Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “I’ve never done nothing!”

  “No?”

  “Nothing like that . . . I just collect, that’s all.” A pleading tone entering his voice. Rebus guessed Gareth had been the slow, lumbering kid at school—no real friends, just people who tolerated him because of his bulk, using that bulk when occasion demanded.

  “It’s not you I’m interested in,” Rebus reassured him. “Not once I’ve got an address for your dad—an address I’m going to get anyway. I’m just trying to save the pair of us all that hassle . . .”

  Gareth looked up, wondering about that “pair of us.” Rebus shrugged an apology.

  “See, you’ll be coming with me back to the station. Hold you in custody till I get the address . . . then we pay a visit . . .”

  “He lives in Porty,” Gareth blurted out. Meaning Portobello: on the seafront to the southeast of the city.

  “And he’s your dad?”

  Gareth nodded.

  “There,” said Rebus, “that wasn’t so bad. Now up you get . . .”

  “What for?”

  “Because you and me are going to pay him a visit.”

  Gareth didn’t like the sound of this, Rebus could tell, but he didn’t offer any resistance either, not once Rebus had cajoled him to his feet. Rebus shook hands with his hosts, thanked them for the coffee. The father started offering banknotes to Gareth, but Rebus shook his head.

  “No more rent to pay,” he told the son. “Isn’t that right, Gareth?”

  Gareth gave a flick of his head, said nothing. Outside, his mobile phone had already been taken. Rebus was reminded of the flashlight . . .

  “Somebody’s pocketed it,” Gareth complained.

  “You’ll have to report that,” Rebus advised. “Make sure the insurance takes care of it.” He saw the look on Gareth’s face. “Always supposing it wasn’t nicked in the first place.”

  At ground level, Gareth’s Japanese sports car was ringed by half a dozen kids whose parents had given up on sending them to school.

  “How much did he give you?” Rebus asked them.

  “Two bar.” Meaning two quid.

  “And how long does that get him?”

  They just stared at Rebus. “It’s not a parking meter,” one of them said. “We don’t give tickets.” His pals joined in the laughter.

  Rebus nodded and turned to Gareth. “We’re taking my car,” he told him. “Just have to hope yours is still here when you get back . . .”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Back to the cop shop for a reference to help with the insurance claim . . . Always supposing you’re insured.”

  “Always supposing,” Gareth said resignedly.

  It wasn’t a long drive to Portobello. They headed out Seafield Road, no sign of a prostitutes’ day shift. Gareth directed Rebus to a side road near the promenade. “We need to park here and walk,” he explained. So that was what they did. The sea was the color of slate. Dogs chased sticks across the beach. Rebus felt like he’d stepped back in time: chip shops and amusement arcades. For years when he was a kid, his parents had taken him and his brother to a caravan in St. Andrews for the summer, or to a cheap bed-and-breakfast in Blackpool. Ever since, any seaside town could pull him back to those days.

  “Did you grow up here?” he asked Gareth.

  “Tenement in Gorgie, that’s where I grew up.”

  “You’ve gone up in the world,” Rebus told him.

  Gareth just shrugged, pushed open a gate. “This is it.”

  A garden path led to the front door of a four-story double-fronted terraced house. Rebus stared for a moment. Every window had uninterrupted views across the beach.

  “Moved on a bit from Gorgie,” he muttered, following Gareth up the path. The young man unlocked the door and yelled that he was home. The entrance hallway was short and narrow, with doors and a staircase off. Gareth didn’t bother looking in any of the rooms. He headed for the first floor instead, Rebus still close behind.

  They entered the drawing room. Twenty-six feet long, with a floor-to-ceiling bay window. The place had been tastefully decorated and furnished, but too modernly: chrome and leather and abstract art. The room’s shape and dimensions didn’t suit any of it. The original chandelier and cornices remained, offering glimpses of what might have been. A brass telescope sat by the window, supported by a wooden tripod.

  “What the hell’s this you’ve dragged in?”

  A man was sitting at the table by the telescope. He wore a pair of glasses on a string around his neck. His hair was silvery gray, neatly barbered, the face lined by weathering rather than age.

  “Mr. Baird, I’m Detective Inspector Rebus . . .”

  “What’s he done this time?” Baird closed the newspaper he’d been reading and glared at his son. There was resignation rather than anger in his voice. Rebus guessed things weren’t working out as hoped for Gareth in the family’s little enterprise.

  “It’s not Gareth, Mr. Baird . . . it’s you.”

  “Me?”

  Rebus did a circuit of the room. “Council’s certainly doing a better class of let these days.”

  “What are you on about?” The question was for Rebus, but Baird’s eyes were asking his son for an explanation, too.

  “He was waiting for me, Dad,” Gareth burst out. “Made me leave my car there and everything.”

  “Fraud’s a serious business, Mr. Baird,” Rebus was saying. “Always mystifies me, but the courts seem to hate it more than housebreaking or mugging. I mean, who are you cheating, after all? Not a person, not exactly . . . just this big anonymous blob called ‘the council.’” Rebus shook his head. “But they’ll still come down on you like shit from the sky.”

  Baird had leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

  “Mind you,” Rebus added, “you weren’t content with the small stuff . . . how many flats are you subletting—ten? Twenty? Got the whole family roped in, I’d say . . . maybe a few dead aunties and uncles on the paperwork, too.”

  “You here to arrest me?”

  Rebus shook his head. “I’m ready to tiptoe out of your life the minute I get what I’ve come for.”

  Baird suddenly looked interested, seeing a man he could do business with. But he wasn’t altogether convinced.

  “Gareth, he have anybody else with him?”

  Gareth shook his head. “Waiting for me in the flat . . .”

  “Nobody outside? No driver or anything?”

  Still shaking his head. “We came here in his car . . . just me and him.”

  Baird considered this. “So, how much is this going to cost me?”

  “The answers to a few questions. One of your tenants got himself killed the other day.”

  “I tell them to keep themselves to themselves,” Baird started to argue, ready to defend himself against any implication that he was an uncaring landlord. Rebus was standing by the window, staring down at the beach and promenade. An old couple walked past, hand in hand. It annoyed him that they might be subsidizing the schemes of a shark like Baird. Or maybe their grandkids were languishing on a waiting list for a council flat.

  “Very public-spirited of you, I’m sure,” Rebus said. What I need to know is his name and where he came from.”

  Baird snorted. “I don’t ask where they come from—made that mistake once and got my ear bent for my sins. Thing that concerns me is, they all need roofs over their heads. And if the council won’t or can’t help . . . well, I will.”

  “For a price.”

  “A fair price.”

  “Yes, you’re all heart. So you never knew his name?”

  “Used the first name Jim.”

  “Jim? Was that his idea or yours.”

  “Mine.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Customers have a way of finding me. Word of mouth, you could call it. Wouldn’t happen if they didn’t like what they were getting.”

  “They’re getting council flats . . . and paying you
over the odds for the privilege.” Rebus waited in vain for Baird to say something; knew what the man’s eyes were telling him—Got that off your chest? “And you’ve no idea of his nationality? Where he was from? How he got here . . . ?” Baird was shaking his head.

  “Gareth, go fetch us a beer out the fridge.” Gareth was quick to comply. Rebus wasn’t fooled by the plural “us”—he knew there’d be no drink forthcoming for him.

  “So how can you communicate with all these people if you don’t know their language?”

  “There are ways. A few signs and bits of miming . . .” Gareth came back with a single can, which he handed to his father. “Gareth did French at school, I reckoned that might be useful to us.” His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, and Rebus assumed that once again Gareth had fallen short of expectations.

  “Jim didn’t need to mime, though,” the boy added, keen to contribute something to the conversation. “He spoke a bit of English. Not as good as his pal, mind . . .” His father glared at him, but Rebus stepped between them.

  “What pal?” he asked Gareth.

  “Just some woman . . . about my age.”

  “They were living together?”

  “Jim lived on his own. I got the feeling she was just someone he knew.”

  “From the estate?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  But now Baird was on his feet. “Look, you’ve got what you came for.”

  “Have I?”

  “Okay, I’ll put it another way—you’ve got all you’re getting.”

  “That’s for me to decide, Mr. Baird.” Then to the son: “What did she look like, Gareth?”

  But Gareth had taken the hint. “Can’t remember.”

  “What? Not even her skin color? You seemed to remember how old she was.”

  “Lot darker-skinned than Jim . . . that’s all I know.”

  “She spoke English, though?”

  Gareth tried looking to his father for guidance, but Rebus was doing his best to block his sight line.

  “She spoke English and she was a friend of Jim’s,” Rebus persisted. “And she lived on the estate . . . Just give me a bit more.”

  “That’s everything.”

  Baird stepped past Rebus and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You’ve got the boy all confused,” he complained. “If he remembers anything else, he’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Rebus said.

  “And you meant what you said about leaving us be?”

  “Every word of it, Mr. Baird . . . Of course, the Housing Department may have their own feelings on the matter.”

  Baird’s face twisted into a sneer.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Rebus said.

  On the promenade, there was a stiff breeze blowing. It took him four attempts to get his cigarette lit. He stood there for a while, staring up at the drawing-room window, then remembered that he’d missed lunch. There were plenty of pubs on the High Street, so he left his car where it was and took a short stroll to the nearest one. Called Mrs. Mackenzie and told her about Baird, ending the call as he pushed open the pub door. Ordered a half of IPA to wash down the chicken-salad roll. Earlier, they’d been serving soup and stovies, and the aroma lingered. One of the regulars asked the barman to find the horse-racing channel. Flipping the TV remote through a dozen stations, he passed one that made Rebus stop chewing.

  “Go back,” he ordered, debris flying from his mouth.

  “Which one?”

  “Whoah, right there.” It was a local news program, an outside broadcast of a demo in what was recognizably Knoxland. Hastily contrived banners and placards:

  NEGLECTED

  WE CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS

  LOCALS NEED HELP TOO . . .

  The reporter was interviewing the couple from the flat next to the victim. Rebus caught the odd word and phrase: council has a responsibility . . . feelings ignored . . . dumping ground . . . no consultation . . . It was almost as if they’d been briefed on which buzz words to use. The reporter turned to a well-dressed Asian-looking man wearing silver-rimmed spectacles. His name appeared on-screen as Mohammad Dirwan. He was from something called the Glasgow New Citizens Collective.

  “Load of nutters over there,” the barman commented.

  “They can shove as many into Knoxland as they like,” a regular agreed. Rebus turned to him.

  “As many what?”

  The man shrugged. “Call them what you like—refugees or con artists. Whatever they are, I know damned fine who ends up paying for them.”

  “Right enough, Matty,” the barman said. Then, to Rebus: “Seen enough?”

  “More than enough,” Rebus said, leaving the rest of his drink untouched as he headed for the door.

  8

  Knoxland hadn’t calmed much by the time Rebus arrived. Press photographers were busy comparing shots, huddled around the screens of their digital cameras. A radio reporter was interviewing Ellen Wylie. Rat-Arse Reynolds was shaking his head as he walked across waste ground to his car.

  “What’s up, Charlie?” Rebus asked.

  “Might clear the air a bit if we left them to get on with it,” Reynolds growled, slamming his car door shut on the world and picking up an already open packet of crisps.

  There was a scrum beside the Portakabin. Rebus recognized faces from the TV pictures: the placards were already showing signs of wear and tear. Fingers were being pointed as an argument continued between the locals and Mohammad Dirwan. Close up, Dirwan looked to Rebus like a lawyer: new-looking black woolen coat, polished shoes, silver mustache. He was gesturing with his hands, voice rising to compete against the noise. Rebus peered through the mesh grille covering the Portakabin’s window. As suspected, there was no one home. He looked around, eventually took the walkway to the other side of the tower block. He remembered the little bunch of flowers at the murder scene. They’d been scattered now, trampled on. Maybe Jim’s friend had left them . . .

  A transit van sat on its own in a cordoned zone which normally would have provided parking for residents. There was no one in the front, but Rebus banged on the back doors. The windows were blackened, but he knew he could be seen from within. The door opened and he climbed in.

  “Welcome to the toy box,” Shug Davidson said, sitting down again next to the camera operator. The back of the van had been filled with recording and monitoring equipment. Any civil disorder in the city, police liked to keep a record. Useful for identifying the troublemakers and for compiling a case if necessary. From the video screen, it looked to Rebus as though someone had been filming from a second- or third-floor landing. Shots zoomed in and out, blurred close-ups suddenly coming into focus.

  “Not that there’s been any violence yet,” Davidson muttered. Then, to the operator: “Go back a bit . . . just there . . . freeze that, will you, Chris?”

  There was some flicker to the stilled image which Chris tried to rectify.

  “Who is it worries you, Shug?” Rebus asked.

  “Shrewd as ever, John . . .” Davidson pointed to one of the figures at the back of the demo. The man wore an olive-green parka, hood pulled over his head, so that only his chin and lips were visible. “I think he was here a few months ago . . . We had this gang from Belfast, trying to vacuum up the drugs action.”

  “You put them away, didn’t you?”

  “Most of them are on remand. A few headed back home.”

  “So why is he back?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Have you tried asking him?”

  “Scampered when he saw our cameras.”

  “Name?”

  Davidson shook his head. “I’ll have to do a bit of digging . . .” He rubbed at his forehead. “And how’s your day been so far, John?”

  Rebus filled him in on Robert Baird.

  Davidson nodded. “Good stuff,” he said, not quite managing any level of enthusiasm.

  “I know it doesn’t get us any further . . .”

  “Sorry, John,
I’m just . . .” Davidson shook his head slowly. “We need someone to come forward. The weapon’s got to be out there, blood on the killer’s clothes. Someone knows.”

  “Jim’s girlfriend might have some ideas. We could bring Gareth in, see if he can spot her.”

  “It’s an idea,” Davidson mused. “And meantime, we watch Knoxland explode . . .”

  Film was running on four different screens. On one, a crowd of youths was seen standing way to the back of the crowd. They wore scarves across their mouths, hoods up. Spotting the cameraman, they turned and gave him a view of their backsides. One of them picked up a stone and hurled it, but it fell well short.

  “See,” Davidson said, “something like that could light the fuse . . .”

  “Have there been any actual attacks?”

  “Just verbal stuff.” He leaned back and stretched. “We finished the door-to-door . . . Well, we finished all the ones that would talk to us.” He paused. “Make that could talk to us. This place is like the Tower of Babel . . . a posse of interpreters would be a start.” His stomach growled, and he tried to disguise it by twisting in his creaking chair.

  “Time for a break?” Rebus suggested. Davidson shook his head. “What about this guy Dirwan?”

  “He’s a Glasgow solicitor, been working with some of the refugees on the estates over there.”

  “So what brings him here?”

  “Apart from the publicity, maybe he thinks he can rake up a whole new bunch of clients. He wants the Lord Provost to come see Knoxland for herself, wants a meeting between politicians and the immigrant community. There are a lot of things he wants.”

  “Right now, he’s in a minority of one.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re happy to feed him to the lions?”

  Davidson stared at him. “We’ve got men out there, John.”

  “It was getting pretty heated.”