Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  Farther on, a game of Frisbee saw a panting dog playing monkey-in-the-middle, while a couple on one of the benches made hard work of trying to turn the pages of their Sunday newspapers, each gust of wind threatening to turn the many supplements into airborne kites.

  Rebus had spent a quiet evening at home, but only after a saunter down Lothian Road had established that the movies showing at the Filmhouse were not his kind of thing. He now had a little bet with himself about which of the offerings had received Caro’s custom. He also wondered what excuse he’d have used if she’d happened to bump into him in the foyer . . .

  Nothing I like better than a good Hungarian family saga . . .

  Home had seen him demolish an Indian take-away (his fingers still redolent, even after a morning shower) and a double helping of videos he’d watched before: Rock ’n’ Roll Circus and Midnight Run. While he’d smiled throughout the De Niro, it was Yoko Ono’s performance on the former which had sent him into hoots of laughter.

  Just the four bottles of IPA to wash it all down, which meant he’d awakened early and clearheaded, breakfast consisting of half a leftover nan and a mug of tea. Now it was approaching lunchtime, and Rebus was walking. The old Infirmary was surrounded by billboards, doing nothing to mask the building work within. Last he’d heard, the compound would become a mix of retail and housing. He wondered who would pay to move into a reconfigured cancer ward. Would the place be haunted by a century of distress? Maybe they’d end up running ghost tours, same as they did with places like Mary King’s Alley, said to be home to the spirits of plague victims, or Greyfriars Kirkyard, where covenanters had perished.

  He’d often thought of moving from Marchmont; had gone as far as quizzing a solicitor on a likely asking price. Two hundred K, he’d been told . . . probably not enough to buy even half a cancer ward, but with money like that in his pocket, he could jack the job in on full pension and do some traveling.

  Problem was, nowhere appealed. He’d be far more likely to piss it all away. Was this the fear that kept him working? The job was his whole life; over the years, he’d let it push aside everything else: family, friends, pastimes.

  Which was why he was working now.

  He walked up Chalmers Street, passing the new school, and crossed the road at the art college, heading down Lady Lawson Street. He didn’t know who Lady Lawson had been but doubted she’d be impressed by the road named in her honor—and probably less so by the huddle of pubs and clubs adjoining it. Rebus was back in the pubic triangle. Not that much was happening. It was probably only seven or eight hours since some of the premises had closed for the night. People would be sleeping off Saturday’s excesses: dancers with the best pay packet of the week; owners like Stuart Bullen dreaming of their next expensive car; businessmen wondering how to explain that forthcoming credit-card statement to their spouses . . .

  The street had been cleaned, the neon turned off. Church bells in the distance. Just another Sunday.

  A metal bar held the Nook’s doors closed, fixed by a heavy-duty padlock. Rebus came to a stop, hands in pockets, staring at the empty shop opposite. If there was no answer, he was prepared to walk the extra mile to Haymarket, drop in on Felix Storey at his hotel. He doubted they’d be at work this early. Wherever Stuart Bullen was, he wasn’t in the Nook. Despite which, Rebus crossed the road and rapped his knuckles against the shop window. He waited, looking to left and right. There was no one in the vicinity, no passing traffic, no heads at any of the windows above street level. He knocked again, then noticed a dark green van. It was parked curbside, fifty feet farther along. Rebus strolled towards it. Whoever had owned it originally, their name had been painted out, the shapes of the letters just about discernible beneath the paint job. There was no one visible inside. Around the back, the windows had been painted over. Rebus remembered the surveillance van at Knoxland, Shug Davidson ensconced within. He took another look up and down the street, then pounded his fist on the van’s back doors, placing his face to one of the windows before walking away. He didn’t look back, but did pause as if to examine the small ads in a newsagent’s window.

  “You trying to endanger our operation?” Felix Storey asked. Rebus turned. Storey stood with hands in pockets. He wore green combat trousers and an olive T-shirt.

  “Nice disguise,” Rebus commented. “You must be keen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Working a Sunday shift—Nook doesn’t open till two.”

  “Doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.”

  “No, but the bolts on the door give a pretty big clue . . .”

  Storey slid his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. “What do you want?”

  “I’m after a favor actually.”

  “And you couldn’t just leave a message at my hotel?”

  Rebus shrugged. “Not my style, Felix.” He studied the Immigration man’s clothing again. “So what are you supposed to be? Urban guerrilla or something?”

  “A clubber at repose,” Storey admitted.

  Rebus snorted. “Still . . . the van’s not a bad idea. I dare say the shop’s too risky of a daytime—people might spot someone sitting atop a step-ladder.” Rebus looked to left and right. “Shame the street’s so quiet: you stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Storey just glowered. “And you thumping the van doors . . . that was supposed to look natural, was it?”

  Rebus shrugged again. “It got your attention.”

  “That it did. So go ahead and ask your favor.”

  “Let’s do it over coffee.” Rebus gestured with his head. “There’s a place not two minutes’ walk away.” Storey thought for a moment, glancing towards the van. “I’m assuming you’ve got someone covering for you,” Rebus said.

  “I just need to tell them . . .”

  “On you go, then.”

  Storey pointed down the street. “You walk on ahead, I’ll catch you up.”

  Rebus nodded. He turned and started to leave, turned back to see that Storey was watching over his shoulder as he made his way to the van.

  “What do you want me to order?” Rebus called.

  “Americano,” the Immigration man called back. Then, when Rebus had turned to face the other way, he quickly opened the van doors and jumped in, closing them after him.

  “He wants a favor,” he said to the person within.

  “I wonder what it is.”

  “I’m going with him to find out. Will you be all right here?”

  “Bored to tears, but I’ll manage somehow.”

  “I’ll be ten minutes at most . . .” Storey broke off as the door was yanked open from outside. Rebus’s head appeared.

  “Hiya, Phyl,” he said with a smile. “Want us to fetch you anything . . . ?”

  Rebus felt better for knowing. Ever since he’d been clocked going into the Nook, he’d wondered who Storey’s source was. Had to be someone who knew him; knew Siobhan, too.

  “So Phyllida Hawes is working with you,” he said as the two men sat down with their coffees. The café was on the corner of Lothian Road. They got the table only because a couple were leaving as they arrived. People were immersed in reading: newspapers and books. A woman nursed a small baby as she sipped from her mug. Storey busied himself peeling open the sandwich he’d bought.

  “It’s none of your business,” he growled, working hard at keeping his voice low, not wanting to be overheard. Rebus was trying to place the background music: sixties-style, California-style. He doubted very much it was original; plenty of bands out there trying to sound like the past.

  “None of my business,” Rebus agreed.

  Storey slurped from his mug, wincing at the near-molten temperature. He bit into the refrigerated sandwich to ease the shock.

  “Making any headway?” Rebus was asking.

  “Some,” Storey said through a mouthful of lettuce.

  “But nothing you’d care to share?” Rebus blew across the surface of his own mug: he’d been here before, knew the contents wo
uld be super-heated.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking this whole operation of yours must be costing a fortune. If I was blowing money like that on a surveillance, I’d be sweating a result.”

  “Do I look like I’m sweating?”

  “That’s what interests me. Someone somewhere is either desperate for a conviction, or else scarily confident of getting one.” Storey was ready with a comeback, but Rebus held up a hand. “I know, I know . . . it’s none of my business.”

  “And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  “Scout’s honor.” Rebus raised three fingers in mock salute. “Which brings me to my favor . . .”

  “A favor I’m not inclined to help with.”

  “Not even in a spirit of cross-border cooperation?”

  Storey pretended to be interested only in his sandwich, flecks of which he was brushing from his trousers.

  “You suit those combats, by the way,” Rebus flattered him. Finally, this produced the ghost of a smile.

  “Ask your favor,” the Immigration man said.

  “The murder I’m working on . . . the one in Knoxland.”

  “What of it?”

  “Looks like there was a girlfriend, and I’ve got word she’s from Senegal.”

  “So?”

  “So I’d like to find her.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  Rebus shook his head. “I don’t even know if she’s here legally.” He paused. “That’s where I thought you could help.”

  “Help how?”

  “The Immigration Service must know how many Senegalese there are in the UK. If they’re here legally, you’ll know how many of them live in Scotland . . .”

  “I think, Inspector, you may be mistaking us for a fascist state.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t keep records?”

  “Oh, there are records all right, but only of registered migrants. They wouldn’t show up an illegal, or even a refugee.”

  “The thing is, if she’s here illegally, she’d probably try to find other people from her home country. They’d be most likely to help her, and those are the ones you’d have records of.”

  “Yes, I can see that, but all the same . . .”

  “You’ve got better things to occupy your time?”

  Storey took a tentative sip of his drink, brushed the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. “I’m not even sure the information exists, not in a form you’d find useful.”

  “Right now I’d settle for anything.”

  “You think this girlfriend is involved in the murder?”

  “I think she’s running scared.”

  “Because she knows something?”

  “I won’t know that until I ask her.”

  The Immigration man went quiet, making milky circles on the tabletop with the bottom of his mug. Rebus bided his time, watched the world outside the window. People were heading down to Princes Street; maybe with shopping in mind. There was a queue now at the counter, people looking around for a table they could share. There was a spare chair between Rebus and Storey, which he hoped no one would ask to use: refusal could often offend . . .

  “I can authorize an initial search of the database,” Storey said at last.

  “That would be great.”

  “I’m not promising anything, mind.”

  Rebus nodded his understanding.

  “Have you tried students?” Storey added.

  “Students?”

  “Overseas students. There may be some around town from Senegal.”

  “That’s a thought,” Rebus said.

  “Glad to be of service.” The two men sat in silence until their drinks were finished. Afterwards, Rebus said he’d walk back to the van with Storey. He asked how Stuart Bullen had first appeared on Immigration’s radar.

  “I thought I already told you.”

  “My memory’s not what it was,” Rebus apologized.

  “It was a tip-off—anonymous. That’s how it often starts: they want to stay anonymous until we get a result. After that, they want paying.”

  “So what was the tip-off?”

  “Just that Bullen’s dirty. People-smuggling.”

  “And you set this whole thing in motion on the evidence of one phone call?”

  “This same tipster, he’s come good before—a cargo of illegals coming into Dover in the back of a lorry.”

  “I thought you had all this high-tech stuff at the ports these days.”

  Storey nodded. “We do. Sensors that can pick up body heat . . . electronic sniffer dogs . . .”

  “So you’d have picked these illegals up anyway?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Storey stopped and faced Rebus. “What exactly is it you’re implying, Inspector?”

  “Nothing at all. What is it you think I’m implying?”

  “Nothing at all,” Storey echoed. But his eyes gave the lie to his words.

  That evening, Rebus sat by his window with the telephone in his hand, telling himself there was still time for Caro to call. He’d gone through his record collection, pulling out albums he hadn’t played in years: Montrose, Blue Oyster Cult, Rush, Alex Harvey . . . None of them lasted more than a couple of tracks until he reached Goat’s Head Soup. It was a stew of sounds, ideas stirred into the pot with only half the ingredients improving the flavor. Still, it was better—more melancholy—than he remembered. Ian Stewart played on a couple of tracks. Poor Stu, who’d grown up not far from Rebus in Fife and been a fully fledged member of the Stones until the manager decided he didn’t have the right image, the band keeping him around for sessions and touring.

  Stu hanging in there, even though his face didn’t fit.

  Rebus could sympathize.

  DAY EIGHT

  Monday

  22

  Monday morning, Banehall Library. Beakers of instant coffee, sugar doughnuts from a bakery. Les Young was wearing a three-button gray suit, white shirt, dark blue tie. There was a faint aroma of shoe polish. His team sat at desks and on desks, some scratching at bleary faces; others sucking on the bitter coffee as though it were elixir. There were posters on the walls advertising children’s authors: Michael Morpurgo; Francesca Simon; Eoin Colfer. Another poster depicted a cartoon hero called Captain Underpants, and for some reason this had become Young’s nickname, Siobhan overhearing an exchange to that effect. She didn’t think he would be flattered.

  Having somehow run out of sensible trousers, Siobhan was wearing a skirt and tights—a rare outfit for her. The skirt came to her knees, but she kept tugging at it in the hope that it might magically transform into something a few inches longer. She’d no idea whether her legs were “good” or “bad”—she just didn’t like the idea that people were studying them, maybe even judging her by them. Moreover, she knew that before the end of the day the tights would have contrived to run. As a precaution, she’d stuffed a second pair into her bag.

  Laundry had failed to be part of her weekend. She’d driven to Dundee on Saturday, spending the day with Liz Hetherington, the two of them swapping work stories as they sat in a wine bar, then hitting a restaurant, the flicks, and a couple of clubs, Siobhan sleeping on Liz’s sofa, then driving home again in the afternoon, still groggy.

  She was now on her third cup of coffee.

  One reason she’d gone to Dundee was to escape Edinburgh and the possibility that she might bump into or be cornered by Rebus. She hadn’t been so drunk on Friday night; didn’t regret the stance she’d taken or the ensuing shouting match. It was barroom politics, that was all. But even so, she doubted Rebus would have forgotten, and she knew whose side he’d be on. She was conscious, too, that Whitemire was less than two miles away, and that Caro Quinn was probably back on sentry duty there, struggling to become the conscience of the place.

  Sunday night she’d drifted into the city center, climbing Cockburn Street, passing through Fleshmarket Alley. On the High Street, a group of tourists had huddled around their guide
, Siobhan recognizing her by her hair and voice—Judith Lennox.

  “. . . in Knox’s day, of course, rules were much stricter. You could be punished for plucking a chicken on the Sabbath. No dancing, no theater or gambling. Adultery carried a death sentence, while lesser crimes could be punished by the likes of the branks. This was a padlocked helmet which forced a metal bar into the mouth of liars and blasphemers . . . At the end of the tour, there’ll be a chance for you to enjoy a drink in the Warlock, a traditional inn celebrating the grisly end of Major Weir . . .”

  Siobhan had wondered whether Lennox was being paid for her endorsement.

  “. . . and in conclusion,” Les Young was saying now, “blunt trauma’s what we’re looking at. A couple of good whacks, fracturing the skull and causing bleeding in the brainpan. Death almost certainly instantaneous . . .” He was reading from the autopsy notes. “And according to the pathologist, circular indentations would indicate that something like an everyday hammer was used . . . sort of thing you’d find in DIY stores, diameter of two-point-nine centimeters.”

  “What about the force of the blow, sir?” one of the team asked.

  Young gave a wry smile. “The notes are a bit coy, but reading between the lines I think we can safely say we’re dealing with a male attacker . . . and more likely to be right- than left-handed. The pattern of the indents makes it look as though the victim was struck from behind.” Young walked over to where a room divider had become a makeshift notice-board, crime-scene photos pinned to it. “We’ll be getting close-ups from the autopsy later today.” He was pointing to a photo from Cruikshank’s bedroom, the head helmeted in blood. “It was the back of the skull that took most damage . . . that’s hard to do if you’re standing in front of the person you’re attacking.”