Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “Fuck you,” the man replied. There seemed little malice in it; he was trying the words out either to note their effect or because they’d worked for him in the past.

  “Robert Baird,” Rebus said. “You know him?” The man’s eyes narrowed, and Rebus repeated the name. “You pay him money.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, hoping the man might understand. Instead, he grew agitated.

  “Fuck off now!”

  “We’re not asking you for money,” Rebus tried to explain. “We’re looking for Robert Baird. This is his flat.” Rebus pointed to the interior.

  “Landlord,” Mackenzie tried, but it was no good. The man’s face was twitching; sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead.

  “No problem,” Rebus told him, holding his hands up, showing the man his palms—hoping maybe this sign would get through to him. Suddenly he noticed another figure in the shadows down the hallway. “You speak English?” he called.

  The man turned his head, barked something guttural. But the figure kept coming forward, until Rebus could see that it was a teenage boy.

  “Speak English?” he repeated.

  “Little,” the lad admitted. He was skinny and handsome, dressed in a short-sleeved blue shirt and denims.

  “You’re immigrants?” Rebus asked.

  “Here our country,” the boy stated defensively.

  “Don’t worry, son, we’re not from Immigration. You pay money to live here, don’t you?”

  “We pay, yes.”

  “The man you give the money to—he’s the one we’d like to talk to.”

  The boy translated some of this for his father. The father stared at Rebus and shook his head.

  “Tell your dad,” Rebus told the boy, “that a visit from the Immigration Service can be arranged, if he’d rather talk to them.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in fear. The translation this time took longer. The man looked at Rebus again, this time with a kind of sad resignation, as if he were used to being kicked around by authority, but had been hoping for some respite. He muttered something, and the boy padded back down the hall. He returned with a folded piece of paper.

  “He comes for money. If we have problem, we this . . .”

  Rebus unfolded the note. A mobile phone number and a name: Gareth. Rebus showed the note to Mackenzie.

  “Gareth Baird is one of the names on the list,” she said.

  “Can’t be that many of them in Edinburgh. Chances are it’s the same one.” Rebus took the note back, wondering what effect a phone call would have. He saw that the man was trying to offer him something: a handful of cash.

  “Is he trying to bribe us?” Rebus asked the boy. The son shook his head.

  “He does not understand.” He spoke to his father again. The man mumbled something, then stared at Rebus, and immediately Rebus thought of what Mackenzie had said in the car. It was true: the eyes were eloquent of pain.

  “This day,” the boy told Rebus. “Money . . . this day.”

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “Gareth is coming here today to collect the rent?”

  The son checked with his father and then nodded.

  “What time?” Rebus asked.

  Another discussion. “Maybe now . . . soon,” the boy translated. Rebus turned to Mackenzie. “I can call a car to take you back to your office.”

  “You’re going to wait for him?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “If he’s abusing his tenancy, I should be here, too.”

  “Could be a long wait . . . I’ll keep you in the picture. The alternative is hanging around with me all day.” He shrugged, telling her it was her choice.

  “You’ll phone me?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Meantime, you could be following up some of those other addresses.”

  She saw the sense in this. “All right,” she said.

  Rebus took out his mobile. “I’ll send for a patrol car.”

  “What if that scares him off?”

  “Good point . . . a taxi, then.” He made the call, and she headed back downstairs, leaving Rebus facing father and son.

  “I’m going to wait for Gareth,” he told them. Then he peered down their hall. “Mind if I come in?”

  “You are welcome,” the boy said. Rebus walked inside.

  The flat needed decorating. Towels and strips of material had been pressed to the gaps in the window frames to minimize drafts. But there was furniture, and the place was tidy. One narrow element of the living room’s gas fire was lit.

  “Coffee?” the boy asked.

  “Please,” Rebus answered. He gestured towards the sofa, requesting permission to sit. The father nodded, and Rebus sat down. Then he got up again to study the photographs on the mantelpiece. Three or four generations of the same family. Rebus turned to the father, smiling and nodding. The man’s face softened a little. There wasn’t much else in the room to attract Rebus’s attention: no ornaments or books, no TV or stereo. There was a small portable radio on the floor by the father’s chair. It was shrouded in Scotch tape, presumably to stop it from falling apart. Rebus couldn’t see an ashtray so kept his cigarettes in his pocket. When the boy returned from the kitchen, Rebus accepted the tiny cup from him. There was no offer of milk. The drink was thick and black, and when Rebus took his first sip, he couldn’t decide whether the jolt it gave him was caffeine or sugar. He nodded to let his hosts know it was good. They were staring at him as if he were an exhibit. He decided he would ask for the boy’s name, and some of the family’s history. But then his mobile rang. He muttered something resembling an apology as he answered it.

  It was Siobhan.

  “Anything earth-shattering to report?” she asked into her phone. She was sitting in some sort of waiting room. She hadn’t expected to be able to see the doctors right away but had anticipated an office or anteroom. Here, she was in with outpatients and visitors, noisy toddlers and staff who ignored all outsiders as they purchased snacks from the two vending machines. Siobhan had spent a lot of time examining the contents of those machines. One boasted a limited range of sandwiches—triangles of thin white bread with mixtures of lettuce, tomato, tuna, ham, and cheese. The other was more popular: crisps and chocolate. There was a drinks machine, too, but it bore the legend “Out of Order.”

  Once the lure of the machines had worn off, she’d perused the reading material on the coffee table—out-of-date women’s mags with the pages just about hanging together, except where photos and offers had been torn out. There were a couple of kids’ comics, too, but she was saving those for later. Instead, she’d started tidying up her phone, deleting unwanted text messages and call records. Then she’d texted a couple of friends. And finally she’d crumbled altogether and called Rebus.

  “Mustn’t grumble,” was all he said. “What are you up to?”

  “Hanging around the Infirmary. You?”

  “Hanging about in Leith.”

  “Anyone would think we didn’t like Gayfield.”

  “But we know they’re wrong, don’t we?”

  She smiled at this. Another kid had come in, barely old enough to push open the door. He stood on tiptoe to feed coins into the chocolate machine but then couldn’t decide. He pressed nose and hands to the glass display, mesmerized.

  “We still meeting up later on?” Siobhan asked.

  “If not, I’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re expecting a better offer.”

  “You never can tell. Did you see Steve Holly’s rag this morning?”

  “I only read grown-up newspapers. Did he print the photograph?”

  “He did . . . and then he went to town on asylum seekers.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “So if any other poor sod ends up in the deep freeze, we’ll know who to blame.”

  The waiting-room door was opening again. Siobhan thought it might be the child’s mum, but instead it was the woman from the reception desk. She motioned for Siobhan to follow her.

  �
��John, we’re going to have to talk later.”

  “You were the one who phoned me, remember?”

  “Sorry, but it looks like I’m wanted.”

  “And suddenly I’m not? Cheers, Siobhan.”

  “I’ll see you this afternoon . . .”

  But Rebus had already hung up. Siobhan followed the receptionist down first one corridor and then another, the woman walking briskly, so that there was no possibility of conversation between them. Finally she pointed to a door. Siobhan nodded her thanks, knocked, and entered.

  It was some sort of office: rows of shelves, a desk, and computer. One white-coated doctor sat swiveling on the only chair. The other rested against the desk, arms stretched above his head. Both were good-looking and knew it.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke,” Siobhan said, shaking the first one’s hand.

  “Alf McAteer,” he told her, his fingers brushing over hers. He turned to his colleague, who was rising from the chair. “Isn’t it a sign that you’re getting old?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “When the police officers start getting more ravishing.”

  The other one was grinning. He squeezed Siobhan’s hand. “I’m Alexis Cater. Don’t worry about him, the Viagra’s almost run its course.”

  “Has it?” McAteer sounded horrified. “Time for another prescription, then.”

  “Look,” Cater was telling Siobhan, “if its about that child porn on Alf’s computer . . .”

  Siobhan looked stern-faced. He angled his face into hers.

  “Joking,” he said.

  “Well,” she replied, “we could take the pair of you down to the station . . . impound all your computers and software . . . might take a few days, of course.” She paused. “And by the way, the police may be getting better-looking, but we’re also given a sense-of-humor bypass on the first day at work . . .”

  They stared at her, standing shoulder to shoulder, both leaning back against the edge of the desk.

  “That’s us told,” Cater told his friend.

  “Well and truly,” McAteer agreed.

  They were tall and slim, widening at the shoulders. Private schools and rugby, Siobhan guessed. Winter sports, too, judging by their tans. McAteer was the swarthier of the two: thick eyebrows, almost meeting in the middle, unruly black hair, face needing a shave. Cater was fair-haired like his father, though it looked to her as if he maybe dyed it. Already a touch of male-pattern baldness was showing. Same green eyes as his father, too, but otherwise there was little resemblance. Gordon Cater’s easy charm had been replaced by something much less winning: an absolute confidence that Alexis was always going to be one of life’s winners, not because of what he was, any qualities he might possess, but due to that lineage.

  McAteer had turned to his friend. “Must be those tapes of our Filipino maids . . .”

  Cater slapped McAteer’s shoulder, kept his eyes on Siobhan.

  “We are curious,” he told her.

  “Speak for yourself, sweetie,” McAteer said, affecting campness. In that instant, Siobhan saw the way their relationship worked: McAteer working constantly at it, almost like a king’s fool of old, needy for Cater’s patronage. Because Cater had the power: everyone would want to be his friend. He was a magnet for all the things McAteer craved, the invites and the girls. As if to reinforce this, Cater gave his friend a look, and McAteer made a show of zipping his mouth shut.

  “What is it we can do for you?” Cater asked with almost exaggerated politeness. “We’ve really only got a few minutes between patients . . .”

  It was another shrewd move: reinforcing his credentials—I’m the son of a star, but in here, my job is helping people, saving lives. I am a necessity, and there’s nothing you can do to change that . . .

  “Mag Lennox,” Siobhan said.

  “We’re in the dark,” Cater said. He broke eye contact to cross one foot over the other.

  “No, you’re not,” Siobhan told him. “You stole her skeleton from the medical school.”

  “Did we?”

  “And now she’s turned up again . . . buried in Fleshmarket Alley.”

  “I saw that story,” Cater said with the slightest of nods. “Grisly sort of find, isn’t it? I thought the article said it had something to do with raising the devil?”

  Siobhan shook her head.

  “Plenty of devils in this town, eh, Lex?” McAteer said.

  Cater ignored him. “So you think we took a skeleton from the medical school and buried it in a cellar?” He paused. “Was it reported to police at the time . . . ? Only, I don’t recall seeing that particular story. Surely the university would have alerted the proper authorities.” McAteer was nodding his assent.

  “You know that didn’t happen,” Siobhan said quietly. “They were still in the mire for letting you walk out of the pathology lab with a selection of body parts.”

  “These are serious allegations.” Cater offered a smile. “Should my solicitor be present?”

  “All I need to know is what you did with the skeletons.”

  He stared at her, probably the same look which had discomfited many a young woman. Siobhan didn’t even blink. He sniffed and took a deep breath.

  “Just how major a crime is it to bury a museum piece beneath a pub?” He tried her with another smile, head sliding over to one side. “Aren’t there any drug pushers or rapists you should be pursuing instead?”

  The memory of Donny Cruikshank came to her, his scarred face no kind of recompense for his crime . . .

  “You’re not in trouble,” she said at last. “Anything you tell me will be kept between us.”

  “Like pillow talk?” McAteer couldn’t help saying. His chuckle died at another look from Cater.

  “That means we’d be doing you a favor, Detective Clarke. A favor that might need repaying.”

  McAteer grinned at his friend’s comment, but kept quiet.

  “That would depend,” Siobhan said.

  Cater leaned towards her a little. “Come out for a drink with me tonight, I’ll tell you then.”

  “Tell me now.”

  He shook his head, not taking his eyes off her. “Tonight.”

  McAteer looked disappointed: presumably some prior arrangement was about to be ditched.

  “I don’t think so,” Siobhan said.

  Cater glanced at his wristwatch. “We need to get back to the ward . . .” He held out his hand again. “It was interesting meeting you. I bet we’d have had a lot to talk about . . .” When she stood her ground, refusing to take his hand, he raised an eyebrow. It was a favorite move of his father’s, she’d seen it in half a dozen films. Slightly puzzled and let down . . .

  “Just one drink,” she said.

  “And two straws,” Cater added. His sense of his own powers was returning: she hadn’t managed to turn him down. Another victory to chalk up.

  “Opal Lounge at eight?” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “Oxford Bar at seven-thirty.”

  “I don’t . . . is it new?”

  “Quite the opposite. Look it up in the phone book.” She opened the door to leave, but paused as if she’d just thought of something. “And leave your jester in his box.” Nodding towards Alf McAteer.

  Alexis Cater was laughing as she made her exit.

  7

  The man called Gareth was laughing into his mobile phone as the door opened. There were gold rings on each of his fingers, chains dangling from his neck and wrists. He wasn’t tall but he was wide. Rebus got the impression much of it was fat. A gut hung over his waistband. He was balding badly, and had allowed what hair he had to grow uncut, so that it hung down to the back of his collar and beyond. He wore a black leather trenchcoat and black T-shirt, with baggy denims and scuffed sneakers. He already had his free hand out for the cash, wasn’t expecting another hand to grab it and haul him inside the flat. He dropped the phone, swearing and finally taking note of Rebus.

  “Who the hell are you?”

&n
bsp; “Afternoon, Gareth. Sorry if I was a bit brusque there . . . three cups of coffee gets me that way sometimes.”

  Gareth was composing himself, deciding that he wasn’t about to be done over. He bent down for his phone, but Rebus stepped on it, shaking his head.

  “Later,” he said, kicking the phone out of the door and slamming it shut behind them.

  “Fuck’s going on here?”

  “We’re having a chat, that’s what.”

  “You look like the filth to me.”

  “You’re a good judge of character.” Rebus gestured down the hall and encouraged Gareth into the living room with his hand pressed to the young man’s back. Passing father and son in the kitchen doorway, Rebus looked towards the son and got a nod, meaning he had the right man. “Sit down,” Rebus ordered. Gareth lowered himself on to the arm of the sofa. Rebus stood in front of him. “This your flat?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Only it’s not your name on the tenancy.”

  “Isn’t it?” Gareth played with the chains around his left wrist. Rebus leaned over him, got right into his face.

  “Is Baird your real surname?”

  “Yeah.” His tone challenged Rebus to call him a liar. Then: “What’s so funny?”

  “Just a wee trick, Gareth. See, I didn’t actually know your surname.” Rebus paused and straightened up again. “But I do now. Robert’s what—your brother? Dad?”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  Rebus smiled again. “Bit late for all that, Gareth.”

  Gareth seemed to agree. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the kitchen. “Did they grass us up? Did they?”

  Rebus shook his head, waited till he had Gareth’s full attention. “No, Gareth,” he said. “A dead man did that . . .”

  After which he let the young man simmer gently for five minutes, like so much reheated cock-a-leekie soup. Rebus made a show of checking text messages on his mobile. Opened a new pack of cigarettes and slid one unlit between his lips.

  “Can I have one of those?” Gareth asked.

  “Absolutely . . . just as soon as you tell me: is Robert your brother or your dad? I’m guessing dad but I could be wrong. By the way, I can’t begin to count how many criminal charges are hanging over you right now. Subletting’s just the start of it. Does Robert declare all this illegal income? See, once the taxman gets his claws into your baws, he’s worse than a Bengal tiger. Trust me on that—I’ve seen the results.” He paused. “Then there’s demanding money with menaces . . . that’s where you come in specifically.”