Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  The three officers identified themselves for the benefit of the tapes, then Davidson asked the Irishman to give his full name. He seemed content to let the silence lie, flicking threads from his trousers and then clasping his hands in front of him on the edge of the desk.

  Hill continued to stare at a patch of wall between Davidson and Storey. Finally, he spoke.

  “I could do with a cup of tea. Milk, three sugars.” He was missing some teeth from the back of his mouth, giving his cheeks a sunken look, emphasizing the skull beneath the sallow skin. His hair was cropped and silver-gray, eyes pale blue, neck scrawny. Probably not much more than five feet nine tall and ten stone in weight.

  Most of it attitude.

  “In due course,” Davidson said quietly.

  “And a lawyer . . . a phone call . . .”

  “Same applies. Meantime . . .” Davidson opened a manila folder and extracted a large, black-and-white photograph. “This is you, isn’t it?”

  Only half the face was showing, the rest hidden by the parka’s hood. It had been taken the day of the Knoxland demo, the day Howie Slowther had gone for Mo Dirwan with a rock.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “How about this?” The photographer this time had caught a full-face shot. “Taken a few months back, also in Knoxland . . .”

  “And your point is . . . ?”

  “My point is, I’ve been waiting a good long time to get you for something.” Davidson smiled and turned to Felix Storey.

  “Mr. Hill,” Storey began, crossing one knee over the other, “I’m an Immigration officer. We’ll be checking the credentials of all those workers to see how many of them are here illegally.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. I was out for a drive down the coast—not against the law, is it?”

  “No, but a jury might just wonder at the coincidence of that list of names on the passenger seat, if it turns out they match the names of the people we’ve detained.”

  “What list?” Finally, Hill’s eyes met those of his questioner. “If there’s any list been found, it’s been planted.”

  “So we won’t expect to find your fingerprints on it, then?”

  “And none of the workers will be able to identify you?” Davidson added, twisting the knife.

  “Not against the law, is it?”

  “Actually,” Storey confided, “I think slavery may have come off the statute book a few centuries back.”

  “That why they let a nigger like you wear a suit?” the Irishman spat.

  Storey gave a wry smile, as if satisfied that things had come to this so readily. “I’ve heard the Irish referred to as the blacks of Europe—does that make us brothers beneath the skin?”

  “It means you can go arse yourself.”

  Storey tipped his head back and laughed from deep within his chest. Davidson had closed the file again—leaving the two photographs out, facing Peter Hill. He was tapping a finger against the file, as if drawing to Hill’s attention the thickness of it, the sheer quantity of information within.

  “So how long have you been in the slave trade?” Rebus asked the Irishman.

  “I’m saying nothing till I get a mug of tea.” Hill leaned back and folded his arms. “And I want it brought in by my lawyer.”

  “You’ve got a lawyer, then? Seems to suggest you thought you’d be needing one.”

  Hill turned his gaze towards Rebus, but his question was aimed across the table. “How long do youse think you can keep me here?”

  “That depends,” Davidson told him. “You see, these links of yours to the paramilitaries . . .” He was still tapping the file. “Thanks to the legislation on terrorism, we can hold you a bit longer than you might think.”

  “So now I’m a terrorist?” Hill sneered.

  “You were always a terrorist, Peter. The only thing that’s changed is how you go about funding it. Last month you were a dealer; today you’re a slaver . . .”

  There was a knock at the door. The head of a detective constable appeared.

  “Have you got it?” Davidson asked. The head nodded. “Then you can come in here and keep the suspect company.” Davidson started rising to his feet, intoning for the benefit of the various recording devices that the interview was being suspended, checking his watch to give the exact time. The machines were switched off. Davidson offered the DC his chair and accepted a scrap of paper in return. Outside in the corridor, once the door was firmly closed, he unfolded the paper, stared at it, then handed it to Storey, whose mouth broke open in a gleaming grin.

  Finally, the paper was passed to Rebus. It contained a description of the red BMW, along with its license plate. Below it, written in capitals, were the owner’s details.

  The owner was Stuart Bullen.

  Storey snatched the note back from Rebus and planted a kiss on it. Then he did a little shuffle of a dance.

  The high spirits seemed infectious. Davidson was grinning, too. He patted Felix Storey on the back. “Not often surveillance brings a result,” he offered, looking to Rebus for his agreement.

  But it wasn’t the surveillance, Rebus couldn’t help thinking. It was another mysterious tip-off.

  That, and Storey’s own intuition about the BMW’s ownership.

  If intuition was indeed all it had been . . .

  25

  When they arrived at the Nook, they met another raiding party—Siobhan and Les Young. Offices were emptying for the day, and a few suits were heading past the doormen. Rebus broke off asking Siobhan what she was doing there when he saw one of the doormen place a hand to the mouthpiece of his radio headset. The man was turning his face to one side, but Rebus knew they’d been clocked.

  “He’s telling Bullen we’re here!” Rebus called out to the others. They moved quickly, pushing past the businessmen and into the premises. The music was loud, the place busier than on Rebus’s first visit. There were more dancers, too: four of them on the stage. Siobhan held back, studying faces, while Rebus led the way towards Bullen’s office. The door with the keypad was locked. Rebus looked around, saw the barman—recalled his name: Barney Grant.

  “Barney!” he yelled. “Get over here!”

  Barney put down the glass he was filling, came out from behind the bar. Punched in the numbers. Rebus shouldered the door and immediately felt the ground fall away beneath him. He was in the short corridor leading to Bullen’s office, only now the cover of a trapdoor had been lifted and it was through this opening that he’d fallen, landing awkwardly on the wooden steps which led down into darkness.

  “What the hell’s this?” Storey yelped.

  “Sort of tunnel,” the barman offered.

  “Where does it lead?”

  He just shook his head. Rebus hobbled down the steps as best he could. His right leg felt like he’d grazed it all the way from ankle to knee, and he’d managed to twist his left ankle for good measure. He peered up at the faces above him. “Go outside, see if you can work out where it might lead.”

  “Could be anywhere,” Davidson muttered.

  Rebus peered along the tunnel. “It’s heading down towards the Grassmarket, I think.” He then closed his eyes, trying to get them accustomed to the dark, and started moving, keeping his hands against the side walls to steady himself. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again, blinking a few times. He could make out the damp earthen floor, the curved walls, and sloping ceiling. Probably man-made, going back centuries: the Old Town was a warren of tunnels and catacombs, mostly unexplored. They had sheltered the inhabitants from invasion, made assignations and plots possible. Smugglers might have used them. In more recent times, people had tried growing everything from mushrooms to cannabis in them. A few had been opened as tourist attractions, but the bulk were like this: cramped and unloved and filled with stale air.

  The tunnel was veering left. Rebus took out his mobile, but there was no signal, no way of letting the others know. He could hear movement ahead of him, but nothing visible.

  “St
uart?” he called out, voice echoing. “This is bloody stupid, Stuart!”

  And kept moving, seeing a faint glow in the distance, a body disappearing into it. Then the glow was gone. It was another door, this time in the side wall, and Bullen had closed it after him. Rebus placed both hands to the right wall, fearing he’d miss the opening. His fingers hit something hard. A doorknob of all things. He turned and pulled, but the door opened the other way. Tried again, but something heavy had been placed against it. Rebus called out for help, pushed with his shoulder. A noise from the other side: someone attempting to slide a box out of the way.

  Then the door opened, leaving a space of only a couple of feet. Rebus crawled through. The door was at floor level. As he stood up, he saw that a box of books had been used for the barricade. An elderly man was staring at him.

  “He went out of the door,” was all he said. Rebus nodded and limped in that direction. Once outside, he knew exactly where he was: West Port. Emerging from a secondhand bookshop not a hundred yards from the Nook. He had his mobile in his hand. It had picked up a signal again. Glanced back towards the traffic lights at Lady Lawson Street, then to his right, down towards the Grassmarket. Saw what he’d been hoping for.

  Stuart Bullen being marched up the middle of the road towards him. Felix Storey behind him with Bullen’s right arm twisted upwards. Bullen’s clothes torn and dirty. Rebus looked down at his own. They didn’t look much better. He pulled up his trouser leg, glad to see there was no blood, just scrape marks. Shug Davidson was emerging at a jog from Lady Lawson Street, face red from running. Rebus bent at the waist, hands on his knees. Wanted a cigarette, but knew he wouldn’t have the breath to smoke one. Stood up straight again and was face-to-face with Bullen.

  “I was gaining,” he told the young man. “Honest.”

  They took him back to the Nook. Word had gone around, and the place was empty of punters. Siobhan was quizzing some of the dancers, who sat in a line at the bar, Barney Grant pouring soft drinks for them.

  A solitary customer emerged from behind the VIP curtain, puzzled by the sudden lack of music and voices. He seemed to sum up the situation and tightened the knot in his tie as he made to exit. Rebus’s limp caused him to bump shoulders with the man.

  “Sorry,” the man muttered.

  “My fault, councillor,” Rebus said, watching him as he left. Then he walked over to Siobhan, nodding a greeting to Les Young. “So what’s all this about?”

  It was Young who answered. “We need to ask Stuart Bullen a few questions.”

  “About what?” Rebus’s eyes were still on Siobhan.

  “In connection with the murder of Donald Cruikshank.”

  Now Rebus’s attention shifted to Young. “Well, intriguing as that sounds, you’re going to have to wait in line. I think you’ll find we’ve got first dibs.”

  “We being . . . ?”

  Rebus gestured towards Felix Storey, who was finally—and reluctantly—letting go of Bullen, now that his hands had been handcuffed. “That man’s Immigration. He’s had Bullen under surveillance for weeks—people-smuggling, white slavery, you name it.”

  “We’ll need access,” Les Young said.

  “Then go plead your case.” Rebus stretched an arm out towards Storey and Shug Davidson. Les Young gave him a hard stare, then headed off in that direction. Siobhan was glowering at Rebus.

  “What?” he asked, all innocence.

  “It’s me you’re pissed off with, remember? Don’t go picking on Les.”

  “Les is a big boy; he can look after himself.”

  “Problem is, in a scrap, he’d play fair . . . unlike some.”

  “Harsh words, Siobhan.”

  “Sometimes you need to hear them.”

  Rebus just shrugged. “So what’s this about Bullen and Cruikshank?”

  “Homemade porn in the victim’s home. Featuring at least one of the dancers from this place.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “We just need to talk to him.”

  “I’m willing to bet there are some on the inquiry who’re wondering why. They reckon if a rapist gets topped, why bust a gut over it?” He paused. “Am I right?”

  “You’d know better than me.”

  Rebus turned towards where Young and Davidson were in conversation. “Maybe you’re trying to impress young Les over there . . .”

  She hauled on Rebus’s shoulder, so she had his full attention again. “It’s a murder case, John. You’d be doing everything I’m doing.”

  He gave the beginnings of a smile. “I’m just teasing, Siobhan.” He turned to the open doorway, the one leading to Bullen’s office. “The first time we were here, did you notice that trapdoor?”

  “I just thought it was the cellar.” She halted. “You didn’t spot it?”

  “Forgot it was there, that’s all,” he lied, rubbing his right leg.

  “Looks sore, mate.” Barney Grant was studying the injury. “Like you’ve been studded. Used to play a bit of footie, so I know what I’m talking about.”

  “You might have warned us about the trapdoor.”

  The barman offered a shrug. Felix Storey was pushing Stuart Bullen towards the hallway. Rebus made to follow, Siobhan trailing him. Storey slammed shut the trapdoor. “Good place to hide any illegals,” he said. Bullen just snorted. The door to the office was ajar. Storey opened it with one foot. It was as Rebus remembered it: cramped and full of junk. Storey’s nose wrinkled.

  “Going to take us a while to empty all this into evidence bags.”

  “Christ’s sake,” Bullen muttered by way of complaint.

  The door of the safe was slightly ajar, too, and Storey used the tip of a polished brogue to open it up.

  “Well now,” he said. “I think we’d better get those evidence bags in here.”

  “This is a setup!” Bullen started to shout. “It’s a plant, you bastards!” He made to shake himself free of Storey’s grip, but the Immigration man was four inches taller and probably twenty pounds heavier. Everyone stood crowded in the doorway, trying for a better view. Davidson and Young had arrived, as had some of the dancers.

  Rebus turned to Siobhan, who pursed her lips. She’d seen what he’d just seen. Lying in the open safe—a stack of passports held with a rubber band; blank credit and debit cards; various official-looking stamps and franking machines. Plus other folded documents, maybe birth or marriage certificates.

  Everything you’d need to create a new identity.

  Or even a few hundred.

  They took Stuart Bullen to Torphichen’s Interview Room 1.

  “We’ve got your pal next door,” Felix Storey said. He’d removed his jacket and was loosening his cuff links so he could roll up his shirtsleeves.

  “Who’s that, then?” Bullen’s handcuffs had been removed and he was rubbing his reddened wrists.

  “Peter Hill, I think his name is.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Irish guy . . . speaks very highly of you.”

  Bullen caught Storey’s eye. “Now I know this is a setup.”

  “Why? Because you’re confident Hill won’t talk?”

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t know him.”

  “We’ve got photos of him coming in and out of your club.”

  Bullen stared at Storey, as if trying to gauge the truth of this. Rebus himself didn’t know. It was possible the surveillance had netted Hill; then again, Storey could be bluffing. He had brought nothing with him to this meeting: no files or folders. Bullen turned his gaze on Rebus.

  “Sure you want him around?” he asked Storey.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Word is, he’s Cafferty’s man.”

  “Who?”

  “Cafferty—he runs this whole city.”

  “And why should that concern you, Mr. Bullen?”

  “Because Cafferty hates my family.” He paused for effect. “And someone planted that stuff.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that
,” Storey said, almost sorrowfully. “Try explaining away your connection to Peter Hill.”

  “I keep telling you,” Bullen’s teeth were gritted, “there isn’t any.”

  “And that’s why we found him in your car?”

  The room went quiet. Shug Davidson was walking up and down with arms folded. Rebus stood in his favored place by the wall. Stuart Bullen was making an examination of his own fingernails.

  “Red BMW, seven series,” Storey went on, “registered in your name.”

  “I lost that car months back.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Hardly worth the effort.”

  “And that’s the story you’ll be sticking to—planted evidence and a misplaced BMW? I hope you’ve got a good lawyer, Mr. Bullen.”

  “Maybe I’ll try that Mo Dirwan . . . he seems to win a few.” Bullen shifted his gaze to Rebus. “I hear the two of you are good mates.”

  “Funny you should mention it,” Shug Davidson interrupted, stopping in front of the table. “Because your friend Hill has been seen out at Knoxland. We’ve got photos of him from the demo, same day Mr. Dirwan was nearly attacked.”

  “That what you do all day, take pictures of people without them knowing?” Bullen looked around the room. “Some men do that and get called pervs.”

  “Speaking of which,” Rebus said, “we’ve got another inquiry waiting to talk to you.”

  Bullen opened his arms. “I’m a popular man.”

  “And that’s why you’re going to be with us for quite some time, Mr. Bullen,” Storey said. “So make yourself comfortable . . .”

  Forty minutes in, they took a break. The detained mollusk-pickers were being held at St. Leonard’s, the only place with enough cells to take them all. Storey headed off to a telephone, to check on progress with the interviews. Rebus and Davidson had just got their hands on a tea apiece when Siobhan and Young found them.

  “Do we get to talk to him now?” Siobhan asked.

  “We’ll be going back in soon,” Davidson told her.