug Davidson. He’d been to a meeting to fix the budget for the inquiry and didn’t look thrilled with the result.
“No interpreters?” Rebus guessed.
“Oh, we can have all the interpreters we want,” Davidson responded. “Thing is, we can’t pay them. Our esteemed Assistant Chief Constable says we should ask around, maybe see if the council could provide one or two free of charge.”
“Along with everything else,” Reynolds muttered.
“What’s that?” Davidson snapped.
“Nothing, Shug, nothing.” Reynolds stamped on the remains of his cigarette forcefully.
“Charlie reckons the locals rely a touch too much on handouts,” Rebus explained.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can mind-read sometimes. Runs in the family, passed down from father to son. My granddad probably gave it to my dad . . .” Rebus stubbed out his own cigarette. “He was Polish, by the way, my granddad. We’re a bastard nation, Charlie—get used to it.” Rebus walked over to greet another arrival: Siobhan Clarke. She spent a few moments studying her surroundings.
“Concrete was such an attractive option in the sixties,” she commented. “And as for the murals . . .”
Rebus had ceased to notice them: WOGS OUT . . . PAKIS ARE SHIT . . . WHITE POWER . . . Some wag had tried sneaking a “d” into “power” to make “powder.” Rebus wondered how strong a hold the drug dealers had around here. Maybe another reason for the general disaffection: immigrants probably couldn’t afford drugs, even supposing they wanted them. SCOTLAND FOR THE SCOTS . . . A venerable piece of graffiti had been altered from JUNKIE SCUM to BLACK SCUM.
“This looks cozy,” Siobhan said. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Did you bring your invitation?”
She held out the packs of cigarettes. Rebus kissed them and slipped them into his pocket. Davidson and Reynolds had disappeared inside the cabin.
“You going to tell me that story?” he asked.
“You going to give me the tour?”
Rebus shrugged. “Why not?” They started walking. There were four main tower blocks in Knoxland, each one eight stories high, and sited as if at the corners of a square, looking down onto the central, devastated play area. There were open walkways on each level, and every flat had a balcony with a view of the highway.
“Plenty of satellite dishes,” Siobhan observed. Rebus nodded. He’d wondered about these dishes, about the versions of the world they transmitted into each living room and life. Daytimes, the ads would be for accident compensation; at night, they’d be for alcohol. A generation growing up in the belief that life could be controlled by a TV remote.
There were kids circling them now on their bikes. Others were congregating against a wall, sharing a cigarette and something in a lemonade bottle that didn’t look like lemonade. They wore baseball caps and sneakers, a fashion beamed down to them from another culture.
“He’s too old for ye!” one voice barked out, followed by laughter and the usual piglike grunting.
“I’m young but I’m hung, ya hoor!” the same voice called.
They kept walking. One uniform was stationed either end of the murder scene, showing ebbing patience as locals queried why they couldn’t use the passageway.
“Jist ’cause some chinky got topped, man . . .”
“Wisnae a chinky . . . towel-head, I heard.”
The voices rising. “Hey, man, how come they get past ye and we dinnae? Pure discrimination, by the way . . .”
Rebus had led Siobhan behind the uniform. Not that there was much to see. The ground was still stained; the place still had about it the faint whiff of urine. Scrawls covering every inch of wall space.
“Whoever he was, somebody misses him,” Rebus said quietly, noting a small bundle of flowers marking the spot. Except that they weren’t really flowers, just some strands of wild grass and a few dandelions. Picked from waste ground.
“Trying to tell us something?” Siobhan guessed.
Rebus shrugged. “Maybe they just couldn’t afford flowers . . . or didn’t know how to go about buying any.”
“Are there really that many immigrants in Knoxland?”
Rebus shook his head. “Probably not more than sixty or seventy.”
“Which would be sixty or seventy more than a few years ago.”
“I hope you’re not turning into Rat-Arse Reynolds.”
“Just thinking from the locals’ point of view. People don’t like incomers: immigrants, travelers, anyone the least bit different . . . Even an English accent like mine can get you into trouble.”
“That’s different. Plenty of good historical reasons for the Scots to hate the English.”
“And vice versa, obviously.”
They had passed out of the far end of the passage. Here, there was a gathering of lower-rise blocks, four stories high, along with a few rows of terraced houses.
“The houses were built for pensioners,” Rebus explained. “Something to do with keeping them within the community.”
“Nice dream, as Thom Yorke would say.”
That was Knoxland, all right: a nice dream. Plenty more like it elsewhere in the city. Their architects would have been so proud of the scale drawings and cardboard models. Nobody ever set out to design a ghetto, after all.
“Why Knoxland?” Siobhan asked eventually. “Not named after Knox the Calvinist, surely.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Knox wanted Scotland to be a new Jerusalem. I doubt Knoxland qualifies.”
“All I know about him is that he didn’t want statues in any of his churches, and he wasn’t keen on women.”
“He also didn’t want people having fun. There were ducking stools and witch trials waiting for the guilty . . .” Rebus paused. “So he did have his good points.”
Rebus didn’t know where they were walking to. Siobhan seemed all twitching energy, something needing to be grounded somehow. She’d turned back and was walking towards one of the higher tower blocks.
“Shall we?” she said, making to pull open the door. But it was locked.
“A recent addition,” Rebus explained. “Security cameras beside the lifts, too. Trying to keep out the barbarians.”
“Cameras?” Siobhan watched Rebus punch a four-figure code into the door’s keypad. He was shaking his head at her question.
“Turns out they’re never switched on. Council couldn’t afford the security man to keep charge of them.” He pulled the door open. There were two lifts in the lobby. Both were working, so maybe the keypad was doing its job.
“Top floor,” Siobhan said as they entered the left-hand lift. Rebus hit the button and the doors shuddered together.
“No
w, about that story . . .” Rebus said. So she told him. It didn’t take long. By the time she finished, they were on one of the walkways, leaning against its low wall. The wind was whistling and gusting around them. There were views to the north and east, glimpses of Corstorphine Hill and Craiglockhart.
“Look at all the space,” she said. “Why didn’t they just build houses for everybody?”
“What? And ruin the sense of community?” Rebus twisted his body towards her, so she would know he was giving her his full attention. He didn’t even have a cigarette in his hand.
“You want to bring Cruikshank in for questioning?” he asked. “I could hold him down while you give him a good kicking.”
“Old-fashioned policing, eh?”
“I’ve always found the notion refreshing.”
“Well, it won’t be necessary: I’ve already given him a doing . . . in here.” She tapped her skull. “But thanks for the thought.”
Rebus shrugged, turning to stare out at the scenery. “You know she’ll turn up if she wants to?”
“I know.”
“She doesn’t qualify as a MisPer.”
“And you’ve never done a favor for a friend?”
“You’ve got a point,” Rebus conceded. “Just don’t expect a result.”
“Don’t worry.” She pointed to the tower block diagonal to the one they were standing in. “Notice anything?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t see torched for the price of a pint.”
“Hardly any graffiti. I mean, compared with the other blocks.”
Rebus looked down towards ground level. It was true: the rough walls of this one block were cleaner than the others. “That’s Stevenson House. Maybe someone on the council has fond memories of Treasure Island. Next time one of us picks up a parking ticket, they’ll have the deposit on another batch of emulsion.” The lift doors behind them slid open and two uniforms emerged, unenthusiastic and carrying clipboards.
“At least this is the last floor,” one of them grumbled. He noticed Rebus and Siobhan. “Do you live here?” he asked, readying to add them to his clipboard tally.
