Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus shook his head. Last thing he needed was Dirwan sparring with the guards. He went in search of Shug Davidson, found him in conversation with Ellen Wylie, in the corridor next to the interview room.

  “Reynolds told you?” Davidson asked.

  Rebus nodded. “Not the same knife.”

  “We’ll sweat the little sod a while longer anyway; might be he knows something we can use. He’s got a fresh tattoo on his arm—red hand and the letters ‘UVF.’” Meaning the Ulster Volunteer Force.

  “Never mind that, Shug.” Rebus held up the note. “Our victim was on the run from Whitemire. His family are still there.”

  Davidson stared at him. “Someone saw the photo?”

  “Bingo. Time to pay a visit, wouldn’t you say? Your car or mine?”

  But Davidson was rubbing his jaw. “John . . .”

  “What?”

  “The wife . . . the kids . . . they don’t know he’s dead, do they? You really think you’re right for the job?”

  “I can do tea and sympathy.”

  “I’m sure you can, but Ellen’s going with you. You okay with that, Ellen?”

  Wylie nodded, then turned to Rebus. “My car,” she said.

  9

  Her car was a Volvo S40 with only a couple of thousand miles on the clock. There were CDs on the passenger seat, which Rebus had flicked through.

  “Put something on if you like,” she’d said.

  “I’ve got to text Siobhan first,” he countered: his excuse for not having to choose between Norah Jones, the Beastie Boys, and Mariah Carey. It took him several minutes to send the message sorry cant do six might manage eight. Afterwards, he wondered why he hadn’t just called her instead, guessing it would have taken half the time. Almost immediately, she rang back.

  “Are you taking the piss?”

  “I’m on my way to Whitemire.”

  “The detention center?”

  “Actually, I have it on good authority that it’s an Immigration removal center. It also happens to be home to the victim’s wife and kids.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Well, I can’t do eight o’clock. I’m meeting someone for a drink. I was hoping you might’ve been there, too.”

  “There’s a fair chance I will be, if that’s what you want. We can hit the pubic triangle afterwards.”

  “When it’s getting lively, you mean?”

  “An accident of timing, Siobhan, that’s all.”

  “Well . . . go easy on them, eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming you’re going to be the bearer of bad news at Whitemire.”

  “Why is it nobody thinks I can do the sympathy thing?” Wylie glanced at him and smiled. “I can be the caring New Age cop when I want to.”

  “Sure you can, John. I’ll see you in the Ox around eight.”

  Rebus put his phone away and concentrated on the road ahead. They were driving west out of Edinburgh. Whitemire was situated between Banehall and Bo’ness, sixteen or so miles from the city center. It had been a prison up until the late 1970s, Rebus visiting on just the one occasion, shortly after he’d joined the force. This much he told Ellen Wylie.

  “Before my time,” she commented.

  “They shut it down soon after. Only thing I remember is someone showing me where they used to do the hangings.”

  “Lovely.” Wylie hit the brakes again. They were in the middle of the rush hour, commuters crawling home to their towns and villages. No clever route or shortcut available, every set of traffic lights seemingly against them.

  “I couldn’t do this every day,” Rebus said.

  “Be nice to live in the country, though.”

  He looked at her. “Why?”

  “More space, less dog shit.”

  “Have they banned dogs fom the countryside, then?”

  She smiled again. “Plus, for the price of a two-bed flat in the New Town, you could have a dozen acres and a billiard room.”

  “I don’t play billiards.”

  “Me neither, but I could learn.” She paused. “So what’s the plan for when we get there?”

  Rebus had been considering this. “We might need a translator.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Maybe they’ve got one on the staff . . . they could break the news . . .”

  “She’ll have to ID her husband.”

  Rebus nodded. “The translator can tell her that, too.”

  “After we’ve gone?”

  Rebus shrugged. “We ask our questions, get out of there quick.”

  She looked at him. “And people say you can’t do sympathy . . .”

  They drove in silence after that, Rebus finding a news channel on the radio. There was nothing about the scuffle at Knoxland. He hoped nobody would pick up on it. Eventually, a sign pointed to the turnoff for Whitemire.

  “I just thought of something,” Wylie said. “Shouldn’t we have warned them we were coming?”

  “Bit late for that.” The road became a pot-holed single track. Signs warned trespassers that they would be prosecuted. The twelve-foot perimeter fence had been augmented by runs of pale green corrugated iron.

  “Means no one can see in,” Wylie commented.

  “Or out,” Rebus added. He knew that there had been demonstrations against the holding center, and guessed that these were the reason for the recently installed cladding.

  “And what on earth is this?” Wylie asked. A lone figure was standing by the side of the road. It was a woman, wrapped heavily against the cold. Behind her was a tent just big enough for one person and next to it a smoldering campfire with a kettle hanging over it. The woman held a candle, cupping her free hand around the spluttering flame. Rebus stared at her as they passed. She kept her eyes on the ground in front, her mouth moving slightly. Fifty yards on stood the gatehouse. Wylie stopped the car and sounded her horn, but no one appeared. Rebus got out and approached the booth. A guard sat behind the window, chewing a sandwich.

  “Evening,” Rebus said. The man pressed a button, his voice issuing from a speaker.

  “You got an appointment?”

  “I don’t need one.” Rebus showed his ID. “Police officer.”

  The man appeared unimpressed. “Slide it through.”

  Rebus placed the card in a metal drawer and watched as the guard picked it up and studied it. A phone call was made, Rebus unable to hear any of it. Afterwards, the guard jotted down Rebus’s details and pressed the button again.

  “Car registration.”

  Rebus obliged, noting that the last three letters were WYL. Wylie had bought herself a vanity plate.

  “Anyone else with you?” the guard asked.

  “Detective Sergeant Ellen Wylie.”

  The guard asked him to spell Wylie, then noted these details down, too. Rebus looked back towards the woman at the side of the road.

  “Is she always here?” he asked.

  The guard shook his head.

  “She got family inside or something?”

  “Just a nutter,” the guard said, sliding Rebus’s ID back through. “Park in one of the visitor bays in the car park. Someone will come to meet you.”

  Rebus nodded his thanks and walked back to the Volvo. The barrier opened automatically, but the guard had to venture outside to unlock the gates. He waved them through, Rebus pointing Wylie in the direction of their parking space.

  “I see you’ve got a vanity plate,” he commented.

  “So?”

  “I thought they were boys’ toys.”

  “Present from my boyfriend,” she admitted. “What else was I going to do with it?”

  “So who’s the boyfriend?”

  “None of your business,” she said, giving him a glare which told him the subject was closed.

  The car park was separated from the main compound by another fence. There was building work going on, foundations being laid.

  “Nice to see at least one growth industry in West Loth
ian,” Rebus muttered.

  A guard had emerged from the main building. He opened a gate in the fence and asked if Wylie had locked her doors.

  “And set the alarm,” she confirmed. “Lot of car crime around here?”

  He failed to see the joke. “We’ve some fairly desperate people in here.” Then he led them to the main entrance. A man was standing there, dressed in a suit rather than the gray uniform of a guard. The man nodded to the guard to let him know he’d take over. Rebus was studying the unadorned stone-clad building, its small windows set high into its walls. There were much newer whitewashed annexes to left and right.

  “My name’s Alan Traynor,” the man was saying. He shook first Rebus’s hand and then Wylie’s. “How can I be of service?”

  Rebus drew a copy of the morning paper from his pocket. It was folded open at the photograph.”

  “We think these people are being held here.”

  “Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  Rebus didn’t answer. “The family’s name is Yurgii.”

  Traynor studied the photo again, then nodded slowly. “You’d better come with me,” he said.

  He led them into the prison. To Rebus’s eye, that’s exactly what it was, notwithstanding the tweaked job description. Traynor was explaining the security measures. If they’d been ordinary visitors they’d have been fingerprinted and photographed, then frisked with metal detectors. The staff they passed wore blue uniforms, chains of keys jangling by their sides. Just like a prison. Traynor was in his early thirties. The dark blue suit could have been tailored to fit his slim frame. His dark hair was parted from the left, long enough so that he had to push it out of his eyes occasionally. He told them he was the deputy, his boss having taken some sick leave.

  “Nothing serious?”

  “Stress.” Traynor shrugged to show that it was only to be expected. They followed him up some stairs and through a small open-plan office. A young woman sat hunched over a computer.

  “Working late again, Janet?” Traynor asked with a smile. She didn’t respond, but watched and waited. Rebus, unseen by Traynor, rewarded Janet Eylot with a wink.

  Traynor’s office was small and functional. Through the glass sat a bank of CCTV screens, flicking between a dozen on-site locations. “Only one chair, I’m afraid,” he said, retreating behind his desk.

  “I’m fine standing, sir,” Rebus told him, nodding for Wylie to take the seat. But she decided to stand, too. Traynor, having lowered himself onto his own chair, now found himself having to look up at the detectives.

  “The Yurgiis are here?” Rebus asked, feigning interest in the CCTV screens.

  “They are, yes.”

  “But not the husband?”

  “Slipped away . . .” He shrugged. “Not our problem. It was the Immigration Service that screwed up.”

  “And you’re not part of the Immigration Service?”

  Traynor snorted. “Whitemire is run by Cencrast Security, which in turn is a subsidiary of ForeTrust.”

  “The private sector, in other words?”

  “Exactly.”

  “ForeTrust’s American, isn’t it?” Wylie added.

  “That’s right. They own private prisons in the United States.”

  “And here in Britain?”

  Traynor admitted as much with a bow of the head. “Now, about the Yurgiis . . .” He played with his watch strap, hinting that he had better things to do with his time.

  “Well, sir,” Rebus began, “I showed you that piece in the newspaper, and you didn’t bat an eye . . . didn’t seem interested in the headline or the story.” He paused. “Which gives me the feeling you already know what happened.” Rebus pressed his knuckles to the desktop and leaned down. “And that makes me wonder why you didn’t get in touch.”

  Traynor met Rebus’s eyes for a second, then turned his attention to the CCTV screens. “Know how much bad press we get, Inspector? More than we deserve—a hell of a lot more. Ask the inspection teams—we’re audited quarterly. They’ll tell you this place is humane and efficient and we don’t cut corners.” He pointed to a screen showing a group of men playing cards around a table. “We know these are people, and we treat them as such.”

  “Mr. Traynor, if I’d wanted the brochure I could have sent away for one.” Rebus leaned down farther so the young man could not escape his gaze. “Reading between the corporate lines, I’d say you were afraid Whitemire would become part of the story. That’s why you did nothing . . . and that, Mr. Traynor, counts as obstruction. How long do you think Cencrast would keep you on with a criminal record?”

  Traynor’s face began to flush from the neck up. “You can’t prove I knew anything,” he blustered.

  “But I can try, can’t I?” Rebus’s smile was perhaps the least pleasant the young man had ever been treated to. Rebus stood up straight and turned towards Wylie, giving her a completely different kind of smile before returning his attention to Traynor.

  “Now, let’s get back to the Yurgiis, shall we?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “I don’t know everyone’s life story,” Traynor said defensively.

  “Then you might want to refer to their file.”

  Traynor nodded and got up, heading out to ask Janet Eylot for the relevant documents.

  “Nice going,” Wylie said under her breath.

  “And lots of fun, to boot.”

  Rebus’s face hardened again as Traynor returned. The young man sat down and riffled through the sheets of paper. The story he told was simple enough on the surface. The Yurgii family were Turkish Kurds. They had arrived first in Germany, claiming to have been under threat in their own country. Family members had disappeared. The father gave his name as Stef . . . Traynor looked up at this.

  “They’d no papers on them, nothing to prove he was telling the truth. Doesn’t sound a very Kurdish name, does it? Then again . . . says here he was a journalist . . .”

  Yes, a journalist, writing stories critical of the government. Working under various aliases in an attempt to keep his family safe. When an uncle and cousin had gone missing, it was assumed they’d been arrested and would be tortured for details about Stef.

  “Gives his age as twenty-nine . . . could be lying there, too, of course.”

  Wife, twenty-five, children, six and four. They’d told the authorities in Germany that they wanted to live in the UK, and the Germans had obliged—four fewer refugees for them to worry about. However, upon hearing the family’s case, it had been decided by Immigration in Glasgow that they should be deported: back to Germany at first, and from there probably to Turkey.

  “Any reason given?” Rebus asked.

  “They hadn’t proved they weren’t economic migrants.”

  “Tough one,” Wylie said, folding her arms. “Like proving you’re not a witch . . .”

  “These matters are gone into with great thoroughness,” Traynor said defensively.

  “So how long have they been here?” Rebus asked.

  “Seven months.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Mrs. Yurgii refuses to leave.”

  “Can she do that?”

  “She has a lawyer working for her.”

  “Not Mo Dirwan?”

  “How did you guess?”

  Rebus cursed silently: if he’d taken up Dirwan’s offer, he could have been the one to break the news to the widow. “Does Mrs. Yurgii speak English?”

  “A little.”

  “She needs to come to Edinburgh to identify the body. Will she understand that?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Is there anyone who could translate?”

  Traynor shook his head.

  “Her kids stay with her?” Wylie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All day?” She watched him nod. “They don’t go to school or anything?”

  “There’s a teacher comes here.”

  “How man
y children exactly?”

  “Anything from five to twenty, depending on who’s being kept here.”

  “All different ages, different nationalities?”

  “Nigerians, Russians, Somalis . . .”

  “And just the one teacher?”

  Traynor smiled. “Don’t swallow the media line, Detective Sergeant. I know we’ve been called ‘Scotland’s Camp X-Ray’ . . . protestors ringing the perimeter, hands joined . . .” He paused, suddenly looking tired. “We’re just processing them, that’s all. We’re not monsters, and this isn’t a prison camp. Those new buildings you saw as you came in—specially constructed family units. TVs and a cafeteria, table tennis, and snack machines . . .”

  “And which of those don’t you get in a prison?” Rebus asked.

  “If they’d left the country when told, they wouldn’t be here.” Traynor patted the file. “The officials have made their decision.” He took a deep breath. “Now, I’m assuming you’d like to see Mrs. Yurgii . . .”

  “In a minute,” Rebus said. “First, what do your notes tell you about Stef doing a runner?”

  “Just that when officers went to the Yurgiis’ flat . . .”

  “Which was where?”

  “Sighthill in Glasgow.”

  “A cheery spot.”

  “Better than some, Inspector . . . Anyway, when they arrived, Mr. Yurgii wasn’t home. According to his wife, he had left the previous night.”

  “He got wind you were coming?”

  “It wasn’t a secret. The judgment had been delivered; their lawyer had informed them of it.”

  “Would he have had any means of supporting himself?”

  Traynor shrugged. “Not unless Dirwan helped him out.”

  Well, that was something for Rebus to ask the lawyer. “He didn’t try to contact his family?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Rebus thought for a moment, turning towards Wylie to see if she had any questions. When she just twitched her mouth, Rebus nodded. “Okay, we’ll go see Mrs. Yurgii now . . .”

  Dinner had just finished, and the cafeteria was emptying.

  “Everybody eats at the same time,” Wylie commented.

  A uniformed guard was arguing with a woman whose head was covered with a shawl. She carried an infant on her shoulder. The guard was holding up a piece of fruit.