Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “I’ll call you a cab, unless you want to crash here—there’s a spare bedroom.”

  She started putting on her coat. “We don’t want tongues wagging, do we? But I’ll walk down to the Meadows, bound to find one there.”

  “Out on your own at this time of night?”

  Siobhan picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. “I’m a big girl, John. I think I can manage.”

  He shrugged and showed her out, then returned to the living-room window, watching her walk down the pavement.

  I’m a big girl . . .

  A big girl afraid of wagging tongues.

  DAY TEN

  Wednesday

  30

  I’ve got a lecture,” Kate said. Rebus had been waiting for her outside her hall of residence. She’d given him a look and kept walking, heading for the bicycle rack.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” he said. She didn’t respond, unlocking the chain from her bike. “We need to talk,” Rebus persisted.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “That’s true, I suppose . . .” She looked up at him. “But only if we choose to ignore Barney Grant and Howie Slowther.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you about Barney.”

  “Warned you off, has he?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “So you said. And Howie Slowther?”

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head defiantly, hands gripping her bike’s handlebars. “Now, please . . . I’m going to be late.”

  “Just one more name, then.” Rebus held up a forefinger. He took her sigh as permission to ask. “Chantal Rendille . . . I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.”

  “It’s not a name I know.”

  Rebus smiled. “You’re a terrible liar, Kate—your eyes start fluttering. I noticed it before when I was asking about Chantal. Of course, I didn’t have her name, then, but I have it now. With Stuart Bullen locked up, she doesn’t need to hide anymore.”

  “Stuart did not kill that man.”

  Rebus just shrugged. “All the same, I’d like to hear her say it for herself.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Too many people running scared recently, Kate. Time for it to stop, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It’s not my decision,” she said quietly.

  “You mean it’s Chantal’s? Then have a word with her, tell her she doesn’t have to be scared. It’s all coming to an end.”

  “I wish I had your confidence, Inspector.”

  “Maybe I know things you don’t . . . things Chantal should hear.”

  Kate looked around. Her fellow students were heading off to classes, some with the glazed eyes of the newly roused, others curious about the man she was talking to—so obviously neither student nor friend.

  “Kate?” he prompted.

  “I need to speak to her alone first.”

  “That’s fine.” He gestured with his head. “Do we need the car, or is it walking distance?”

  “That depends on how much you like walking.”

  “Seriously now, do I look the type?”

  “Not really.” She was almost smiling, but still edgy.

  “Then we’ll take the car.”

  Even having been coaxed into the passenger seat, it took Kate a while to pull the door closed, and longer still to fasten her seat belt, Rebus fearing that she might bail out at any time.

  “Where to?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

  “Bedlam,” she said, just audibly. Rebus wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “Bedlam Theatre,” she explained. “It’s a disused church.”

  “Across the road from Greyfriars Kirk?” Rebus said. She nodded, and he started to drive. On the way, she explained that Marcus, the student across the corridor from her, was active in the university’s theater group, and that they used Bedlam as their base. Rebus said he’d seen the playbills on Marcus’s walls, then asked how she had first met Chantal.

  “This city can seem like a village sometimes,” she told him. “I was walking towards her along the street one day, and I just knew when I looked at her.”

  “You knew what?”

  “Where she came from, who she was . . . It’s hard to explain. Two Senegalese women in the middle of Edinburgh.” She shrugged. “We just laughed and started talking.”

  “And when she came to you for help?” She looked at him as if she didn’t understand. “What did you think? Did she tell you what had happened?”

  “A little . . .” Kate stared from the passenger-side window. “This is for her to tell you, if she decides to.”

  “You realize I’m on her side? Yours, too, if it comes to it.”

  “I know this.”

  Bedlam Theatre stood at the junction of two diagonals—Forrest Road and Bristo Place—and facing the wider expanse of George IV Bridge. Years back, this had been Rebus’s favorite part of town, with its weird bookshops and secondhand record market. Now Subway and Starbucks had moved in and the record market was a theme bar. Parking had not improved either, and Rebus ended up in a no-parking zone, trusting to luck that he’d be back before the tow truck could be called.

  The main doors were locked tight, but Kate led him around the side and produced a key from her pocket.

  “Marcus?” he guessed. She nodded and opened the small side door, then turned towards him. “You want me to wait here?” he guessed. But she stared deep into his eyes and then sighed.

  “No,” she said, decided. “You might as well come up.”

  Inside, the place was gloomy. They climbed a flight of creaky steps and emerged into an upstairs auditorium, looking down on to the makeshift stage. There were rows of former pews, mostly stacked with empty cardboard boxes, props, and pieces of lighting rig.

  “Chantal?” Kate called out. “C’est moi. Are you there?”

  A face appeared above one row of seats. She’d been lying in a sleeping bag and was now blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw that there was someone with Kate, her mouth and eyes opened wide.

  “Calmes-toi, Chantal. Il est policier.”

  “Why you bring?” Chantal’s voice sounded shrill, frantic. As she stood up, sloughing off the sleeping bag, Rebus saw that she was already dressed.

  “I’m a police officer, Chantal,” Rebus said slowly. “I want to talk to you.”

  “No! This will not be!” She waved her hands in front of her, as though he were smoke to be wafted away. Her arms were thin, hair cropped close to her skull. Her head seemed out of proportion to the slender neck atop which it sat.

  “You know we’ve arrested the men?” Rebus said. “The men we think killed Stef. They are going to prison.”

  “They will kill me.”

  Rebus kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. “They’re going to be spending a lot of time in jail, Chantal. They’ve done a lot of bad things. But if we’re going to punish them for what they did to Stef . . . well, I’m not sure we can do it without your help.”

  “Stef was good man.” Her face twisted with the pain of memory.

  “Yes, he was,” Rebus agreed. “And his death needs to be paid for.” He’d been moving towards her by degrees. Now they stood within arm’s reach. “Stef needs you, Chantal, this one final time.”

  “No,” she said. But her eyes were telling him a different story.

  “I need to hear it from you, Chantal,” he said quietly. “I need to know what you saw.”

  “No,” she said again, her eyes pleading with Kate.

  “Oui, Chantal,” Kate told her. “It is time.”

  Only Kate had eaten breakfast, so they headed for the Elephant House café, Rebus driving them the short distance, finding a parking bay on Chambers Street. Chantal wanted hot chocolate, Kate herbal tea. Rebus ordered a round of croissants and sticky cakes, plus a large black coffee for himself. And then bottles of water and orange juice—if no one else drank them, he would. And maybe a couple more aspirin to go
with the three he’d swallowed before leaving his flat.

  They sat at a table at the very back of the café, the window next to them giving a view of the churchyard, where a few winos were starting the day with a shared can of extra-strong lager. Only a few weeks back, some kids had desecrated a tomb, using the skull like a football. “Mad World” was playing quietly over the café’s loudspeakers, and Rebus was forced to agree.

  He was biding his time, letting Chantal wolf down her breakfast. The pastries were too sweet for her, but she ate two croissants, washed down with one of the bottles of juice.

  “Fresh fruit would be better for you,” Kate said, Rebus unsure of her target as he finished an apricot tart. Then it was time for a coffee refill, Chantal saying she might manage more hot chocolate. Kate poured herself more raspberry-colored tea. As Rebus queued at the counter, he watched the two women. They were talking conversationally: nothing heated. Chantal seemed calm enough. That was why he’d chosen the Elephant House: a police station would not have had the same effect. When he returned with the drinks, she actually smiled and thanked him.

  “So,” he said, lifting his own mug, “finally I get to meet you, Chantal.”

  “You very persistent.”

  “It may be my only strength. Do you want to tell me what happened that night? I think I know some of it. Stef was a journalist, he knew a story when he saw one. I’m guessing it was you who told him about Stevenson House?”

  “He knew already a little,” Chantal said haltingly.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “In Knoxland. He . . .” She turned to Kate and let out a volley of French, which Kate translated.

  “He’d been questioning some of the immigrants he met in the city center. This made him realize something bad was happening.”

  “And Chantal filled in the gaps?” Rebus guessed. “And became his friend in the process?” Chantal understood, nodding with her eyes. “And then Stuart Bullen caught him snooping . . .”

  “It was not Bullen,” she said.

  “Peter Hill, then.” Rebus described the Irishman, and Chantal sat back a little in her seat, as though recoiling from his words.

  “Yes, that is him. He chased . . . and stabbed . . .” She lowered her eyes again, placing her hands on her lap. Kate reached out and covered the nearest hand with her own.

  “You ran away,” Rebus said quietly. Chantal started speaking French again.

  “She had to,” Kate told Rebus. “They would have buried her in the cellar, with all the other people.”

  “There weren’t any other people,” Rebus said. “It was just a trick.”

  “She was terrified,” Kate said.

  “But she went back once . . . to place flowers at the scene.”

  Kate translated for Chantal, who gave another nod.

  “She traveled across a continent to reach somewhere she’d feel safe,” Kate told Rebus. “She’s been here almost a year, and still she does not understand this place.”

  “Tell her she’s not the only one. I’ve been trying for over half a century.” As Kate translated this, Chantal managed a weak smile. Rebus was wondering about her . . . wondering at her relationship with Stef. Had she been anything other than a source to him, or had he simply used her, the way many journalists did?

  “Anyone else involved, Chantal?” Rebus asked. “Anyone there that night?”

  “A young man . . . bad skin . . . and this tooth . . .” She tapped at the center of her own immaculate teeth. “Not there.” Rebus reckoned she meant Howie Slowther, might even pick him out from a lineup.

  “How do you think they found out about Stef, Chantal? How did they know he was about to go to the newspapers with the story?”

  She looked up at him. “Because he tell them.”

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “He told them?”

  She nodded. “He want his family brought to him. He know they can do this.”

  “You mean bailing them out of Whitemire?” More nodding. Rebus found himself leaning across the table towards her. “He was trying to blackmail the whole lot of them?”

  “He will not tell what he know . . . but only in return for his family.”

  Rebus sat back again and stared from the window. Right now, that extra-strong lager looked pretty good to him. A mad, mad world. Stef Yurgii might as well have penned himself a suicide note. He hadn’t met with the Scotsman journalist because it had been a bluff, letting Bullen know what he was capable of. All of it for his family . . . Chantal just a friend, if that. A desperate man—husband and father—taking a fatal gamble.

  Killed for his insolence.

  Killed because of the threat he posed. No skeletons were going to put him off.

  “You saw it happen?” Rebus asked quietly. “You saw Stef die?”

  “I could do nothing.”

  “You phoned . . . did what you could.”

  “It was not enough . . . not enough . . .” She had started crying, Kate comforting her. Two elderly women watched from a corner table. Their faces powdered, coats still buttoned almost to the chin. Edinburgh ladies, who probably had never known any life but this: the taking of tea, and a serving of gossip on the side. Rebus glared at them till they averted their eyes, going back to the spreading of butter on scones.

  “Kate,” he said, “she’ll have to tell the story again, make it official.”

  “In a police station?” Kate guessed. Rebus nodded.

  “It would help,” he said, “if you were there with her.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The man you’ll talk to will be another inspector. His name’s Shug Davidson. He’s a good guy, does the sympathy thing even better than me.”

  “You will not be there?”

  “I don’t think so. Shug’s the man in charge.” Rebus took a mouthful of coffee and savored it, then swallowed. “I was never supposed to be here,” he said, almost to himself, staring out of the window again.

  He called Davidson from his mobile, explained the setup, said he’d bring both women to Torphichen.

  In the car, Chantal was silent, staring at the passing world. But Rebus had a few more questions for her companion in the backseat.

  “How did your talk with Barney Grant go?”

  “It was all right.”

  “You reckon he’ll keep the Nook going?”

  “Until Stuart comes back, yes. Why do you smile?”

  “Because I don’t know if that’s what Barney wants . . . or expects.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That description I gave Chantal . . . the man’s called Peter Hill. He’s Irish, probably with paramilitary connections. We reckon he was helping Bullen out, on the understanding that Bullen would then back him up when it came to dealing drugs on the estate.”

  “What has this got to do with me?”

  “Maybe nothing. The younger man, the one with the missing tooth . . . his name’s Howie Slowther.”

  “You said his name this morning. ”

  “That’s right, I did. Because after your little chinwag with Barney Grant in the pub, Barney climbed into a car. Howie Slowther was in that car.” In the rearview mirror, his eyes connected with hers. “Barney’s in this up to his neck, Kate . . . maybe even a little further. So if you were planning on relying on him . . .”

  “You do not have to worry about me.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Chantal said something in French. Kate spoke back to her in the same language, Rebus picking up only a couple of words.

  “She’s asking about being deported,” he guessed, then watched in the rearview as Kate nodded. “Tell her I’ll pull every string I can. Tell her it’s carved in stone.”

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was Chantal’s.

  “I believe you,” was all she said.

  31

  Siobhan and Les Young watched as Ray Mangold got out of his Jag. They were sitting in Young’s car, parke
d across the road from the Market Street lockup. Mangold unlocked the garage doors and started pulling them open. Ishbel Jardine sat in the passenger seat, applying makeup as she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Having lifted the lipstick to her mouth, she hesitated a fraction too long.

  “She’s clocked us,” Siobhan said.

  “You sure?”

  “Not a thousand percent.”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  Young wanted the car garaged. That way, he could drive up in front of it, blocking any exit. They’d been sitting there the best part of forty minutes, Young going into too much detail about the rudiments of contract bridge. The ignition was off, but Young’s hand was on the key, ready for action.

  With the garage doors wide open, Mangold had returned to the idling Jag. Siobhan watched as he got in, but couldn’t tell whether Ishbel had said anything. When she saw Mangold’s eyes meet hers in one of the side mirrors, she had her answer.

  “We need to move,” she told Young. Then she opened her passenger door—no time to waste. But the Jag’s reversing lights were on. It moved past her at speed, heading for New Street, engine whining with the effort. Siobhan got back into the passenger seat, the door closing of its own accord as Young’s car surged forward. The Jag meantime had reached the New Street junction and was braking into a slide, facing uphill towards the Canongate.

  “Get on the radio!” Young shouted. “Call in a description!”

  Siobhan called it in. There was a queue of traffic heading up the Canongate, so the Jag turned left, downhill towards Holyrood.

  “What do you reckon?” she asked Young.

  “You know the city better than I do,” he admitted.

  “I think he’ll head for the park. If he stays on the streets, he’ll hit a snarl-up sooner or later. In the park, there’s a chance he can put the foot down, maybe lose us.”

  “Are you besmirching my car?”

  “Last time I looked, Daewoos didn’t sport four-liter engines.”

  The Jag had pulled out to overtake an open-topped tourist bus. The street was at its narrowest, and Mangold clipped the wing mirror of a stationary delivery van, the driver emerging from a shop and shouting after him. Oncoming traffic stopped Young from passing the bus as it continued its slow descent.