Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  Mangold shook his head. “Just trying to think what this’ll look like when it’s finished.”

  “Tourists will lap it up,” Rebus told him.

  Mangold smiled. “That’s what I’m hoping.” He removed his hands from his pockets, clapped them together. “So what can I do to help you today?”

  “Those skeletons . . .” Rebus gestured towards the patch of earth where the find had been made.

  “I can’t believe you’re still wasting your time . . .”

  “We’re not,” Rebus broke in. He was standing next to a wheelbarrow, presumably belonging to the builder, Joe Evans. There was a toolbox lying open inside it, a hammer and stone chisel uppermost. Rebus lifted the stone chisel, impressed with its weight. “Do you know a man called Stuart Bullen?”

  Mangold considered his answer. “I know of him. Rab Bullen’s son.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think he owns some sort of strip joint . . .”

  “The Nook.”

  Mangold nodded slowly. “That’s it . . .”

  Rebus let the chisel clatter back into the barrow. “He also does a nice sideline in slavery, Mr. Mangold.”

  “Slavery?”

  “Illegal immigrants. He puts them to work, probably holds back a decent cut for himself. Looks like he might be providing them with new identities, too.”

  “Christ.” Mangold looked from Rebus to Siobhan and back again. “Hang on though . . . what’s this got to do with me?”

  “When one of the immigrants started acting up, Bullen decided to scare him off. Showed him a couple of skeletons being buried in a cellar.”

  Mangold’s eyes widened. “The ones Evans dug up?”

  Rebus just shrugged, eyes boring into Mangold’s. “Cellar door always kept locked, Mr. Mangold?”

  “Look, I told you right at the start, that concrete was laid before I came here.”

  Rebus offered another shrug. “We’ve only got your word for that, seeing how you’ve not been able to supply any paperwork.”

  “Maybe I could take another look.”

  “Maybe you could. Careful, though: the brain-boxes at the police lab are dab hands . . . they can pinpoint how far back something was written or typed—can you believe that?”

  Mangold nodded to show that he could. “I’m not saying I will find anything . . .”

  “But you’ll take another look, and we appreciate that.” Rebus lifted the chisel again. “And you don’t know Stuart Bullen . . . never met him?”

  Mangold shook his head vigorously. Rebus let the silence lie between them, then turned towards Siobhan, signaling her turn to enter the ring.

  “Mr. Mangold,” she said, “can I ask you about Ishbel Jardine?”

  Mangold seemed nonplussed. “What about her?”

  “That sort of answers one of my questions—you do know her, then?”

  “Know her? No . . . I mean . . . she used to come to my club.”

  “The Albatross?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you knew her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you telling me you remember the name of every punter who came to the Albatross?”

  Rebus snorted at this, adding further to Mangold’s discomfort.

  “I know the name,” Mangold stumbled on, “because of her sister. She’s the one who killed herself. Look . . .” He glanced at his gold wristwatch. “I should be upstairs . . . we’re due to open in a minute.”

  “Just a few more questions,” Rebus said resolutely, still holding the chisel.

  “I don’t know what’s going on. First it’s the skeletons, then it’s Ishbel Jardine . . . what’s any of it got to do with me?”

  “Ishbel’s disappeared, Mr. Mangold,” Siobhan informed him. “She used to go to your club, and now she’s disappeared.”

  “Hundreds of people came to the Albatross every week,” Mangold complained.

  “They didn’t all disappear, though, did they?”

  “We know about the skeletons in your cellar,” Rebus added, letting the chisel drop again with a deafening clang, “but what about the ones in your cupboard? Anything you want us to know, Mr. Mangold?”

  “Look, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Stuart Bullen’s in custody. He’ll be wanting to do a deal, telling us more than we ever needed to know. What do you think he’ll tell us about those skeletons?”

  Mangold was making for the open doorway, passing between the two detectives as if starved of oxygen. He burst out into Fleshmarket Alley and turned to face them, breathing hard.

  “I have to open up,” he gasped.

  “We’re listening,” Rebus said.

  Mangold stared at him. “I mean I have to open the bar.”

  Rebus and Siobhan emerged into daylight, Mangold turning the key in the padlock after them. They watched him march to the top of the lane and disappear around the corner.

  “What do you think?” Siobhan asked.

  “I think we still make a good team.”

  She nodded agreement. “He knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Just like everyone else.” Rebus shook his cigarette pack and then decided he’d save the last for later. “So what’s next?”

  “Can you drop me at my flat? I need to pick up my car.”

  “You can walk to Gayfield Square from your flat.”

  “But I’m not going to Gayfield Square.”

  “So where are you headed?”

  She tapped the side of her nose. “Secrets, John . . . just like everybody else.”

  27

  Rebus was back at Torphichen, where Felix Storey was in the midst of a heated debate with DI Shug Davidson over his urgent requirement for an office, desk, and chair.

  “And an outside line,” Storey added. “I’ve got my own laptop.”

  “We’ve no desks to spare, never mind offices,” Davidson replied.

  “My desk’s going free at Gayfield Square,” Rebus offered.

  “I need to be here,” Storey insisted, pointing down at the floor.

  “Far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay there!” Davidson spat, walking away.

  “Not a bad punch line,” Rebus mused.

  “Whatever happened to cooperation?” Storey asked, sounding suddenly resigned to his fate.

  “Maybe he’s jealous,” Rebus offered. “All these nice results you’ve been getting.” Storey looked as if he was getting ready to preen. “Yes,” Rebus went on, “all these nice, easy results.”

  Storey looked at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  Rebus shrugged. “Nothing at all, except that you owe your mystery caller a case or two of malt, the way he’s come through for you on this one.”

  Storey was still staring. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Isn’t that what the bad guys usually tell us when there’s something they don’t want us to know?”

  “And what is it exactly that you don’t think I want you to know?” Storey’s voice had thickened.

  “Maybe I won’t know till you tell me.”

  “And why would I do a thing like that?”

  Rebus gave an open smile. “Because I’m one of the good guys?” he offered.

  “I’m still not convinced of that, Detective Inspector.”

  “Despite me jumping down that rabbit hole and flushing Bullen out the other end?”

  Storey gave a cool smile. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

  “I saved your nice, expensive suit from getting scuffed . . .”

  “Not that expensive.”

  “And I’ve managed to keep quiet about you and Phyllida Hawes . . .”

  Storey scowled. “DC Hawes was a member of my team.”

  “And that’s why the two of you were in the back of that van on a Sunday morning?”

  “If you’re going to start making allegations . . .”

  But Rebus smiled and slapped Storey’s arm with the back of his hand. “
I’m just winding you up, Felix.”

  Storey took a moment to calm down, during which Rebus told him about the visit to Ray Mangold. Storey grew thoughtful.

  “You think the two of them connect?”

  Rebus offered another shrug. “I’m not sure it’s important. But there’s something else to consider.”

  “What?”

  “Those flats in Stevenson House . . . they belong to the council.”

  “So?”

  “So what names are on the rent books?”

  Storey studied him. “Keep talking.”

  “More names we get, the more ways we have of jabbing away at Bullen.”

  “Which means making an approach to the council.”

  Rebus nodded. “And guess what? I know someone who can help . . .”

  The two men sat in Mrs. Mackenzie’s office while she laid out for them the convolutions of Bob Baird’s illicit empire, an empire which included, it seemed, at least three of the flats raided that morning.

  “And maybe more,” Mrs. Mackenzie stated. “We’ve found eleven aliases so far. He’s used his relatives’ names, ones he seems to have picked out of the phone book, and others belonging to the recently deceased.”

  “You’ll be taking this to the police?” Storey asked, marveling at Mrs. Mackenzie’s paperwork. It was a huge family tree, comprising sheets of copy paper Scotch-taped together, and covering most of her desk. Beside each name were details of its provenance.

  “The wheels are already in motion,” she said. “I just want to make sure I’ve done as much at this end as I can.”

  Rebus gave a nod of praise, which she accepted with a reddening of the cheeks.

  “Can we assume,” Storey was saying, “that most of the flats on the third floor of Stevenson House were being sublet by Baird?”

  “I think we can,” Rebus replied.

  “And can we farther assume that he had full knowledge his tenants were being supplied by Stuart Bullen?”

  “That would seem logical. I’d say half the estate knew what was going on—that’s why the local youths didn’t even dare tag the walls.”

  “This Stuart Bullen,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, “he’s a man people have reason to fear?”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Mackenzie,” Storey assured her, “Bullen’s in custody.”

  “And he won’t know how busy you’ve been,” Rebus added, tapping the diagram.

  Storey, who had been leaning over the desk, now pushed himself upright. “Maybe time for a little chat with Baird.”

  Rebus nodded his agreement.

  Bob Baird had been escorted by two uniforms to Portobello police station. They’d made the journey on foot, Baird spending most of that time bellowing in outrage at the humiliation of it all.

  “Which just made people notice us all the more,” one of the constables reported, with a certain amount of contentment.

  “But it does mean he’s likely to be in a foul temper,” his colleague warned.

  Rebus and Storey looked at each other.

  “Good,” they said in unison.

  Baird was pacing what space there was in the cramped interview room. As the two men walked in, he opened his mouth to utter another list of grievances.

  “Shut it,” Storey spat. “The trouble you’re in, I’d advise you to do absolutely nothing in this room but answer any questions we might see fit to put to you. Understood?”

  Baird stared at him, then snorted. “Bit of advice, pal—ease up on the sun lamp.”

  Storey met the smile with one of his own. “I take it that’s a reference to the color of my skin, Mr. Baird? I suppose it helps to be a racist in your game.”

  “And what game’s that?”

  Storey had reached into his jacket for his ID. “I’m an Immigration official, Mr. Baird.”

  “Going to do me under Race Relations, are you?” Baird snorted again, reminding Rebus of a pig that had missed a meal. “All for renting flats to your fellow tribesmen?”

  Storey turned to Rebus. “You told me he’d be entertaining.”

  Rebus folded his arms. “That’s because he still thinks this is about diddling the council.”

  Storey turned back to Baird, allowed his eyes to widen a little. “Is that what you think, Mr. Baird? Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Is this one of those hidden-camera shows?” Baird said. “Some comedian pops out to let me in on the joke?”

  “No joke,” Storey said quietly, shaking his head. “You let Stuart Bullen use your flats. He stashed his illegal immigrants there, when he wasn’t working them like the slaves they were. I dare say you met his associate a few times—nice guy by the name of Peter Hill. Tasty connections with the Belfast paramilitaries.” Storey held up two fingers. “Slavery and terrorism: now there’s a combination, eh? And that’s before I get to the people-smuggling—all those fake passports and National Health cards we found in Bullen’s possession.” Storey held up a third finger, close to Baird’s face. “So we get to charge you with conspiracy . . . not just to defraud the local council and the honest, hardworking taxpayer, but smuggling, slavery, identity theft . . . sky’s the limit, really. Nothing Her Majesty’s lawyers like better than a nice tight-fitting conspiracy, so if I were you, I’d try to retain that sense of humor—you’re going to need it in jail.” Storey dropped his hand. “Mind you . . . ten, twelve years, the joke might have worn a bit thin.”

  There was silence in the room; so quiet Rebus could hear a watch ticking. He reckoned it was Storey’s: probably a nice model, classy without being showy. It would do the job asked of it, and do it with precision.

  A bit, Rebus was forced to admit, like its owner.

  The color had disappeared completely from Baird’s face. He looked calm enough on the surface, but Rebus knew strategic damage had been done. His jaw was set, lips pursed in thought. He’d been in situations before; knew his next few decisions might be the most crucial of his life.

  Ten, twelve years, Storey had said. No way would Baird serve anything like that, even with guilty verdicts ringing in his ears. But Storey had pitched it just right: if he’d said fifteen to twenty, chances were Baird would have known he was lying and called his bluff. Or would have decided he might as well take the fall, tell them nothing.

  A man with nothing to lose.

  But ten to twelve . . . Baird would be doing the calculations. Say Storey was exaggerating for effect, maybe meaning he’d actually get seven to nine. He’d still have to serve four or five, maybe even a little more. Years became all the more precious when you got to Baird’s age. It had been explained to Rebus once: the great cure for repeat offenders was the aging process. You didn’t want to die in prison, wanted to be around for kids and grandkids, doing things you’d always wanted to do . . .

  All of this Rebus thought he could read in Baird’s deeply lined face.

  And then, finally, the man blinked a few times, stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

  “Ask me your questions,” he said.

  So they asked.

  “Let’s be clear on this,” Rebus said. “You were allowing Stuart Bullen to use some of your flats?”

  “Correct.”

  “Did you know what he was doing with them?”

  “I had an inkling.”

  “How did it start?”

  “He came to see me. He already knew I was subletting to needy minorities.” As he uttered these last two words, Baird’s gaze shifted to Felix Storey.

  “How did he know?”

  Baird shrugged. “Maybe Peter Hill told him. Hill was hanging around Knoxland, wheeling and dealing—mostly the latter. Chances are, he’d started hearing things.”

  “And you were ready to oblige?”

  Baird smiled sourly. “I knew Stu’s old man. I’d already met Stu a few times—funerals and what have you. He’s not the sort of fellow you want to say no to.” Baird lifted the mug to his lips, smacked them afterwards as if savoring the taste. Rebus had made tea for all t
hree of them, poaching from the station’s tiny kitchenette. Only two tea bags remaining in the box: he’d squeezed the life out of them and into three mugs.

  “How well did you know Rab Bullen?” Rebus asked.

  “Not that well. I was a bit of a wheeler-dealer myself back then. Thought Glasgow might have something to offer . . . Rab soon put me right. He was pleasant enough—like any other businesman. He just explained the way the city was carved up, and that there was no room for a new boy.” Baird paused. “Shouldn’t you be taping this or something?”

  Storey leaned forward in his chair, hands pressed together. “This is by way of a preliminary interview.”

  “Meaning there’ll be others?”

  Storey nodded slowly. “And those will be recorded, videotaped. For now, you might say we’re feeling our way.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Rebus had taken out a fresh pack of cigarettes and was offering it round. Storey shook his head, but Baird accepted. There were “No Smoking” signs on three of the four walls. Baird blew smoke towards one of them.

  “We all break a few rules from time to time, eh?”

  Rebus ignored this, asked a question of his own instead. “Did you know that Stuart Bullen was part of a people-smuggling operation?”

  Baird shook his head emphatically.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Storey said.

  “Doesn’t alter the truth.”

  “Then where exactly did you think all these immigrants were coming from?”

  Baird shrugged. “Refugees . . . asylum seekers . . . it wasn’t really my business to ask.”

  “You weren’t curious?”

  “Isn’t that what killed the cat?”

  “Even so . . .”

  Baird just shrugged again, examining the tip of his cigarette. Rebus broke the silence with another question.

  “You knew he was using all those people as illegal workers?”

  “I couldn’t have told you if they were illegal or not . . .”

  “They were breaking their backs for him.”

  “So why didn’t they leave?”

  “You’ve said yourself—you were scared of him . . . what makes you think they weren’t?”

  “That’s a point.”

  “We’ve got evidence of intimidation.”