Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “Could be he’s a product of his genes.” Baird flicked ash on to the floor.

  “Like father like son?” Felix Storey added.

  Rebus stood up and walked around Baird’s chair, stopping and leaning down, so his face was next to the other man’s shoulder.

  “You say you didn’t know he was a people-smuggler?”

  “No.”

  “Well, now that we’ve enlightened you, what do you think?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  Baird thought for a moment. “I suppose I am.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe it’s that Stu never gave any inkling that he could play on that size of stage.”

  “He’s essentially small-time?” Rebus offered.

  Baird thought for another moment, and then nodded. “People-smuggling . . . you’re playing for high stakes, right?”

  “Right,” Felix Storey agreed. “And maybe that’s why Bullen did it—to prove he was a match for his old man.”

  This gave Baird pause, and Rebus could see he was thinking of his own son, Gareth: fathers and sons with things to prove . . .

  “Let’s just get this clear,” Rebus said, moving around the chair again so that he was eye to eye with Baird. “You didn’t know anything about the fake IDs, and it surprises you that Bullen was a big enough player to get involved in something like that?”

  Baird nodded, keeping eye contact with Rebus.

  Now Felix Storey rose to his feet. “Well, that’s what he was doing, whether we like it or not . . .” He held out a hand, meaning for Baird to shake it, which entailed Baird standing up.

  “You’re letting me go?” Baird asked.

  “As long as you promise not to do a runner. We’ll call you—might be in a few days. You’ll do another interview, taped this time.”

  Baird just nodded, letting go of Storey’s hand. He looked at Rebus, whose hands were staying in his pockets—no handshake on offer there.

  “Can you see yourself out?” Storey asked.

  Baird nodded and turned the door handle, hardly able to believe his luck. Rebus waited till the door was closed again.

  “What makes you think he won’t run?” he hissed, not wanting Baird to hear.

  “Gut feeling.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “He’s not given us anything we don’t already have.”

  “He’s a piece of the jigsaw.”

  “Maybe so, John, but if he is, he’s a bit of sky or cloud—I can see the picture clearly enough without him.”

  “The whole picture?”

  Storey’s face hardened. “You don’t think I’m using up enough Edinburgh police cells as it is?” He switched on his mobile, started checking for messages.

  “Look,” Rebus argued, “you’ve been working this case for a while, right?”

  “Right.” Storey was studying his phone’s tiny screen.

  “And how far back can you trace the line? Who else do you know about except Bullen?”

  Storey glanced up. “We’ve got a few names: an Essex-based haulier, a Turkish gang in Rotterdam . . .”

  “And they definitely connect to Bullen?”

  “They connect.”

  “And all this is from your anonymous caller? Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you wonder . . .”

  Storey held up a finger, asking for quiet so he could listen to a message. Rebus turned on his heel and walked to the far wall, switched on his own phone. It started ringing almost immediately: not a message but a call.

  “Hello, Caro,” he said, recognizing her number.

  “I just heard on the news.”

  “Heard what?”

  “All those people they’ve arrested in Knoxland . . . those poor, poor people.”

  “If it’s any consolation, we’ve arrested the bad guys, too—and we’ll be keeping them behind bars long after the others have been sent on their way.”

  “But on their way to where?”

  Rebus glanced over at Felix Storey; no easy way to answer her question.

  “John . . . ?” A split second before she asked, he knew what her question was going to be. “Were you there? When they kicked down the doors and rounded them all up, were you watching?”

  He thought of lying, but she deserved better. “I was there,” he said. “It’s what I do for a living, Caro.” He dropped his voice, realizing that Storey’s own conversation was ending. Did you hear me telling you we caught the people responsible?”

  “There are other jobs out there, John.”

  “It’s what I am, Caro . . . take it or leave it.”

  “You sound so angry.”

  He glanced towards Storey, who was pocketing his own phone. Realized his issue was with Storey, not Caro. “I’ve got to go . . . can we talk later?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “The looks on their faces? The babies crying? Can we talk about that?”

  Rebus pressed the red button, folded the phone shut.

  “Everything okay?” Storey asked solicitously.

  “Hunky-dory, Felix.”

  “Jobs like ours can play havoc . . . That night I came to your flat, I didn’t sense a Mrs. Rebus.”

  “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

  Storey smiled. “My own wife . . . well, we stay together for the kids.”

  “You don’t wear a ring, though.”

  Storey held up his left hand. “That’s right, I don’t.”

  “Does Phyllida Hawes know you’re married?”

  The smile disappeared, eyes narrowed. “None of your business, John.”

  “Fair enough . . . let’s talk about this ‘Deep Throat’ of yours instead.”

  “What about him?”

  “He seems to know a hell of a lot.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve not asked yourself what his motive is?”

  “Not really.”

  “And you’ve not asked him?”

  “You want me to scare him off?” Storey folded his arms. “Now why would you want that?”

  “Stop twisting things round.”

  “Know what, John? After Stuart Bullen mentioned that man Cafferty, I did a bit of background reading. You and Cafferty go back a long way.”

  It was Rebus’s turn to scowl. “What are you saying?”

  Storey held up his hands in apology. “That was out of line. Tell you what . . .” He checked his watch. “I think we deserve some lunch—my treat. Anywhere local you’d recommend?”

  Rebus shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Storey. “We’ll drive into Leith, find something down by the shore.”

  “Shame you’re driving,” Storey said. “Means I’ll have to drink for both of us.”

  “I dare say I could manage a glass,” Rebus assured him.

  Storey held the door open, gesturing for Rebus to walk ahead of him. Rebus did so, eyes unblinking, thoughts churning. Storey had been rattled, using Cafferty to turn the tables on Rebus. What was it he was afraid of?

  “Your anonymous caller,” Rebus said, almost casually, “you ever tape your conversations with him?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea how he came by your number?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve no way of calling him back?”

  “No.”

  Rebus glanced over his shoulder at the glowering figure of the Immigration man. “He’s hardly real at all, is he, Felix?”

  “Real enough,” Storey growled. “Else we wouldn’t be here.”

  Rebus just shrugged.

  “We’ve got him,” Les Young told Siobhan as she walked into Banehall Library. Roy Brinkley was on the desk, and she’d smiled at him as she passed. The murder room was buzzing, and now she knew why.

  They’d caught Spider Man.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “You know I sent Maxton to Barlinnie to ask about any f
riends Cruikshank might have made? Well, the name Mark Saunders came up.”

  “Spider’s-web tattoo?”

  Young nodded. “Served three years of a five for indecent assault. He got out the month before Cruikshank. Moved back to his hometown.”

  “Not Banehall?”

  Young shook his head. “Bo’ness. It’s only ten miles north.”

  “Is that where you found him?” She watched Young nod again. She couldn’t help being reminded of the toy dogs she used to see on the back shelves of cars. “And he’s confessed to Cruikshank’s murder?”

  The nodding came to an abrupt halt.

  “I suppose that was asking too much,” she admitted.

  “The thing is, though,” Young argued, “he didn’t come forward when the story broke.”

  “Meaning he has something to hide? Couldn’t be he just thinks we’d try fitting him up for it . . .”

  Now Young frowned. “That’s pretty much exactly the excuse he gave.”

  “You’ve talked to him, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him about the flick?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why he made it.”

  Young folded his arms. “He has this idea he’s going to be some kind of porn baron, selling over the Internet.”

  “He obviously did a lot of thinking in the Bar-L.”

  “That’s where he studied computers, Web design . . .”

  “Nice to see we’re offering such useful skills to our sex offenders.”

  Young’s shoulders slumped a little. “You don’t think he did it?”

  “Give me a motive and ask me again.”

  “Guys like that . . . they fall out all the time.”

  “I fall out with my mum every time I talk to her on the phone—I don’t think I’m going to go for her with a hammer . . .”

  Young noticed the look which suddenly came to her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she lied. “Where’s Saunders being held?”

  “Livingston. I’ve got another session with him in an hour or so, if you fancy sitting in . . .”

  But Siobhan was shaking her head. “Few things I need to do.”

  Young was studying his shoes. “Maybe we can hook up later then?”

  “Maybe,” she allowed.

  He made to move off but seemed to think of something. “We’re interviewing the Jardines, too.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.” He shrugged. “Can’t be helped, Siobhan.”

  “I know—you’re doing your job. But go easy on them.”

  “Don’t worry, my strong-arm days are behind me.” He seemed pleased by the smile he received. “And those names you gave us—Tracy Jardine’s friends—we’re finally getting round to them, too.”

  Meaning Susie . . .

  Angie . . .

  Janet Eylot . . .

  Janine Harrison . . .

  “You think there’s a cover-up?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say Banehall’s not exactly been cooperative.”

  “They’re letting us use their library.”

  It was Les Young’s turn to smile. “That’s true.”

  “Funny,” Siobhan said, “Donny Cruikshank died in a town full of enemies, and the one person we’ve zoned in on is just about the only friend he had.”

  Young shrugged. “You’ve seen it yourself, Siobhan—when friends fall out, it can be uglier than any vendetta.”

  “That’s true,” she said quietly, nodding to herself.

  Les Young was playing with his watch. “Got to get going,” he told her.

  “Me, too, Les. Good luck with Spider Man. I hope he spills his guts.”

  He was standing in front of her. “But you wouldn’t bank on it?”

  She smiled again and shook her head. “Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

  Mollified, he gave her a wink and headed for the door. She waited until she heard a car starting outside, then headed for the reception desk, where Roy Brinkley was sitting at his computer screen, checking a title’s availability for one of his customers. The woman was tiny and frail-looking, hands gripping her walker, head twitching slightly. She turned towards Siobhan and gave a beaming smile.

  “Cop Hater,” Brinkley was saying, “that’s the one you want, Mrs. Shields. I can order it by interlibrary loan.”

  Mrs. Shields nodded that this was satisfactory. She started shuffling away.

  “I’ll give you a bell when it comes in,” Brinkley called after her. Then, to Siobhan: “One of my regulars.”

  “And she hates cops?”

  “It’s Ed McBain—Mrs. Shields likes the hard-boiled stuff.” He finished typing in the request, adding a flourish to his final keystroke. “Was there something you wanted?” he asked, standing up.

  “I’ve noticed you keep newspapers,” Siobhan said, nodding towards the circular table where four pensioners were swapping tabloid sections between them.

  “We get most of the dailies, plus some magazines.”

  “And when you’re finished with them?”

  “We chuck them.” He saw the look on her face. “Some of the bigger libraries have room to keep them.”

  “But not you?”

  He shook his head. “Something you were looking for?”

  “An Evening News from last week.”

  “Then you’re in luck,” he said, emerging from behind his desk. “Follow me.”

  He led her to a locked door. The sign said “Staff Only.” Brinkley punched numbers into the keypad and pushed the door open. It led to a small staff room with kitchen sink, kettle, and microwave. Another door led to a toilet cubicle, but Brinkley went to the door next to it, turning the handle.

  “Storage,” he said.

  It was a place where old books went to die—shelves of them, some missing their covers or with loose pages seeping from within.

  “Every now and again we try to flog them off,” he explained. “If that doesn’t work, there are charity shops. But then there are some that even the charities don’t want.” He opened one to show Siobhan that the last few pages had been torn out. “Those we recycle, along with old magazines and papers.” He tapped his shoe against a bulging carrier bag. There were others next to it, filled with newsprint. “As luck would have it, our recycling run’s tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure ‘luck’ is the right word?” Siobhan said skeptically. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea which of these bags might hold last week’s papers?”

  “You’re the detective.” The faint sound of a buzzer came from outside: a customer was waiting at Brinkley’s desk. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said with a smile.

  “Thanks.” Siobhan stood there, hands on hips, and took a deep breath. The air was musty, and she considered her alternatives. There were a few, but they all involved a drive back into Edinburgh, after which she’d just have to come back out to Banehall.

  Decided, she crouched down and pulled a paper from the first bag, checking the date. Kept it out and tried another from farther back. Kept that one out, too, and tried another. Same procedure with the second and third bags. In the third, she found papers from a fortnight back, so she cleared a space and pulled out the whole lot, sifting through them. She usually took an Evening News home with her at night, sometimes flicking through it over the next morning’s breakfast. It was a good way to find out what the councillors and politicians were up to. But now the recent headlines seemed stale to her. Most of them she couldn’t recall from first time around. Finally, she found what she was looking for and tore the entire page out, folding it and sliding it into her pocket. The papers wouldn’t all fit back in the bag, but she did her best. Then stopped at the sink for a mug of cold water. Making to leave, she gave Brinkley the thumbs-up, and headed to her car.

  Really, it was walking distance to the Salon, but she was in a hurry. She double-parked, knowing she wouldn’t be long. Went to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. S
he peered through the glass: nobody home. The opening hours were posted on a sign behind the window. Closed Wednesday and Sunday. But this was Tuesday. And then she saw another sign, hastily handwritten on a paper bag. It had been stuck to the window but had come loose and now lay on the floor—“Closed due to un4seen.” The next word had started out as “circumstances,” but the spelling had proved a problem to the writer, who’d crossed it out, leaving the message unfinished.

  Siobhan cursed herself. Hadn’t Les Young himself told her? They were being interviewed. Officially interviewed. Meaning a trip to Livingston. She got back in her car and headed that way.

  Traffic was light, and it didn’t take long. Soon, she was finding a parking spot outside F Division HQ. Went inside and asked the Desk Sergeant about the Cruikshank interviews. He pointed her in the right direction. She knocked on the door of the interview room, pushed it open. Les Young and another CID suit were inside. Across the table from them sat a man covered in tattoos.

  “Sorry,” Siobhan apologized, cursing once more beneath her breath. She waited in the corridor a moment to see if Young would emerge, wondering what she was up to. He didn’t. She released the breath she’d been holding and tried the next door along. Two more suits looked up at her, frowning at the intrusion.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Siobhan said, walking in. Angie was looking up at her. “Just wondered if anyone knew where I could find Susie?”

  “Waiting room,” one of the suits said.

  Siobhan gave Angie a reassuring smile and made her exit. Third door lucky, she was thinking.

  And she was right. Susie was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, filing her nails and chewing gum. She was nodding at something Janet Eylot was telling her. The two women were alone, no sign of Janine Harrison. Siobhan saw Les Young’s reasoning—bring them together, get them talking, maybe nervous. No one felt entirely at ease in a police station. Janet Eylot looked particularly twitchy. Siobhan remembered the wine bottles in her fridge. Janet probably wouldn’t say no to a drink right this minute, something to take the edge off . . .

  “Hello there,” Siobhan said. “Susie, mind if I have a word?”

  Eylot’s face fell further. Perhaps she was wondering why she alone was being excluded, why the others were all talking to the police.

  “Won’t be a minute,” Siobhan assured her. Not that Susie was in a hurry to leave. First, she had to open her leopard-spot shoulder bag, take out her makeup bag, and tuck the nail file back beneath its little elasticated band. Only then did she stand up and follow Siobhan into the corridor.