by Ian Rankin
“Elision,” Wylie agreed, nodding. “Good to know research is being done into it.”
“And done ‘proply.’” Rebus snorted to himself. “You ever study geography, Ellen?”
“I did it at school. You reckon it’s more important than linguistics?”
“I was just thinking of Whitemire . . . some of the nationalities there—Angola, Namibia, Albania—I couldn’t point to them on a map.”
“Me neither.”
“Yet half of them are probably better educated than the people guarding them.”
“What’s your point?”
He stared at her. “Since when does a conversation need a point?”
She gave a long sigh and shook her head.
“Seen this?” Shug Davidson asked. He was standing in front of them, holding up a copy of the city’s daily evening newspaper. The front-page headline was WHITEMIRE HANGING.
“Nothing if not direct,” Rebus said, taking the paper from Davidson and starting to read.
“I’ve had Rory Allan on the blower, asking for a quote for tomorrow’s Scotsman. He’s planning a spread about the whole problem—Whitemire to Knoxland and all points between.”
“That should stir the pot,” Rebus said. The story itself was thin. Caro Quinn was quoted on the inhumanity of the detention center. There was a paragraph about Knoxland, and a few old photos of the original Whitemire protests. Caro’s face had been circled. She was one among many, toting placards and shouting at the staff as they arrived for the center’s opening day.
“Your friend again,” Wylie commented, reading over his shoulder.
“What friend?” Davidson asked, suspicious.
“Nothing, sir,” Wylie said quickly. “Just the woman who’s holding vigil at the gates.”
Rebus had reached the end of the story, which directed him towards a “comment” piece elsewhere in the paper. He flicked pages and perused the editorial: inquiry needed . . . time for politicians to stop turning a blind eye . . . intolerable situation for all concerned . . . backlogs . . . appeals . . . future of Whitemire itself left hanging by this latest tragedy . . .
‘Mind if I keep this?” he asked, knowing Caro might be heartened by it.
“Thirty-five pence,” Davidson said, hand outstretched.
“I can get a new one for that!”
“But this one’s been cherished, John, and only one careful owner.” The hand was still outstretched; Rebus paid up, reasoning that it was still cheaper than a box of chocolates. Not that he reckoned Caro Quinn had much of a sweet tooth . . . But there he was, prejudging her again. His job had taught him prejudice at the most basic “us and them” level. Now, he wanted to see what lay beyond.
So far, all it had cost him was thirty-five pence.
Siobhan was back at the Bane. This time, she’d brought a police photographer with her, plus Les Young.
“Could do with a drink anyway,” he’d sighed, having found that three out of the four computers in the murder room had software problems, and none of them would connect successfully to the library’s telephone system. He ordered a half of Eighty-Shilling.
“Lime and soda for the lady?” Malky guessed. Siobhan nodded. The photographer was sitting at a table next to the toilets, attaching a lens to his camera. One of the drinkers approached and asked him how much he wanted for it.
“Settle down, Arthur,” Malky called. “They’re cops.”
Siobhan sipped her drink while Young handed over the money. She stared at Malky as he placed Young’s change on the bar. “It’s not what I’d call a typical reaction,” she said.
“What?” Les Young asked, wiping the thin line of foam from his top lip.
“Well, Malky here knows we’re CID. And we’ve got a man over there setting up a camera . . . And Malky hasn’t asked why.”
The barman offered a shrug. “Doesn’t bother me what you do,” he muttered, turning away to wipe one of the beer taps.
The photographer seemed almost ready. “DS Clarke,” he said, “maybe you should go first, check no one’s in there.”
Siobhan smiled. “How many women do you think come in here?”
“All the same . . .”
Siobhan turned to Malky. “Anyone in the ladies?”
Malky gave another shrug. Siobhan turned to Young. “See? He’s not even surprised we’re taking photos in the loo . . .” Then she walked to the door and pushed it open. “All clear,” she told the photographer. But then, peering into the cubicle, she saw that changes had been made. The various pieces of graffiti had been gone over with a thick black marker, rendering them almost illegible. Siobhan let out a hiss of air and told the photographer to do his best. She strode back to the bar. “Nice work, Malky,” she said coldly.
“What?” Les Young asked.
“Malky here’s as sharp as a tack. Saw me using the toilet both times I was here, and it dawned on him why I was so interested. So he decided to cover over the messages as best he could.”
Malky said nothing, but raised his jawline a little, as if to show that he felt no guilt.
“You don’t want to give us any leads, is that it, Malky? You’re thinking: Banehall’s well shot of Donny Cruikshank, good luck to whoever did it. Am I right?”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“You don’t need to . . . there’s still ink on your fingers.”
Malky looked down at the black smudges.
“Thing is,” Siobhan went on, “first time I came in here, you and Cruikshank were having a falling-out.”
“I was sticking up for you,” Malky retorted.
Siobhan nodded. “But after I left, you slung him out. Bit of bad blood between the two of you?” She leaned her elbows on the bar and stood on tiptoe, stretching towards him. “Maybe we need to take you in for a proper interview . . . What do you say, DI Young?”
“Sounds good to me.” He put down his empty glass. “You can be our first official suspect, Malky.”
“Get stuffed.”
“Or . . .” Siobhan paused. “You can tell us whose work the graffiti is. I know some belongs to Ishbel and Susie, but who else?”
“Sorry, I don’t frequent the ladies’ lavs.”
“Maybe not, but you knew about the graffiti.” Siobhan smiled again. “So you must go in there sometimes . . . maybe when the bar’s shut?”
“Got a bit of a perv thing going, Malky?” Young prodded. “That why you didn’t get on with Cruikshank . . . too much alike?”
Malky pushed a finger towards Young’s face. “You’re talking pish!”
“Seems to me,” Young said, ignoring the proximity of Malky’s forefinger to his left eye, “we’re talking straight common sense. Case like this, one connection’s sometimes all you need to make . . .” He straightened up. “Would you be okay to come with us just now, or do you need a minute to close up the bar?”
“You’re having a laugh.”
“That’s right, Malky,” Siobhan said. “You can see it in our faces, can’t you?”
Malky looked from one to the other. Their faces were stern, serious.
“I’m guessing you only work here,” Young pressed on. “Best phone the owner and tell him you’re being taken in for questioning.”
Malky had allowed the finger to retreat back into his fist, the fist to fall to his side. “Come on . . .” he said, hoping to make them see sense.
“Can I just remind you,” Siobhan told him, “that interfering with the course of a murder inquiry is a big no-no . . . judges tend to pounce on it.”
“Christ, all I . . .” But he clamped shut his mouth. Young sighed and pulled out his mobile, called a number.
“Can I get a couple of uniforms to the Bane? Suspect to be detained . . .”
“All right, all right,” Malky said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Let’s sit down and have a talk. Nothing we can’t do here, eh?” Young snapped shut his phone.
“We’ll let you know once we’ve heard what you’ve got to say,�
�� Siobhan informed the barman. He looked around, making sure none of the regulars needed a refill, then helped himself to a whiskey from a bottle behind the bar. Opened the serving hatch and came out, nodding towards the table with the camera bag on it.
The photographer was just emerging from the toilets. “Did what I could,” he said.
“Thanks, Billy,” Les Young said. “Let me have them by close of play.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Digital camera, Billy . . . take you five minutes to do me some prints.”
“Depends.” Billy had packed his bag, slipped it on to his shoulder. He gave a general nod of farewell and headed for the door. Young sat with arms folded, businesslike. Malky had drained his drink in one go.
“Tracy was well liked,” he began.
“Tracy Jardine,” Siobhan said, for Young’s benefit. “The girl Cruikshank raped.”
Malky nodded slowly. “She was never the same afterwards . . . when she topped herself, it didn’t surprise me.”
“And then Cruikshank came back home?” Siobhan prompted.
“Bold as brass, like he owned the place. Figured we should all be scared of him because he’d done prison time. Fuck that . . .” Malky examined his empty glass. “Anyone for another?”
They shook their heads, so he headed back behind the bar and fetched himself a refill. “This is my last today,” he told himself.
“Bit of a drinking problem in the past?” Young asked, sounding sympathetic.
“I used to put a bit away,” Malky admitted. “I’m fine now.”
“Good to hear it.”
“Malky,” Siobhan said, “I know Ishbel and Susie wrote some of those things in the toilet, but who else?”
Malky took a deep breath. “I’d guess a pal of theirs called Janine Harrison. She was more a pal of Tracy’s, to be honest, but after Tracy died, she started going around with Ishbel and Susie.” He leaned back, staring at the glass as if willing himself to eke it out. “She works at Whitemire.”
“Doing what?”
“She’s one of the guards.” He paused. “Did you hear what happened? Someone hanged himself. Christ, if they shut that place . . .”
“What?”
“Banehall was built on coalfields. Only there’s no coal left. Whitemire’s the only employer round here. Half the folk you see—the ones with new cars and satellite dishes—they’ve got something to do with Whitemire.”
“Okay, so that’s Janine Harrison. Anyone else?”
“There’s another friend of Susie’s. Right quiet, she is, until the drink hits her . . .”
“Name?”
“Janet Eylot.”
“And does she work at Whitemire, too?”
He nodded. “I think she’s one of the secretaries.”
“They live locally, Janine and Janet?”
He nodded again.
“Well,” Siobhan said, having jotted the names down, “I don’t know, DI Young . . .” She looked at Les Young. “What do you think? Do we still need to take Malky in for questioning?”
“Not right this moment, DS Clarke. But we need his surname and a contact address.”
Malky was happy to provide both.
18
They took Siobhan’s car to Whitemire. Young admired the interior. “This is a bit sporty.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good, probably . . .”
A tent had been pitched next to the access road, and its owner was being interviewed by a TV crew, more reporters listening in, hoping for a few usable quotes. The guard at the gate told them it was “an even bigger bloody circus” inside.
“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured him, “we’ve brought our leotards.”
Another uniformed guard was there to meet them at the car park. He greeted them coolly.
“I know this isn’t the best of days,” Young said consolingly, “but we’re working a murder inquiry, so you can appreciate that it couldn’t wait.”
“Who is it you need to see?”
“Two members of staff—Janine Harrison and Janet Eylot.”
“Janet’s gone home,” the guard said. “She was a bit upset at the news . . .” He saw Siobhan raise an eyebrow. “News of the suicide,” he clarified.
“And Janine Harrison?” she asked.
“Janine works the family wing . . . I think she’s on duty till seven.”
“We’ll talk to her, then,” Siobhan said. “And if you could give us Janet’s home address . . .”
Inside, the corridors and public areas were empty. Siobhan guessed that the inmates were being kept corralled until the fuss had died down. She caught glimpses of meetings behind doors left only slightly ajar: men in suits with grim looks on their faces; women in white blouses and half-moon glasses, pearls around their necks.
Officialdom.
The guard led them to an open-plan office and put in a call to Officer Harrison. While they were waiting, a man walked past, backtracking so he could ask the guard what was going on.
“Police, Mr. Traynor. About a murder in Banehall.”
“Have you told them all our clients are accounted for?” He sounded profoundly irritated by this latest news.
“It’s just background, sir,” Siobhan piped up. “We’re talking to anyone who knew the victim . . .”
This seemed to satisfy him. He made a grunting noise and moved off.
“Brass?” Siobhan guessed.
“Second in command,” the guard confirmed. “Not having a good day . . .”
The guard left the room when Janine Harrison appeared. She was in her midtwenties with short, dark hair. Not tall, but with some muscle beneath the uniform. Siobhan would guess she worked out, maybe did martial arts or the like.
“Sit down, will you?” Young offered, having introduced himself and Siobhan.
She stayed standing, hands behind her back. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about the suspicious death of Donny Cruikshank,” Siobhan said.
“Somebody nailed him—what’s suspicious about that?”
“You weren’t a fan of his?”
“A man who rapes a drunk teenager? No, you couldn’t call me a fan.”
“The local pub,” Siobhan prompted, “graffiti in the ladies’ loo . . .”
“What about it?”
“You contributed a little something of your own.”
“Did I?” She looked thoughtful. “Might’ve done, I suppose . . . female solidarity and all that.” She gave Siobhan a look. “He raped a young girl, beat her up. And now you’re going to knock yourself out trying to pin someone down for getting rid of him?” She gave a slow shake of her head.
“No one deserves to be murdered, Janine.”
“No?” Harrison sounded doubtful.
“So which one did you write? ‘Dead Man Walking’ maybe? Or how about ‘Claimed in blood’?”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“We might ask for a specimen of your writing,” Les Young interrupted.
She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“When did you last see Cruikshank?”
“About a week ago in the Bane. Playing pool by himself, because no one would give him a game.”
“I’m surprised he drank there, if he was such a hate figure.”
“He liked it.”
“The pub?”
Harrison shook her head. “All the attention. Didn’t seem to bother him what kind it was, as long as he was at the center . . .”
From the little Siobhan had seen of Cruikshank, she could accept this. “You were a friend of Tracy’s, weren’t you?”
Harrison wagged a finger. “I know who you are now. You hung around with Tracy’s mum and dad, went to her funeral.”
“I didn’t really know her.”
“But you saw what she’d been through.” Again the tone was accusatory.
“Yes, I saw,” Siobhan said quietly.
“We’re police officers, Jan
ine,” Young interrupted. “It’s our job.”
“Fine . . . so go and do your job. Just don’t expect too much help.” She brought her arms out from behind her back and folded them across her chest, creating a picture of hardened resolve.
“If there’s anything you can tell us,” Young persisted, “best we should hear it from your own lips.”
“Then hear this—I didn’t kill him, but I’m glad he’s dead all the same.” She paused. “And if I had killed him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.”
A few seconds of silence followed, then Siobhan asked: “How well do you know Janet Eylot?”
“I know Janet. She works here . . . That’s her chair you’re sitting in.” She nodded towards Young.
“What about socially?”
Harrison nodded.
“You go out drinking?” Siobhan prompted.
“Occasionally.”
“Was she with you in the Bane the last time you saw Cruikshank?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I hear she gets a bit daft with a drink in her.”
“Have you seen her? She’s five-foot-nothing in high heels.”
“You’re saying she wouldn’t have attacked Cruikshank?”
“I’m saying she wouldn’t have succeeded.”
“On the other hand, you look pretty fit, Janine.”
Harrison gave a glacial smile. “You’re not my type.”
Siobhan paused. “Have you any idea what might have happened to Ishbel Jardine?”
Harrison was thrown momentarily by the change of subject. “No,” she said at last.
“She never talked about running away?”
“Never.”
