Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

“John Rebus?”

  The man was black. And tall, built from muscle. As he stepped forward from the shadows, what Rebus saw first were the whites of his eyes.

  The man had been waiting in the stairwell of Rebus’s tenement, standing by the rear door, the one leading to the overgrown patch of grass. It was a mugger’s spot, which was why Rebus tensed, even when his name was mentioned.

  “You’re Detective Inspector John Rebus?”

  The black man had closely cropped hair and wore a smart-looking suit with an open-necked purple shirt. His ears were tiny triangles, with almost no lobes. He was standing in front of Rebus, and neither man had blinked in the best part of twenty seconds.

  Rebus had a carrier bag in his right hand. There was a bottle of twenty-quid malt inside, and he was loath to take a swing with it unless absolutely necessary. For some reason his mind flashed on an old Chic Murray sketch: a man falling over with a half-bottle in his pocket, feeling a damp patch and touching it: Thank Christ for that . . . it’s only blood.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sorry if I startled you . . .”

  “Who says you did?”

  “Tell me you’re not thinking of going for me with whatever’s in that bag?”

  “I’d be lying. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Okay to show you ID?” The man hesitated with his hand halfway to the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Fire away.”

  A wallet came out. The man flipped it open. His name was Felix Storey. He was an Immigration official.

  “Felix?” Rebus said, one eyebrow rising.

  “It means happy, so they tell me.”

  “And a cartoon cat . . .”

  “That, too, of course.” Storey started tucking the wallet away again. “Anything drinkable in that bag?”

  “Might be.”

  “I notice it’s from an off-license.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  Storey almost smiled. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because you, Inspector, were observed last night, coming out of a place called the Nook.”

  “Was I?”

  “I’ve got a nice set of ten-by-eights to prove it.”

  “And what the hell has any of that got to do with Immigration?”

  “For the price of a drink, maybe I can tell you . . .”

  Rebus wrestled with a dozen questions, but the carrier bag was growing heavy. He gave the slightest of nods and headed up the stairs, Storey following. Unlocked his door and pushed it open, sweeping the day’s mail aside with his foot, so that it came to rest on top of the previous day’s. Rebus went into the kitchen long enough to grab two clean glasses, then led Storey into the living room.

  “Nice,” Storey said, nodding as he surveyed the room. “High ceilings, bay window. Are all the flats round here this size?”

  “Some are bigger.” Rebus had removed the malt from its box and was wrestling with the stopper. “Sit yourself down.”

  “I like a nice drop of Scotch.”

  “Up here we don’t call it that.”

  “What do you call it, then?”

  “Whiskey, or malt.”

  “Why not Scotch?”

  “I think it goes back to when ‘Scotch’ was a put-down.”

  “A pejorative term?”

  “If that’s the fancy word for it . . .”

  Storey grinned, showing gleaming teeth. “In my job, you have to know the jargon.” He rose slightly from the sofa to accept a glass from Rebus. “Cheers, then.”

  “Slainte.”

  “That’s Gaelic, is it?” Rebus nodded. “You speak Gaelic, then?”

  “No.”

  Storey seemed to ponder this as he savored a mouthful of Lagavulin. Finally he nodded his appreciation. “Bloody hell, it’s strong, though.”

  “You want some water?”

  The Englishman shook his head.

  “Your accent,” Rebus said, “London, is it?”

  “That’s right: Tottenham.”

  “I was in Tottenham once.”

  “Football game?”

  “Murder case . . . Body found by the canal . . .”

  “I think I remember. I was a kid at the time.”

  “Thanks for that.” Rebus poured a little more into his glass, then offered the bottle to Storey, who took it and refilled his own. “So you’re from London and you work for Immigration. And you’ve got the Nook under surveillance for some reason.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Explains how you clocked me, but not how you knew who I was.”

  “We’ve got local CID assistance. I can’t name names, but the officer recognized yourself and DS Clarke straight off.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Like I say, I can’t name names . . .”

  “So what’s your interest in the Nook?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “I asked first . . . But let me take a guess: some of the girls at the club are from overseas?”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of his tumbler. “But they’re not why you’re here?”

  “Before I can talk about it, I really need to know what you were doing there.”

  “I was partnering DS Clarke, that’s all. She had a few questions for the owner.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “A teenager’s gone missing. Her parents are worried she’ll end up in a place like the Nook.” Rebus shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. DS Clarke knows the family, so she’s going an extra yard.”

  “She didn’t fancy going to the Nook on her own?”

  “No.”

  Storey was thoughtful, making a show of studying his glass as he swirled its contents. “Mind if I verify that with her?”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Rebus glared at him, then produced his mobile phone and called her. “Siobhan? You up to anything?” He listened to her response, eyes still fixed on Storey. “Listen, I’ve got someone here. He’s from Immigration and he wants to know what we were doing at the Nook. I’m passing you over . . .”

  Storey took the handset. “DS Clarke? My name’s Felix Storey. I’m sure DI Rebus will fill you in later, but for now, could you just confirm why you were at the Nook?” He paused, listening. Then: “Yes, that’s pretty much what DI Rebus said. I appreciate you telling me. Sorry to’ve troubled you . . .” He handed the phone back to Rebus.

  “Cheers, Shiv . . . we’ll talk later. Right now, it’s Mr. Storey’s turn.” Rebus snapped the phone closed.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” the Immigration official said.

  “Best to clear things up . . .”

  “What I meant was, you didn’t have to use your mobile—house phone’s just over there.” He nodded towards the dining table. “It’d have been a lot cheaper.”

  Rebus eventually conceded a smile. Felix Storey placed his tumbler on the carpet and straightened up, hands clasped.

  “The case I’m working, I can’t take chances.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because a bent cop or two might sidle into the picture . . .” Storey let this sink in. “Not that I’ve any evidence to back that up. It’s just the sort of thing that can happen. The sort of people I deal with, they wouldn’t think twice about buying off a whole division.”

  “Maybe there are more bent cops in London.”

  “Maybe there are.”

  “If the dancers aren’t illegal, it must be Stuart Bullen,” Rebus stated. The Immigration official nodded slowly. “And for someone to make the trip from London . . . go to the expense of setting up a surveillance . . .”

  Storey was still nodding. “It’s big,” he said. “Could be very big.” He shifted position on the sofa. “My own parents arrived here in the fifties: Jamaica to Brixton, just two among many. A proper migration that was, but dwar
fed by the situation we’ve got now. Tens of thousands a year, coming ashore illegally . . . often paying handsomely for the privilege. Illegals have become big business, Inspector. Thing is, you never see them until something goes wrong.” He paused, allowing Rebus room for a question.

  “How’s Bullen involved?”

  “We think he might run the whole Scottish operation.”

  Rebus snorted. “That wee nyaff?”

  “He’s his father’s son, Inspector.”

  “Chicory Tip,” Rebus muttered. Then, to answer Storey’s quizzical look: “They had a big hit with ‘Son of My Father’ . . . before your time, though. How long have you been watching the Nook?”

  “Just the past week.”

  “The closed-down newsagent’s?” Rebus guessed. He was remembering the shop across the road from the club, with its whited-out windows. Storey nodded. “Well, having been inside the Nook, I can tell you it doesn’t look to me like there are rooms heaped high with illegal immigrants.”

  “I’m not suggesting he stashes them there . . .”

  “And I didn’t see any hoards of fake passports.”

  “You went into his office?”

  “He didn’t look like he was hiding anything: the safe was wide open.”

  “Throwing you off the scent?” Storey speculated. “When he found out why you were there, did you notice a change in him? Maybe he relaxed a little?”

  “Nothing that told me he might have other worries. So what is it exactly that you think he does?”

  “He’s a link in a chain. That’s one of the problems: we don’t know how many links there are, or what part each one plays.”

  “Sounds to me like you know the square root of bugger-all.”

  Storey decided not to argue. “Had you met Bullen before?”

  “Didn’t even know he was in Edinburgh.”

  “So you knew who he was?”

  “I know of the family, yes. Doesn’t mean I tuck them in at night.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Inspector.”

  “You’re sounding me out, which amounts to the same thing—and none too subtly, I might add.”

  “Sorry if it seems that way . . .”

  “It is that way. And here I am, sharing my whiskey with you . . .” Rebus shook his head.

  “I know your reputation, Inspector. Nothing I’ve heard leads me to believe you’d cozy up to Stuart Bullen.”

  “Maybe you’ve just not been talking to the right people.” Rebus poured himself a little more whiskey, offering none to Storey. “So what is it you hope to find by spying on the Nook? Apart from cops on the take, naturally . . .”

  “Associates . . . hints, and a few fresh leads.”

  “Meaning the old ones have gone cold? How much hard evidence do you have?”

  “His name’s been mentioned . . .”

  Rebus waited for more, but there wasn’t any. He gave a snort. “Anonymous tip-off? Could be any one of his competitors in the pubic triangle, looking to dump on him.”

  “The club would make for good cover.”

  “Ever been inside?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Because you think you’d stick out?”

  “You mean my skin color?” Storey shrugged. “Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Not many black faces on your streets, but that’ll change. Whether you choose to see them or not is another matter.” He looked around the room again. “Nice place . . .”

  “So you said.”

  “Been here long?”

  “Just the twenty-odd years.”

  “That’s a long time . . . Am I the first black person you’ve invited in?”

  Rebus considered this. “Probably,” he admitted.

  “Any Chinese or Asians?” Rebus chose not to answer. “All I’m saying is . . .”

  “Look,” Rebus interrupted, “I’ve had enough of this. Finish your drink and vamoose . . . and that’s not me being racist, just bloody annoyed.” He rose to his feet. Storey did the same, handing the glass back.

  “It was good whiskey,” he said. “See? You’ve taught me not to say ‘Scotch.’” He reached into his breast pocket and produced his business card. “In case you feel the need to get in touch.”

  Rebus took the card without looking at it. “Which hotel are you in?”

  “It’s near Haymarket, on Grosvenor Street.”

  “I know the one.”

  “Drop in some night, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Rebus said nothing to this, just: “I’ll see you out.”

  Which he did, switching off the lights on his way back to the living room, standing by the uncurtained window, peering down towards street level. Sure enough, Storey emerged. As he did so, a car cruised to a stop and he got in the back. Rebus could make out neither driver nor number plate. It was a big car, maybe a Vauxhall. It turned right at the bottom of the street. Rebus walked over to the table and picked up the house phone, called for a taxi. Then he headed downstairs himself, waiting for it outside. As it drew up, his mobile chirped: Siobhan.

  “You finished with our mystery guest?” she asked.

  “For now.”

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  He explained it to her as best he could.

  “And this arrogant prick thinks we’re in Bullen’s pocket?” was her first question. Rebus guessed it was rhetorical.

  “He might want to talk to you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for him.” An ambulance pulled out from a side street, siren wailing. “You’re in the car,” she commented.

  “Taxi,” he corrected her. “Last thing I need right now is a conviction for drunk driving.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Just out on the town.” The cab had passed the Tollcross intersection. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He ended the call. The cabbie was taking them around the back of Earl Grey Street, making best use of the one-way system. They would cross Lothian Road at Morrison Street . . . next stop: Bread Street. Rebus handed over a tip, and decided to take a receipt. He could try adding it to his expenses on the Yurgii case.

  “Not sure lap-dancing’s tax deductible, pal,” the cabbie warned him.

  “Do I really look the type?”

  “How honest an answer do you want?” the man called, crunching gears as he moved off.

  “Last time you get a tip,” Rebus muttered, pocketing the receipt. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock. Packs of men prowled the streets, looking for their next watering hole. Bouncers protecting most of the harshly lit doorways: some wore three-quarter-length coats, others bomber jackets. Rebus saw them as clones beneath the clothing: it wasn’t so much that they looked identical, more in the way they saw the world—divided into two groups: threat and prey.

  Rebus knew he couldn’t linger outside the closed-down shop—if one of the Nook’s doormen became suspicious, it could mean the end of Storey’s operation. Instead, Rebus crossed the road, on the same side now as the Nook, but ten yards shy of the entrance. He stopped and lifted his phone to his ear, conducting one side of an inebriated conversation.

  “Aye, it’s me . . . where are you? You were supposed to be at the Shakespeare . . . no, I’m on Bread Street . . .”

  It didn’t matter what he was saying. To anyone who saw or overheard, he was just another night person, uttering the low gutturals of the local drunk. But he was also making study of the shop. There was no light inside, no movement or shadow play. If the surveillance was twenty-four/seven, then it was bloody good. He reckoned they’d be filming, but couldn’t work out how. If they removed a small square of white from the window, anyone outside would be able to see in, eventually spotting the reflection from the lens. There were no gaps in the window anyway. The door was covered in a wire grille, a pull-down shade blocking any view. Again, no obvious spy hole. But hang on . . . above the door there was another, smaller window, mayb
e three feet by two, whited out except for a small square in one corner. It was ingenious: no passing eyes would stray there. Of course, it meant one of the surveillance team would have to be placed atop a stepladder or similar, armed with the camera. Awkward and uncomfortable, but perfect nonetheless.

  Rebus finished his imaginary call and turned away from the Nook, walking back in the direction of Lothian Road. On Saturday nights, the place was best avoided. Even now, on a weeknight, there were songs and chants and people kicking bottles along the sidewalk, scampering across the lanes of traffic. The high-pitched laughter of hen parties, girls in short skirts with flashing headbands. A man was selling these headbands, plus pulsing plastic wands. He carried a fistful of each as he paced up and down. Rebus looked at him, remembering Storey’s words: Whether you choose to see them or not . . . The man was wiry and young and tan-skinned. Rebus stopped in front of him.

  “How much are they?”

  “Two pounds.”

  Rebus made a show of searching his pockets for change. “Where you from?” The man didn’t respond, eyes everywhere but on Rebus. “How long have you been in Scotland?” But the man was moving off. “You not going to sell me one, then?” Obviously not: the man kept walking. Rebus headed in the opposite direction, towards Princes Street’s west end. A flower seller was emerging from the Shakespeare pub, one arm cradled around tight bunches of roses.

  “How much?” Rebus asked.

  “Five pounds.” The seller was barely into his teens. His face was tan, maybe Middle Eastern. Again, Rebus fumbled in his pockets.

  “Where you from?”

  The youth pretended not to understand. “Five,” he repeated.

  “Is your boss anywhere around?” Rebus persisted.

  The youth’s eyes darted to left and right, seeking help.

  “How old are you, son? Which school are you at?”

  “Not understand.”

  “Don’t give me that . . .”

  “You want roses?”

  “I just need to find my money . . . Bit late for you to be out working, isn’t it? Mum and Dad know what you’re up to?”

  The rose seller had had enough. He ran, dropping one of his bunches, not looking back, not stopping. Rebus picked it up, handed it to a group of passing girls.

  “That doesn’t get you in my knickers,” one of them said, “but it does get you this.” She pecked him on the cheek. As they staggered away, screeching and clattering in their noisy heels, another of the group yelped that he was old enough to be their granddad.