by Ian Rankin
“My turn for the inquisition?” she said.
“Not quite.” Siobhan was unfolding the sheet of newspaper. She held it up in front of Susie. “Recognize him?” she asked.
It was the photo accompanying the Fleshmarket Alley story: Ray Mangold in front of his pub, arms folded and smiling genially, Judith Lennox next to him.
“He looks like . . .” Susie had stopped chewing her gum.
“Yes?”
“The one who used to pick up Ishbel.”
“Any idea who he is?”
Susie shook her head.
“He used to run the Albatross nightclub,” Siobhan prompted.
“We went there a few times.” Susie studied the photo more closely. “Yes, now you come to mention it . . .”
“Ishbel’s mystery boyfriend?”
Susie was nodding. “Might be.”
“Only ‘might’?”
“I told you, I never really got a good look at him. But this is close . . . might well be him.” She nodded slowly to herself. “And you know the funny thing?”
“What?”
Susie pointed at the headline. “I saw this when it came out, but it never dawned on me. I mean, it’s just a picture, isn’t it? You never think . . .”
“No, Susie, you never do,” Siobhan said, folding the page closed. “You never do.”
“This interview and everything,” Susie was saying, dropping her voice a little, “do you reckon we’re in trouble?”
“For what? You didn’t gang up and kill Donny Cruikshank, did you?”
Susie screwed up her face in answer. “But that stuff we wrote in the toilets . . . that’s vandalism, isn’t it?”
“From what I saw of the Bane, Susie, a decent lawyer would argue it was interior design.” Siobhan waited till Susie smiled. “So don’t worry about it . . . any of you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And make sure you tell Janet.”
Susie studied Siobhan’s face. “You’ve noticed, then?”
“Looks to me like she needs her friends right now.”
“Always has done,” Susie said, regret creeping into her voice.
“Do your best for her, then, eh?” Siobhan touched Susie on the arm, watched as she nodded, then gave a smile and turned to leave.
“Next time you need a restyle, it’s on the house,” Susie called to her.
“Just the kind of bribe I’m open to,” Siobhan called back, giving a little wave.
28
She found a parking space on Cockburn Street and walked up Fleshmarket Alley, turning left onto the High Street and left again into the Warlock. The clientele was mixed: workmen on a break; business types poring over the daily papers; tourists busy with maps and guidebooks.
“He’s not here,” the barman informed her. “Hang around twenty minutes, he might be back.”
She nodded, ordered a soft drink. Made to pay for it but he shook his head. She paid anyway—some people she’d rather not owe a favor to. He shrugged and pushed the coins into a charity tin.
She rested on one of the high stools at the bar, took a sip of the ice-cold drink. “So where is he, do you know?”
“Just out somewhere.”
Siobhan took another sip. “He’s got a car, right?” The barman stared at her. “Don’t worry, I’m not fishing,” she told him. “It’s just that parking’s a nightmare round here. I was wondering how he managed.”
“Know the lockups on Market Street?”
She started to shake her head but then nodded instead. “All those arch-shaped doors in the wall?”
“They’re garages. He’s got one of those. Christ knows how much it cost him.”
“So he keeps his car there?”
“Parks it and walks here—only exercise I’ve ever known him take . . .”
Siobhan was already heading for the door.
Market Street faced the main railway line south from Waverley Station. Behind it, Jeffrey Street curved steeply towards the Canongate. The lockups sat in a row at street level, tapering in size depending on Jeffrey Street’s incline. Some were too small to fit a car inside, all but one were padlocked shut. Siobhan arrived just as Ray Mangold was pulling his own doors closed.
“Nice bit of kit,” she said. It took him a moment to place her, then his eyes followed hers to the red Jaguar convertible.
“I like it,” he said.
“I’ve always wondered about these places,” Siobhan went on, studying the lockup’s arched brick roof. “They’re great, aren’t they?”
Mangold’s eyes were on her. “Who told you I owned one?”
She smiled at him. “I’m a detective, Mr. Mangold.” She was walking around the car.
“You won’t find anything,” he snapped.
“What is it you think I’m looking for?” He was right, of course: she was taking in every inch of the interior.
“Christ knows . . . more bloody skeletons maybe.”
“This isn’t about skeletons, Mr. Mangold.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “It’s Ishbel I’m wondering about.” She stopped in front of him. “I’m wondering what you’ve done with her.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“How did you get those bruises?”
“I’ve already told you . . .”
“Any witnesses? As far as I recall, when I asked your barman, he said he wasn’t involved. Maybe an hour or two in an interview room would help him tell the truth.”
“Look . . .”
“No, you look!” She’d straightened her back so that she was barely an inch shorter than him. The doors were still a few feet ajar, a passerby pausing for a moment to take in the argument. Siobhan ignored him. “You knew Ishbel from the Albatross,” she told Mangold. “You started seeing her, picked her up a few times from work. I’ve got a witness who saw you. I dare say if I go showing photos of you and your car around Banehall, a few more memories would be jogged. Now Ishbel’s gone missing, and you’ve got bruises on your face.”
“You think I’ve done something to her?” He’d reached for the doors, was about to pull them shut. But Siobhan couldn’t have that. She kicked one of them, so it swung wide open. A tour bus was rumbling past, the passengers staring. Siobhan gave them a wave and turned to Mangold.
“Plenty of witnesses,” she warned him.
His eyes widened farther. “Christ . . . look . . .”
“I’m listening.”
“I haven’t done anything to Ishbel!”
“So prove it.” Siobhan folded her arms. “Tell me what’s happened to her.”
“Nothing’s happened to her!”
“You know where she is?”
Mangold looked at her, lips clamped shut, jaw moving from side to side. When he finally spoke, it was like an explosion.
“Yes, all right, I know where she is.”
“And where’s that?”
“She’s fine . . . she’s alive and well.”
“And not answering her mobile.”
“Because it would only be her mum and dad.” Now that he’d spoken, it was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He leaned back against the Jaguar’s front wheel arch. “They’re the reason she left in the first place.”
“So prove it—show me where she is.”
He looked at his watch. “She’s probably on a train.”
“A train?”
“Coming back to Edinburgh. She’s been shopping in Newcastle.”
“Newcastle?”
“Better shops, apparently, and more of them.”
“What time are you expecting her?”
He shook his head. “Sometime this afternoon. I don’t know what time the trains get in.”
Siobhan stared at him. “No, but I do.” She took her phone out and called Gayfield CID. Phyllida Hawes answered. “Phyl, it’s Siobhan. Is Col there? Put him on, will you?” She waited a moment, her gaze still on Mangold. Then: “Col? It’s Siobhan. Listen, you’re the man wit
h the plan . . . What time do the trains from Newcastle arrive . . . ?”
Rebus sat in the CID office at Torphichen and stared once more at the sheets of paper on the desk in front of him.
They represented a thorough job. The names from the roster in Peter Hill’s car had been checked against those arrested on the beach at Cramond, then cross-checked against the residents of the flats on the third floor of Stevenson House. The office itself was quiet. With the interviews finished, vans had headed off towards Whitemire, bearing a cargo of fresh inmates. As far as Rebus knew, Whitemire had been near capacity as it was—how they would cope with this influx he could only imagine. As Storey himself had put it:
“They’re a private company. If there’s profit in it, they’ll manage.”
Felix Storey had not compiled the list on Rebus’s desk. Felix Storey hadn’t paid much attention to it when it had been presented to him. He was already talking about heading back down to London. Other cases crying out for his attention. He would return from time to time, of course, to oversee the prosecution of Stuart Bullen.
In his own words, he would “stay in the loop.”
Rebus’s comment: “Like a hamster on its wheel.”
He looked up now as Rat-Arse Reynolds came into the room, looking around as though seeking someone. He was carrying a brown paper bag and seemed pleased with himself.
“Can I help you, Charlie?” Rebus asked.
Reynolds grinned. “Got a going-away present for your pal.” He lifted a bunch of bananas from the bag. “Trying to figure the best place to leave them.”
“Because you’ve not got the guts to do it to his face?” Rebus had risen slowly to his feet.
“Just a bit of a laugh, John.”
“For you maybe. Something tells me Felix Storey won’t be quite so easy to please.”
“That’s true, actually.” The speaker was Storey himself. As he came into the room he was checking the knot in his tie, smoothing it down against his shirtfront.
Reynolds slid the bananas back into their bag, clutching it to his chest.
“Those for me?” Storey asked.
“No,” Reynolds said.
Storey got right into his face. “I’m black, therefore I’m a monkey—that’s your logic, is it?”
“No.”
Storey had started opening the bag. “As it happens, I like a nice banana . . . but these look past it to me. A bit like yourself, Reynolds: going rancid.” He closed the bag again. “Now off you go and try playing detective for a change. Here’s your challenge—to find out what everyone around here calls you behind your back.” Storey patted Reynolds’s left cheek, then stood with arms folded to indicate that he was dismissed.
After he’d gone, Storey turned to Rebus and winked.
“Tell you another funny thing,” Rebus said.
“I’m always up for a laugh.”
“This is more funny-peculiar than funny-ha-ha.”
“What is?”
Rebus tapped one of the sheets of paper on his desk. “Some of the names, we don’t have bodies for.”
“Maybe they heard us coming and did a runner.”
“Maybe.”
Storey rested his backside against the edge of the desk. “Could be they were working a shift when the raid went down. If they got wind of it, they’re not likely to turn up in Knoxland, are they?”
“No,” Rebus agreed. “Chinese-looking names, most of them . . . And one African. Chantal Rendille.”
“Rendille? You think that sounds African?” Storey frowned, craned his neck to study the paperwork. “Chantal’s a French name, isn’t it?”
“French is the national language of Senegal,” Rebus explained.
“Your elusive witness?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. I might show it to Kate.”
“Who’s Kate?”
“A student from Senegal. There’s something I need to ask her anyway . . .”
Storey eased himself upright from the desk. “Best of luck, then.”
“Hang on,” Rebus said, “there’s something else.”
Storey let out a sigh. “And what’s that?”
Rebus tapped another of the sheets. “Whoever did this went the extra yard.”
“Oh yes?”
Rebus nodded. “Every single one we interviewed, they were asked for an address prior to Knoxland.” Rebus looked up, but Storey just shrugged. “Some of them gave Whitemire.”
Now he had Storey’s attention. “What?”
“Seems they were bailed.”
“Bailed by who?”
“A variety of names, probably all of them fake. Fake contact addresses, too.”
“Bullen?” Storey guessed.
“That’s what I’m thinking. It’s perfect—he bails them out, puts them to work. Any of them complain, Whitemire’s hanging over them like a noose. And if that doesn’t work, he’s always got the skeletons.”
Storey was nodding slowly. “Makes sense.”
“I think we need to talk to someone at Whitemire.”
“To what end?”
Rebus shrugged. “Lot easier to pull something like this off with a friend . . . how can I put it?” Rebus pretended to search for the phrase. “In the loop?” he suggested at last.
Storey just glared at him. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “So who is it we need to talk to?”
“Man called Alan Traynor. But before we get started with all that . . .”
“There’s more?”
“Just a little bit.” Rebus’s eyes were still on the sheets of paper. He’d used a pen to draw lines connecting some of the names, nationalities, and places. “The people we found in Stevenson House—and the ones on the beach for that matter . . .”
“What about them?”
“Some came from Whitemire. Others hold expired visas, or the wrong kind . . .”
“Yes?”
Rebus shrugged. “A few don’t have any paperwork at all . . . leaving just a tiny handful who seem to’ve arrived here on the back of a lorry. A tiny handful, Felix, and no fake passports or other IDs.”
“So?”
“So where’s this vast smuggling operation gone to? Bullen’s this master criminal with a safe full of dodgy documents. How come nothing’s turned up outside his office?”
“Could be he’d only just received a fresh consignment from his friends in London.”
“London?” Rebus frowned. “You didn’t tell me he had friends in London.”
“I said Essex, didn’t I? Same thing essentially.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“So are we going to visit Whitemire or what?”
“One last thing . . .” Rebus held up a finger. “Just between the two of us, is there anything you’re not telling me about Stuart Bullen?”
“Such as?”
“I’ll only know that when you tell me.”
“John . . . it’s case closed. We got a result. What more do you want?”
“Maybe I just want to make sure I’m . . .”
Storey held a hand up in mock warning, but too late.
“In the loop,” Rebus said.
Back to Whitemire: passing Caro at the side of the road. She was talking into her mobile, didn’t so much as glance up at them.
The usual security checks, gates unlocked and locked again behind them. The guard escorting them from the car park to the main building. There were half a dozen empty vans in the car park—the refugees had already arrived. Felix Storey seemed interested in everything around him.
“I’m assuming you’ve not been here before?” Rebus asked. Storey shook his head.
“Been to Belmarsh a few times, though—heard of it?” Rebus’s turn to shake his head. “It’s in London. A proper prison—high security. That’s where the asylum seekers are kept.”
“Nice.”
“Makes this place look like Club Med.”
Waiting for them at the main door: Alan Traynor. Not bothering to h
ide his irritation.
“Look, whatever this is, can’t it wait? We’re trying to process dozens of new arrivals.”
“I know,” Felix Storey said, “I’m the one who sent them.”
Traynor didn’t seem to hear; too preoccupied with his own problems. “We’ve had to commandeer the canteen . . . even so, it’s going to take hours.”
“In which case, sooner you’re rid of us the better,” Storey suggested. Traynor let escape a theatrical sigh.
“Very well, then. Follow me.”
In the outer office, they passed Janet Eylot. She looked up from her computer, eyes boring into Rebus’s. She got as far as opening her mouth to say something, but Rebus spoke first.
“Mr. Traynor? Sorry, but I need to use the . . .” Rebus had seen a toilet in the corridor. He was pointing a thumb in its direction. “I’ll catch you up,” he said. Storey’s eyes were on him, knowing he was up to something but unsure what. Rebus just gave a wink and turned on his heel. Retraced his steps through the office and into the corridor.
And waited there until he heard Traynor’s door close. Popped his head into the doorway and gave a little whistle. Janet Eylot left her desk, came to meet him.
“You lot!” she hissed. Rebus put a finger to his lips and she lowered her voice. It still trembled with rage. “I haven’t had a minute’s peace, not since I first spoke to you. I’ve had police at my door . . . in my kitchen . . . and now I’m just back from Livingston police headquarters and here you are again! And we’ve got all these new arrivals—how are we supposed to cope?”
“Easy, Janet, easy.” She was shaking, eyes red-rimmed and watery. There was a pulse fluttering behind her left eyelid. “It’ll soon be over, nothing for you to worry about.”
“Not even when I’m a suspect in a murder?”
“I’m sure you’re not a suspect; it’s just something that has to be done.”
“And you’ve not come here to talk to Mr. Traynor about me? Isn’t it bad enough that I had to lie to him about this morning? Told him it was a family emergency.”
“Why not just tell him the truth?”
