Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “Sometimes they smuggle food back to their rooms,” Traynor explained.

  “And that’s not allowed?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t see them here . . . must have finished already. This way . . .” He led them down a corridor fitted with a CCTV camera. The building might have been clean and new, but to Rebus’s mind it was a compound within a compound.

  “Had any suicides yet?” he asked.

  Traynor glared at him. “One or two attempts. A hunger-striker, too. Comes with the territory . . .” He had stopped at an open door, gesturing with his hand. Rebus looked in. The room was fifteen feet by twelve—not small in itself, but containing a bunk bed, a single bed, wardrobe, and desk. Two small children were working at the desk, crayonning pictures and whispering to each other. Their mother sat on her bed, staring into space, hands on her lap.

  “Mrs. Yurgii?” Rebus said, moving a little farther into the room. The drawings were of trees and balls of yellow sunshine. The room was windowless, ventilated from a grille in the ceiling. The woman looked up at him with hollow eyes.

  “Mrs. Yurgii, I’m a police officer.” He had the children’s interest now. “This is my colleague. Could we maybe talk away from the children?”

  Unblinking, her eyes never left his. Tears began to drip down her face, lips pursed to hold back the sobs. The children went to her, offering comfort with their arms. It had the look of something they did regularly. The boy would be six or seven. He looked up at the intruding adults with a face hardened beyond its years.

  “You go now, not do this for us.”

  “I need to talk to your mother,” Rebus said quietly.

  “It is not allowed. Bugger off now.” He enunciated these words precisely, and with a trace of the local accent—picked up from the guards, Rebus guessed.

  “I really need to talk to . . .”

  “I know all,” Mrs. Yurgii said suddenly. “He . . . not . . .” Her eyes beseeched Rebus, but all he could do was nod. She hugged her children to her. “He not,” she repeated. The girl had started crying, too, but not the boy. It was as if he knew that his world had shifted yet again, bringing another challenge.

  “What is this?” The woman from the cafeteria was standing just outside the door.

  “Do you know Mrs. Yurgii?” Rebus asked.

  “She is my friend.” The infant had gone from the woman’s shoulder, leaving a patch of drying milk or saliva there. She squeezed into the room and crouched in front of the widow.

  “What has happened?” she asked. Her voice was deep, imperative.

  “We’ve brought some bad news,” Rebus told her.

  “What news?”

  “It’s about Mrs. Yurgii’s husband,” Wylie interrupted.

  “What has happened?” There was fear in the eyes now, realization dawning.

  “It’s not good,” Rebus confirmed. “Her husband is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He was killed. Someone needs to identify the body. Did you know the family before you came here?”

  She looked at him as if he were stupid. “None of us knew the others before this place.” She spat out the final word as though it were gristle.

  “Can you tell her that she needs to identify her husband? We can send a car for her tomorrow morning . . .”

  Traynor held up a hand. “No need for that. We have transport . . .”

  “Oh, yes?” Wylie said skeptically. “With bars on the windows?”

  “Mrs. Yurgii has been marked down as a potential absconder. She remains my responsibility.”

  “You’ll take her to the mortuary in the back of a paddy wagon?”

  He glowered at Wylie. “Guards will escort her.”

  “I’m sure society’s reassured by that.”

  Rebus placed his hand on Wylie’s elbow. She seemed about to add something but turned away instead, heading off down the corridor. Rebus gave a little shrug.

  “Ten in the morning?” he asked. Traynor nodded. Rebus gave him the address of the mortuary. “Any chance Mrs. Yurgii’s friend here could go with her?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Traynor conceded.

  “Thanks,” Rebus said. Then he followed Wylie out to the car park. She was pacing the ground, kicking imaginary stones, watched by a guard who was patrolling the perimeter with a flashlight, despite the floodlit glare. Rebus lit a cigarette.

  “Feeling better now, Ellen?”

  “What’s there to feel better about?”

  Rebus held up both hands in surrender. “I’m not the one you’re pissed off with.”

  The sound which issued from her mouth started as a snarl but ended in a sigh. “That’s the problem, though: who is it I am pissed off with?”

  “The people in charge?” Rebus guessed. “The ones we never see.” He waited to see if she’d agree. “I’ve got this theory,” he went on. “We spend most of our time chasing something called ‘the underworld,’ but it’s the overworld we should really be keeping an eye on.”

  She thought about this, nodding almost imperceptibly. The guard was walking towards them.

  “No smoking,” he barked. Rebus just stared at him. “It’s not allowed.”

  Rebus took another inhalation, narrowing his eyes. Wylie pointed to a faint yellow line on the ground.

  “What’s that for?” Trying to steer his attention away from Rebus.

  “The zone of containment,” the guard answered. “Detainees aren’t allowed to cross it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  He shifted his gaze to her. “They might try to escape.”

  “Have you taken a look at those gates lately? Height of the fence tell you anything? Barbed wire and corrugated iron . . . ?” She was inching towards him. He started backing away. Rebus reached out to touch her arm again.

  “I think we should leave now,” he said, flicking his cigarette so that it bounced off the guard’s polished toe cap, sending a few momentary sparks into the night. As they drove out of the compound, the lone woman was watching them from her campfire.

  10

  Well, this is . . . rustic.” Alexis Cater gazed at the nicotine-colored walls of the Oxford Bar’s back room.

  “I’m glad you condescend to approve.”

  He wagged a finger. “There’s a fire in you—I like that. I’ve quenched a few fires in my time, but only after inflaming them first.” He smirked as he raised his glass to his lips, sloshing the beer around in his mouth before swallowing. “Not a bad pint, mind, and bloody cheap. I might have to remember this place. Is it your local?”

  She shook her head, just as Harry the barman appeared to clear away any empty glasses. “All right, Shiv?” he called. She nodded back.

  Cater grinned. “Your cover’s blown, Shiv.”

  “Siobhan,” she corrected him.

  “Tell you what: I’ll call you Siobhan if you’ll call me Lex.”

  “You’re trying to cut a deal with a police officer?”

  His eyes twinkled above the rim of the glass. “Hard to picture you in uniform . . . but well worth the effort, all the same.”

  She’d chosen to sit on one of the benches, reasoning that he would take the chair opposite, but he’d slid onto the bench beside her, and was creeping closer by degrees.

  “Tell me,” she said, “does this charm offensive of yours ever work?”

  “Can’t complain. Mind you . . .”—he checked his watch—“we’ve been here the best part of ten minutes and you’ve yet to ask me about my father—that’s probably a record.”

  “So what you’re saying is, women humor you because of who you are?”

  He winced. “A palpable hit.”

  “You remember why we’re having this meeting?”

  “God, you make it sound so formal.”

  “If you want to see ‘formal,’ we can keep talking at Gayfield Square.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your flat?”

  “My police station,” she corrected him.

  “Bloody
hell, this is hard work.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “I need a ciggie,” Cater was saying. “Do you smoke?” Siobhan shook her head, and he looked elsewhere. Another drinker had arrived, taking the table opposite them, spreading out his evening paper. Cater stared at the pack of cigarettes lying beside the newspaper. “Excuse me,” he called. “Have you a spare ciggie by any chance?”

  “Not ‘spare,’ no,” the man said. “I need every single one I can get my hands on.” He went back to his reading. Cater turned to Siobhan.

  “Nice clientele.”

  Siobhan shrugged. She wasn’t about to let him know there was a machine around the corner next to the toilets.

  “The skeleton,” she reminded him.

  “What about it?” He leaned back, as though wishing he were elsewhere.

  “You took it from outside Professor Gates’s office.”

  “So what?”

  “I’d like to know how it ended up in a concrete floor in Fleshmarket Alley.”

  “Me, too,” he snorted. “Maybe I could sell the idea to Dad for a miniseries.”

  “After you took it . . .” Siobhan prompted.

  He swirled his glass, producing a fresh head on the top of the pint. “You mistake me for a cheap date—one drink and you think I’ll spill the beans?”

  “Right you are, then . . .” Siobhan started to get to her feet.

  “At least finish your drink,” he protested.

  “No, thanks.”

  He rolled his head to left and right. “All right, point made . . .” Gestured with his arm. “Sit down again and I’ll tell you.” She hesitated, then pulled out the chair opposite him. He pushed her glass towards her. “Christ,” he said, “you’re a real drama queen when you get going.”

  “I’m sure you are, too.” She lifted her tonic water. On entering the bar, Cater had ordered her a gin and tonic, but she’d managed to signal to Harry that she didn’t want the gin. Straight tonic was what she’d been given—the reason the round had been so cheap . . .

  “If I tell you, can we get a bite to eat after?” She glared at him. “I’m ravenous,” he persisted.

  “There’s a good chippie on Broughton Street.”

  “Is that anywhere near your flat? We could take the fish suppers back there . . .”

  This time she had to smile. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Not unless I’m really, really sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That the woman isn’t interested.” He beamed a smile at her. Meantime, behind her, the man at the next table cleared his throat as he turned to a fresh page.

  “We’ll see,” was her response. And then: “So tell me about the bones of Mag Lennox . . .”

  He stared up at the ceiling, reminiscing. “Dear old Mags . . .” Then he broke off. “This is off the record, naturally?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Well, you’re right, of course . . . we did decide to ‘borrow’ Mags. We were hosting a party and decided it would be fun if Mags presided over us. Got the idea from a veterinary student’s party: he’d sneaked a dead dog out of the lab, sat it in his bath, so that every time someone needed to . . .”

  “I get the picture.”

  He shrugged. “Same thing with Mags. Plonked her on a chair at the head of the table during dinner. Later on, I think we even danced with her. It was just a bit of high spirits, m’lady. We planned to take her back afterwards . . .”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Well, when we woke up next morning, she’d left of her own volition.”

  “I hardly think that likely.”

  “Okay, then, somebody’d walked off with her.”

  “And with the baby, too—you got that when the department was chucking it out?” He nodded. “Did you ever find out who took them?”

  He shook his head. “There were seven of us for dinner, but after that the party proper started, and there must have been twenty or thirty people there. Could’ve been any one of them.”

  “Any prime suspects?”

  He considered this. “Pippa Greenlaw brought a bit of rough with her. Turned out to be a one-nighter, and he was never heard of again.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “I should think so.” He stared at her. “Probably not as sexy as yours, though.”

  “What about Pippa? Is she a medic, too?”

  “Christ, no. Works in PR. Come to think of it, that’s how she met her beau. He was a footballer.” He paused. “Well, wanted to be a footballer.”

  “Have you got a number for Pippa?”

  “Somewhere . . . might not be up-to-date . . .” He leaned forward. “Of course, I don’t have it with me. I suppose that means we’ll need another rendezvous.”

  “What it means is that you’ll call me and tell me it.” She handed over her card. “You can leave a message at the station if I’m not there.”

  His smile softened as he studied her, angling his face one way and then another.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m just wondering how much of this Ice Maiden routine is just that—a routine. Do you ever step out of character?” He reached across the table and snatched her wrist, placing it to his lips. She wrenched free. He sat back again, looking satisfied.

  “Fire and ice,” he mused. “It’s a good combination.”

  “Want to see another good combination?” the man at the next table asked, folding shut his paper. “How about a punch in the face and a boot up the arse?”

  “Bloody hell, it’s Sir Galahad!” Cater laughed. “Sorry, chum, no damsels round these parts requiring your services.”

  The man was on his feet, stepping into the middle of the cramped room. Siobhan stood up, blocking his view of Cater.

  “It’s fine, John,” she said. Then, to Cater: “I think you better skedaddle.”

  “You know this primate?”

  “One of my colleagues,” Siobhan confirmed.

  Rebus was craning his neck, the better to glare at Cater. “You better get her that phone number, pal. And no more of your playing around.”

  Cater was on his feet. He made a show of pausing long enough to finish his drink. “It’s been a delightful evening, Siobhan . . . we must do it again sometime, with or without the performing monkey.”

  Harry the barman was in the doorway. “That your Aston outside, pal?”

  Cater’s face softened. “Nice car, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, but some punter’s just mistaken it for a urinal . . .”

  Cater gasped and scrambled down the steps towards the exit. Harry gave a wink and returned to the bar. Siobhan and Rebus shared a look, then a smile.

  “Smarmy little bastard,” Rebus commented.

  “Maybe you’d be, too, given who his father is.”

  “Silver spoon up the nose at birth, I dare say.” Rebus sat back down at his table, Siobhan turning her chair round to face him.

  “Maybe it’s just his routine.”

  “Like your ‘Ice Maiden?’”

  “And your Mr. Angry.”

  Rebus winked and tipped his glass to his mouth. She’d noticed before how he opened his mouth when he drank—as if attacking the liquid, showing it his teeth. “Want another?” she asked.

  “Trying to postpone the evil moment?” he teased. “Well, why not? Got to be cheaper here than there.”

  She brought the drinks through. “How did it go at Whitemire?”

  “As well as could be expected. Ellen Wylie went off on one.” He described the visit, ending with Wylie and the guard. “Why do you think she did that?”

  “Innate sense of injustice?” Siobhan suggested. “Maybe she comes from immigrant stock.”

  “Like me, you mean?”

  “I seem to remember you telling me you came from Poland.”

  “Not me: my granddad.”

  “You probably still have family there.”

  “Christ knows
.”

  “Well, don’t forget I’m an immigrant, too. Parents both English . . . brought up south of the border.”

  “You were born here, though.”

  “And whisked away again before I was out of nappies.”

  “Still makes you Scottish—stop trying to wriggle out of it.”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “We’re a mongrel nation, always have been. Settled by the Irish, raped and pillaged by the Vikings. When I was a kid, all the chip shops seemed to be run by Italians. Classmates with Polish and Russian surnames . . .” He stared into his glass. “I don’t remember anyone getting stabbed because of it.”

  “You grew up in a village, though.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe Knoxland’s different, that’s all I’m saying.”

  He nodded agreement with this, finished his drink. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “I’ve still got half a glass.”

  “You losing your nerve, DS Clarke?”

  A complaint sounded in her throat, but she got to her feet anyway.

  “You been to one of these places before?”

  “Couple of times,” he admitted. “Stag nights.”

  They’d parked the car on Bread Street, outside one of the city’s more chic hotels. Rebus wondered what visitors thought, stepping out of their suite and into the pubic triangle. The area spread from the show bars of Tollcross and Lothian Road to Lady Lawson Street. Bars advertised the “biggest jugs” in town, “VIP table-dancing,” and “nonstop action.” There was just the one discreet sex shop as yet, and no sign that any of Leith’s streetwalkers had taken up residence.

  “Takes me back a bit,” Rebus admitted. “You weren’t here in the seventies, were you? Go-go dancers in the pubs at lunchtime . . . a blue cinema near the university . . .”

  “Glad to hear you so nostalgic,” Siobhan said coolly.

  Their destination was a refurbished pub just across the road from a disused shop. Rebus could recall several of its previous names: The Laurie Tavern, The Wheaten Inn, The Snakepit. But now it was The Nook. A sign on its large blacked-out window proclaimed it “Your First Nookie Stop in the City” and offered “immediate gold-status membership.” There were two bouncers guarding the door from drunks and undesirables. Both were overweight and shaven-headed. They wore identical charcoal suits and black open-necked shirts and sported earpieces to alert them to any trouble inside.