Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “More racism?” Rebus guessed.

  “More racism. Racial harrassment is up; race attacks are growing by half each year.” She shook her head, sending her long silver earrings flying.

  Rebus checked the bottle. It was three-quarters empty. Their first bottle had been Valpolicella; this one was Chianti.

  “Am I talking too much?” she asked suddenly.

  “Not at all.”

  Her elbows were on the table. She rested her chin on her hands. “Tell me a bit about you, John. What made you join the police?”

  “A sense of duty,” he offered. “Wanting to help my fellow human beings.” She stared at him and he smiled. “Only joking,” he said. “I just wanted a job. I’d been in the army for a few years . . . maybe I still had a thing for uniforms.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t see you as the bobby-on-the-beat type . . . So what is it exactly that you get out of the job?”

  Rebus was saved from answering by the appearance of the waiter. Since it was Friday night, the restaurant was busy. Their table was the smallest in the place, and situated in a dark corner between the bar and the door to the kitchen.

  “You enjoy?” the waiter asked.

  “It was fine, Marco, but I think we’re finished.”

  “Dessert for the lady?” Marco suggested. He was small and round and had not lost his Italian accent, despite having lived in Scotland for the best part of forty years. Caro Quinn had quizzed him on his roots when they’d first entered the restaurant, realizing later that Rebus knew Marco of old.

  “Sorry if I sounded like I was interrogating him,” she’d said by way of apology.

  Rebus had just shrugged and told her she’d make a good detective.

  She was shaking her head now, as Marco reeled off a list of desserts, each of which, apparently, was a particular specialty of the house.

  “Just coffee,” she said. “A double espresso.”

  “Same for me, thanks, Marco.”

  “And a digestif, Mr. Rebus?”

  “Just coffee, thanks.”

  “Not even for the lady?”

  Caro Quinn leaned forward. “Marco,” she said, “no matter how drunk I get, there’s no way I’m sleeping with Mr. Rebus, so don’t put yourself out trying to aid and abet, okay?”

  Marco just shrugged and held up his hands, then turned sharply towards the bar and barked out the order for coffees.

  “Was I a bit hard on him?” Quinn asked Rebus.

  “A bit.”

  She leaned back again. “Does he often help you in your seductions?”

  “You might find this hard to fathom, Caro, but seduction had never entered my mind.”

  She looked at him. “Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

  He laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I was just trying to be . . .” He sought the right word. “Gentlemanly,” was the one he came up with.

  She seemed to think about this, then shrugged and pushed her glass away. “I shouldn’t drink so much.”

  “We haven’t even finished the bottle yet.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough. I get the feeling I’ve been guilty of speechifying . . . probably not what you had in mind for a Friday night.”

  “You’ve filled in a few gaps for me . . . I didn’t mind listening.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He could have added that this was partly down to the fact that he would rather listen to her than talk about himself any day.

  “So how’s the work going?” he asked.

  “It’s fine . . . when I get time to do any.” She studied him. “Maybe I should do a portrait of you.”

  “You want to scare small children?”

  “No . . . but there’s something about you.” She angled her head. “It’s hard to see what’s going on behind your eyes. Most people try to hide the fact that they’re calculating and cynical . . . with you, that’s what seems to be on the surface.”

  “But I’ve got a soft, romantic center?”

  “I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

  They leaned back in their chairs as the coffees arrived. Rebus started to unwrap his amaretto biscuit.

  “Have mine, too, if you want,” Quinn said, getting to her feet. “I need to pay a visit . . .” Rebus rose an inch from his chair, the way he’d seen actors do in old films. She seemed to realize that this was new to his repertoire and gave another smile. “Quite the gentleman . . .”

  Once she’d gone, he searched his pockets for his mobile, switched it on to check for messages. There were two: both from Siobhan. He called her number, heard background noise.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Hang on a sec . . .” Her voice was breaking up. He heard a door swinging open and then shut again, muting the background voices.

  “You at the Ox?” he guessed.

  “That’s right. I was at the Dome with Les Young, but he had a prior engagement, so I drifted along here. What about you?”

  “Dining out.”

  “Alone?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Her name’s Caro Quinn. She’s an artist.”

  “The Whitemire one-woman crusade?”

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right.”

  “I read the papers, too, you know. What’s she like?”

  “She’s fine.” His eyes looked up to where Quinn was returning to the table. “Look, I’d better ring off . . .”

  “Wait a second. The reason I was calling . . . well, two reasons actually . . .” Her voice was drowned out by a vehicle as it rumbled past her. “. . . and I wondered if you’d heard.”

  “Sorry, I missed that. Heard what?”

  “Mo Dirwan.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been beaten up. Happened around six.”

  “In Knoxland?”

  “Where else?”

  “How is he?” Rebus’s eyes were on Quinn. She was playing with her coffee spoon, making a show of not listening.

  “He’s okay, I think. Cuts and bruises.”

  “Is he in hospital?”

  “Recuperating at home.”

  “Do we know who did it?”

  “I’m guessing racists.”

  “I mean anyone in particular.”

  “It’s Friday night, John.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it’ll wait till Monday.”

  “Fair enough.” He thought for a second. “So what was your other reason for calling? You said there were two.”

  “Janet Eylot.”

  “I know the name.”

  “She works at Whitemire. Says she gave you Stef Yurgii’s name.”

  “She did. What about it?”

  “Just wanted to check she was on the level.”

  “I told her she wouldn’t get into trouble.”

  “She’s not.” Siobhan paused. “Not yet, at any rate. Any chance we’ll be seeing you at the Ox?”

  “I might manage along later.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows rose at this. Rebus ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “A girlfriend?” she teased.

  “Colleague.”

  “And where is it you might ‘manage along’ to?”

  “Just a place we sometimes drink.”

  “The bar with no name?”

  “It’s called the Oxford.” He picked up his cup. “Someone got a doing tonight, a lawyer called Mo Dirwan.”

  “I know him.”

  Rebus nodded. “Thought you might.”

  “He often visits Whitemire. Likes to stop and talk to me afterwards, letting off steam.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Is he all right?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “He calls me his ‘Lady of the Vigils’ . . .” She broke off. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Rebus lowered the cup onto its saucer.

  “You can’t be his white knight every time.”


  “It’s not that . . .”

  “What, then?”

  “He was attacked in Knoxland.”

  “So?”

  “It was me who asked him to stick around, knock on doors . . .”

  “And that makes it your fault? If I know Mo Dirwan, he’ll bounce back stronger and more bolshy than ever.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She drained her coffee. “You should go to your pub. Might be the only place you can relax.”

  Rebus signaled to Marco for the bill. “I’ll see you home first,” he told Quinn. “Got to keep up the pretense of being a gentleman.”

  “I don’t think you understand, John . . . I’m coming with you.” He stared at her. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m just not sure it’s your kind of place.”

  “But it’s yours, and that’s what I’m curious about.”

  “You think my choice of watering hole will tell you something about me?”

  “It might.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “Who said I’m afraid?”

  “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Maybe I’m just worried about Mo Dirwan.” He paused. “Remember when you said you’d been run out of Knoxland?” The nod she gave was exaggerated, affected by the wine. “Could be the same guys.”

  “Meaning I was lucky to get away with a warning?”

  “No chance of you remembering what they looked like . . . ?”

  “Baseball caps and hooded tops.” The shrug she gave was exaggerated, too. “That’s just about all I saw of them.”

  “And their accents?”

  She slapped a hand down on the tablecloth. “Switch off for the night, will you? Just for the rest of tonight.”

  Rebus raised his hands in surrender. “How can I refuse?”

  “You can’t,” she told him, as Marco arrived with the bill.

  Rebus tried to hide his annoyance. It wasn’t just that Siobhan was in the front bar—standing where he usually stood. But she seemed to’ve taken the place over, a crowd of men around her, listening to her stories. As Rebus pushed the door open, there was a blast of laughter to accompany the end of another anecdote.

  Caro Quinn followed hesitantly. There were probably only a dozen or so bodies in the front bar, but this made for a crowd in the cramped space. She fanned her face with her hand, commenting either on the heat or the fug of cigarette smoke. Rebus realized he hadn’t lit up now for the best part of two hours; reckoned he could manage another thirty or forty minutes . . .

  Tops.

  “The prodigal returns!” one of the regulars barked, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. “What’re you having, John?”

  “No, ta, Sandy,” Rebus said. “I’m getting these.” Then, to Quinn: “What’ll it be?”

  “Just an orange juice.” During the short taxi ride, she’d seemed to doze off for a moment, her head leaning against Rebus’s shoulder. He’d kept his body rigid, not wanting to disturb her, but a pothole had brought her upright again.

  “Orange juice and a pint of IPA,” Rebus told Harry the barman. Siobhan’s circle of admirers had broken up just enough to make room for the new arrivals. Introductions were made, hands shaken. Rebus paid for the drinks, noting that Siobhan appeared to be on the gin and tonics.

  Harry was channel hopping with the TV remote, dismissing the various sports channels and ending up with the Scottish news. There was a photo of Mo Dirwan behind the announcer, a head-and-shoulders shot, showing him with a huge grin. The announcer became just a voice, as the picture changed to some video footage of Dirwan outside what appeared to be his house. He sported a black eye and some grazes, a pink plaster sitting awkwardly on his chin. He held up a hand to show that it was bandaged.

  “That’s Knoxland for you,” one of the drinkers commented.

  “You’re saying it’s a no-go zone?” Quinn asked lightly.

  “I’m saying you don’t go there if your face doesn’t fit.”

  Rebus could see Quinn begin to bristle. He touched her elbow. “How’s your drink?”

  “It’s fine.” She looked at him and seemed to see what he was doing. Nodded just enough to let him know she wouldn’t rise . . . not this time.

  Twenty minutes later, Rebus had given in and was smoking. He looked towards where Siobhan and Quinn were in conversation, heard Caro’s question:

  “So what’s he like to work with?”

  Excused himself from a three-way argument about the parliament and squeezed between two drinkers to get to the women.

  “Did anyone remember to put a pair of earmuffs in the fridge?” he asked.

  “What?” Quinn looked genuinely perplexed.

  “He means his ears are burning,” Siobhan explained.

  Quinn laughed. “I was just trying to find out a little bit more about you.” She turned to Siobhan. “He won’t tell me anything.”

  “Don’t worry: I know all John’s dirty little secrets . . .”

  As happened on a good night in the Ox, conversations ebbed and flowed, people joining in two discussions at once, bringing them together only for them to splinter again after a few minutes. There were bad jokes and worse puns, Caro Quinn becoming upset because “nobody seems to take anything seriously anymore.” Someone else agreed that it was a dumbed-down culture, but Rebus whispered what he felt to be the truth into her ear:

  “We’re never more serious than when we seem to be joking . . .”

  And later still, the back room now filled with noisy tables of drinkers, Rebus queued at the bar for more drinks and noticed that both Siobhan and Caro were missing. He frowned at one of the regulars, who angled his head towards the women’s toilet. Rebus nodded and paid for the drinks. He was having one tot of whiskey before calling it a night. One tot of Laphroaig and a third . . . no, fourth cigarette . . . and that would be it. Soon as Caro came back, he’d ask if she wanted to share a taxi. Voices were rising from the top of the steps which led to to the toilets. Not a full-blown fight as yet, but getting there. People were stopping their own conversations the better to appreciate the argument.

  “All I’m saying is, those people need jobs, same as anyone else!”

  “You don’t think the guards in the concentration camps said the same thing?”

  “Christ’s sake, you can’t compare the two!”

  “Why not? They’re both morally abhorrent . . .”

  Rebus left the drinks where they were and started pushing through the throng. Because he’d recognized the voices now: Caro and Siobhan.

  “I’m just trying to say that there’s an economic argument,” Siobhan was telling the whole bar. “Because whether you like it or not, Whitemire’s the only game in town if you happen to live in Banehall!”

  Caro Quinn raised her eyes to heaven. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “You had to hear it sometime—not everyone out here in the real world can afford the moral high ground. There are single mums working in Whitemire. How easy is it going to be for them if you get your way?”

  Rebus was at the top of the steps. The two women were inches apart, Siobhan slightly taller, Caro Quinn standing on tiptoe the better to lock eyes with her opponent.

  “Whoah there,” Rebus said, trying for a placatory smile. “I think I can hear the drink talking.”

  “Don’t patronize me!” Quinn growled. Then, to Siobhan: “What about Guantanamo Bay? I don’t suppose you see anything wrong with locking people up without the barest human rights?”

  “Listen to yourself, Caro—you’re all over the place! The point I was making was specific to Whitemire . . .”

  Rebus looked at Siobhan and saw the whole working week raging within her; saw the need to let all that pressure out. He guessed the same could be said for Caro. The argument could have come at any time, involved any topic.

  He should have seen it sooner; decided to try a
gain.

  “Ladies . . .”

  Now both of them glowered at him.

  “Caro,” he said, “your taxi’s outside.”

  The glower became a frown. She was trying to remember making the arrangement. He locked eyes with Siobhan, knew she could see he was lying. He watched as her shoulders relaxed.

  “We can pick this up again another time,” he continued to cajole Caro. “But for tonight, I think we should call it a day . . .”

  Somehow, he managed to maneuver Caro down the steps and through the crowd, miming the making of a phone call to Harry, who nodded back: a taxi would be ordered.

  “We’ll see you later, Caro,” one of the regulars called.

  “Watch out for him,” another warned her, jabbing Rebus in the chest.

  “Thanks, Gordon,” Rebus said, slapping the hand away.

  Outside, she sank to the pavement, feet by the roadside, head in her hands.

  “You okay?” Rebus asked.

  “I think I lost it a bit in there.” She took her hands away from her face, breathed the night air. “It’s not that I’m drunk or anything. I just can’t believe anyone could stick up for that place!” She turned to stare at the door of the pub, as if considering rejoining the fray. “I mean . . . tell me you don’t feel that way.” Now her eyes were on his. He shook his head.

  “Siobhan likes to play devil’s advocate,” he explained, crouching down beside her.

  It was Caro’s turn to shake her head. “That’s not it at all . . . she really believed what she was saying. She can see Whitemire’s good points.” She looked at him to fathom his reaction to those words, words he guessed were quoted verbatim from Siobhan’s argument.

  “It’s just that she’s been spending some time in Banehall,” Rebus continued to explain. “Not a lot of jobs going begging out that way . . .”

  “And that justifies the whole ugly enterprise?”

  Rebus shook his head. “I’m not sure anything justifies Whitemire,” he said quietly.

  She took his hands in hers and squeezed them. He thought he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. They sat in silence like that for a few minutes, groups of revelers passing them on each side of the road, some of them staring, saying nothing. Rebus thought back to a time when he, too, had harbored ideals. They’d been knocked out of him early on: he’d joined the army at sixteen. Well, not knocked out of him exactly, but replaced with other values, mostly less concrete, less passionate. By now, he was almost inured to the idea. Faced with someone like Mo Dirwan, his first instinct was to look for the con, the hypocrite, the moneymaking ego. And faced with someone like Caro Quinn . . . ?