Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “It definitely happened in the bedroom?” someone else asked. “He wasn’t moved afterwards?”

  “He died where he fell, best as we can tell.” Young looked around the room. “Any more questions?” There were none. “Right, then . . .” He turned to a roster of the day’s workload, started assigning tasks. The onus seemed to be on Cruikshank’s porn collection, its provenance and who might have been party to it. Officers were being sent to Barlinnie to ask the wardens about any friends Cruikshank had made while serving his sentence. Siobhan knew that sex offenders were kept in a separate wing from other prisoners. This stopped them being attacked on a daily basis, but also meant that they tended to form friendships with one another, which only made matters worse on release: a lone offender might be introduced to a whole network of similar-minded individuals, completing a circle which led to further offending and future brushes with the law.

  “Siobhan?” She focused her eyes on Young, realizing he’d been speaking to her.

  “Yes?” She looked down, saw her cup was once again empty, craved another refill.

  “Did you get round to interviewing Ishbel Jardine’s boyfriend?”

  “You mean her ex?” Siobhan cleared her throat. “No, not yet.”

  “You didn’t think he might know something?”

  “They’d split amicably.”

  “Yes, but all the same . . .”

  Siobhan could feel her face reddening. Yes, she’d been too preoccupied elsewhere, concentrating her efforts on Donny Cruikshank.

  “He was on my list,” was all she could think to say.

  “Well, would you like to see him now?” Young checked his watch. “I’m due to talk to him as soon as we’re finished here.”

  Siobhan nodded her agreement. She could feel eyes on her, knew there were some ill-disguised grins around the room, too. In the team’s collective mind, she and Young were already linked, the DI smitten with this interloper.

  Captain Underpants now had a sidekick.

  “Roy Brinkley’s his name,” Young told her. “All I know is, he dated Ishbel for seven or eight months, then a couple of months back they split up.” They were alone in the murder room, the others having set out with their assignments.

  “You see him as a suspect?”

  “There’s a link there we need to ask him about. Cruikshank does time for attacking Tracy Jardine . . . Tracy tops herself and her sister does a runner . . .” Young gave a shrug, arms folded.

  “But he was Ishbel’s boyfriend, not Tracy’s . . . surely if anyone was going to have a go at Cruikshank, it’s more likely to’ve been one of Tracy’s boyfriends than one of Ishbel’s . . .” Siobhan broke off, fixing her eyes on Young’s. “But then Roy Brinkley’s not the suspect, is he? You’re wondering what he knows about Ishbel’s disappearance . . . You think she did it!”

  “I don’t recall saying that.”

  “But it’s what you’re thinking. Didn’t I just hear you say the blows came from a man?”

  “And you’ll keep hearing me saying that.”

  Siobhan nodded slowly. “Because you don’t want her to know. You’re scared she’d become even more invisible . . .” Siobhan paused. “You think she’s close, don’t you?”

  “I’ve no proof of it.”

  “Is this what you’ve been doing all weekend, mulling it over?”

  “Actually, it came to me on Friday night.” He unfolded his arms, started walking towards the door, Siobhan following.

  “While you were playing bridge?”

  Young nodded. “Unfair on my partner—we hardly won a hand.”

  They’d left the murder room now and were in the main library. Siobhan reminded him that he hadn’t locked the door.

  “Not necessary,” he said, giving a half smile.

  “I thought we were going to talk to Roy Brinkley.”

  Young just nodded, making to pass the reception desk, where the morning’s first batch of returns were being run through a scanner by the male librarian. Siobhan had taken a few more steps before she realized Young had stopped. He was standing directly in front of the librarian.

  “Roy Brinkley?” he said. The young man looked up.

  “That’s right.”

  “Any chance we could have a word?” Young gestured towards the murder room.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Roy. We just need a little bit of background . . .”

  As Brinkley emerged from behind his desk, Siobhan stepped up next to Les Young and poked him in the side with her finger.

  “Sorry,” Young apologized to the librarian, “there’s nowhere else we can do this . . .”

  He’d pulled out a chair for Brinkley. It gave a direct line of sight to the murder-scene photos. Siobhan knew he was lying; knew the interview was being conducted here because of those very photos. Try as he might to ignore them, the young man’s eyes were drawn towards them anyway. The look of horror on his face would have been defense enough in most juries’ minds.

  Roy Brinkley was in his early twenties. He wore an open-necked denim shirt, his wavy mop of brown hair reaching the collar. There were thin threaded bracelets on his wrists but no watch. Siobhan would have called him pretty rather than handsome. He could pass for seventeen or eighteen. She could see the attraction for Ishbel but wondered how he had coped with her noisy ladette friends . . .

  “Did you know him?” Young was asking. Neither detective was seated. Young leaned against a table, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. Siobhan stood at a distance to Brinkley’s left, so that he would be aware of her from the corner of his eye.

  “Didn’t so much know him as knew of him.”

  “Two of you at school together?”

  “But different years. He was never really a bully . . . more the class joker. I got the feeling he never found a way to fit in.”

  Siobhan was reminded for a moment of Alf McAteer, playing jester for Alexis Cater.

  “But this is a small town, Roy,” Young was protesting. “You must have known him to speak to, at the very least?”

  “If we happened to meet, I suppose we’d say hello.”

  “Maybe you always had your head in a book, eh?”

  “I like books . . .”

  “So what about you and Ishbel Jardine? How did that start?”

  “First time we met was at a club . . .”

  “You didn’t know her at school?”

  Brinkley shrugged. “She was three years below me.”

  “So you met at this club and started going out?”

  “Not straightaway . . . we had a few dances, but then I danced with her mates, too.”

  “And who were her mates, Roy?” Siobhan asked. Brinkley looked from Young to Siobhan and back again.

  “I thought this was about Donny Cruikshank?”

  Young made a noncommittal gesture. “Background, Roy,” was all he said.

  Brinkley turned to Siobhan. “There were two of them—Janet and Susie.”

  “Janet from Whitemire, Susie from the Salon?” Siobhan clarified. The young man just nodded. “And which club was this?”

  “Somewhere in Falkirk . . . I think it closed down . . .” He wrinkled his brow in concentration.

  “The Albatross?” Siobhan guessed.

  “That’s the one, yes.” Brinkley was nodding enthusiastically.

  “You know it?” Les Young asked Siobhan.

  “It came up in connection with a recent case,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Afterwards,” she said in warning, nodding towards Brinkley, letting Young know this wasn’t the time. He twitched his head in agreement.

  “Ishbel and her friends were pretty close, weren’t they, Roy?” Siobhan asked.

  “Sure.”

  “So why would she run off without so much as a word to them?”

  He shrugged. “Have you asked them that?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t have an answer.”
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  “Well, what about this, then: why did the two of you split up?”

  “Just drifted apart, I suppose.”

  “Had to be a reason, though,” Les Young added, taking a step towards Brinkley. “I mean, did she dump you, or was it the other way round?”

  “It was more a mutual thing.”

  “Which is why you stayed friends?” Siobhan guessed. “So what was your first thought when you heard she’d run off?”

  He twisted in his chair, making it creak. “Her mum and dad turned up at my place, wanted to know if I’d seen her. To be honest . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought it might be their fault. They never really got over Tracy’s suicide. Always talking about her, telling stories from the past . . .”

  “And Ishbel? Are you telling me she did get over it?”

  “She seemed to.”

  “So why did she dye her hair, style it so she looked more like Tracy?”

  “Look, I’m not saying they’re bad people . . .” He squeezed his hands together.

  “Who? John and Alice?”

  He nodded. “It’s just that Ishbel got the idea . . . the notion they really wanted Tracy back. I mean, Tracy rather than her.”

  “And that’s why she tried to look like Tracy?”

  He nodded again. “I mean, it’s a lot to take on, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why she left . . .” His head dropped disconsolately. Siobhan looked across to Les Young, whose lips formed a thoughtful pout. The silence lasted the best part of a minute, until broken by Siobhan.

  “Do you know where Ishbel is, Roy?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill Donny Cruikshank?”

  “Part of me wishes I had.”

  “Who do you think did it? Has Ishbel’s dad crossed your mind?”

  Brinkley raised his head. “Crossed my mind . . . yes. But only for a moment.”

  She nodded as if in agreement.

  Les Young had a question of his own. “Did you see Cruikshank after his release, Roy?”

  “I saw him.”

  “To speak to?”

  He shook his head. “Saw him with a guy a couple of times, though.”

  “What guy?”

  “Must’ve been a mate of his.”

  “But you didn’t know him?”

  “No.”

  “Probably not local, then.”

  “Might’ve been . . . I don’t know every single person in Banehall. Like you said yourself, too often I’ve got my head stuck in a book.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “You’ll know him if you see him,” Brinkley said, half his mouth forming the beginnings of a smile.

  “How’s that, then?”

  “Tattoo all across his neck.” He touched his own throat to indicate the area. “A spider’s web . . .”

  Not wanting to be overheard by Roy Brinkley, they sat in Siobhan’s car.

  “Spider’s-web tattoo,” she commented.

  “Not the first time it’s come up,” Les Young informed her. “One of the drinkers at the Bane mentioned it. Barman admitted he’d served the guy once, didn’t like the look of him.”

  “No name?”

  Young shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll get one.”

  “Someone he met in jail?”

  Young didn’t answer; he had a question for her. “So what’s this about the Albatross?”

  “Don’t tell me you know the place, too?”

  “When I was a teenager in Livingston, if you didn’t go to Lothian Road for your kicks, you might get lucky at the Albatross.”

  “It had a reputation, then?”

  “A bad sound system, watered beer, and sticky dance floor.”

  “But people still went?”

  “For a while it was the only game in town . . . some nights, there were more women there than men—women old enough to’ve known better.”

  “So it was a knocking-shop?”

  He shrugged. “I never got the chance to find out.”

  “Too busy playing bridge,” she teased.

  He ignored this. “But I’m intrigued that you know about it.”

  “Did you read in the paper about those skeletons?”

  He smiled. “I didn’t need to: plenty of gossip flying around the station. It’s not often Dr. Curt screws up.”

  “He didn’t screw up.” She paused. “And even if he did, they fooled me, too.”

  “How so?”

  “I covered the baby with my jacket.”

  “The plastic baby?”

  “Half covered in earth and cement . . .”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I still don’t see the connection.”

  “It’s thin,” she agreed. “The man who runs the pub, he used to own the Albatross.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I suppose so . . .”

  “But you’ll talk to him again, in case he knew Ishbel?”

  “Might do.”

  Young sighed. “Leaving us with the tattooed man and not much else.”

  “It’s more than we had an hour ago.”

  “I suppose so.” He stared out across the car park. “How come Banehall doesn’t have a decent café?”

  “We could nip up the M8 to Harthill.”

  “Why? What’s at Harthill.”

  “Motorway services.”

  “I did say decent, didn’t I?”

  “Just a suggestion . . .” Siobhan decided to stare out through the windscreen, too.

  “All right, then,” Young eventually conceded. “You drive, and the drinks are on me.”

  “Deal,” she said, starting the car.

  23

  Rebus was back at George Square, standing outside Dr. Maybury’s office. He could hear voices within, which didn’t stop him knocking.

  “Enter!”

  He opened the door and peered in. It was a tutorial, eight sleepy-looking faces arranged around the table. He smiled at Maybury. “Mind if I speak to you for a minute?”

  She let her spectacles slip from her nose, to dangle from a cord just above her chest. Stood up without saying anything, managed to squeeze through what gaps there were between chairs and wall. She closed the door behind her and exhaled loudly.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you again,” Rebus began to apologize.

  “No, it’s not that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Bit of a dippy group?”

  “I’ll never know why we bother to hold tutorials this early on a Monday.” She stretched her neck to left and right. “Sorry—not your problem. Any luck tracing the woman from Senegal?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Our latest theory is that she might know some of the students.” Rebus paused. “Actually, she could even be a student.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, what I was wondering was . . . how do I go about finding out for sure? I know it’s not your territory, but if you could point me in the right direction . . .”

  Maybury thought for a moment. “Registry office would be your best bet.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Old College.”

  “Opposite Thin’s Bookshop?”

  She smiled. “Been a while since you bought any books, Inspector? Thin’s went bust; it’s run by Blackwell’s now.”

  “But that’s where Old College is?”

  She nodded. “Sorry for the pedantry.”

  “Will they talk to me, do you think?”

  “The only people they ever see down there are students who’ve lost their ID cards. You’ll be like some exotic new species to them. Walk across Bristo Square and take the underpass. You can get into Old College from West College Street.”

  “I think I knew that, but thanks anyway.”

  “You know what I’m doing?” she seemed to realize. “I’m yacking away to postpone the inevitable.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Forty minutes still to go . . .” />
  Rebus made a show of listening at the door. “Sounds like they’ve dropped off anyway. Be a shame to wake them.”

  “Linguistics waits for no man, Inspector,” Maybury said, stiffening her spine. “Once more to the fray.” She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Disappeared inside.

  As he walked, Rebus called Whitemire and asked to be put through to Traynor.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Traynor’s not available.”

  “Is that you, Janet?” There was silence for a moment.

  “Speaking,” Janet Eylot said.

  “Janet, it’s DI Rebus here. Look, I’m sorry you’ve had my colleagues bothering you. If I can help at all, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “So what’s up with your boss? Don’t tell me he’s off with stress.”

  “He just doesn’t want any interruptions this morning.”

  “Fine, but can you try him for me? Tell him I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  She took her time replying. “Very well,” she said at last. A few moments later, Traynor picked up.

  “Look, I’m up to my eyes . . .”

  “Aren’t we all?” Rebus sympathized. “I was just wondering if you’d run those checks for me.”

  “What checks?”

  “Kurds and French-speaking Africans, bailed from Whitemire.”

  Traynor sighed. “There aren’t any.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Now, was that all you were wanting?”

  “For now,” Rebus said. The call was disconnected before the final word had died away. Rebus stared at his mobile, decided it wasn’t worth making a nuisance of himself. He had his answer after all.

  He just wasn’t sure he believed it.

  “Highly unusual,” the woman at the registry said, not for the first time. She had led Rebus across the quadrangle to another set of offices in Old College. Rebus seemed to remember that this had once been the medical faculty, a place grave robbers brought their wares to sell to inquisitive surgeons. And hadn’t the serial killer William Burke been dissected here after his hanging? He made the mistake of asking his guide. She peered at him over her half-moon glasses. If she thought him exotic, she was hiding it well.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she trilled. Her walk was brisk, feet kept close together. Rebus reckoned she was around the same age as him, but it was hard to imagine her ever having been younger. “Highly irregular,” she said now, as if to herself, stretching her vocabulary.