Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “So what’s Mo doing there?”

  “Attending a residents’ meeting.”

  “You know where it’s being held?”

  “I have the address.” She motioned indoors, Rebus nodding to let her know she should retrieve it. She left no hint of perfume in her wake. He stood just inside the doorway, sheltering from the rain. It was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it—“smirr.” He wondered if other cultures had similar vocabularies. When she returned and handed him the slip of paper, their fingers brushed and Rebus felt a momentary spark.

  “Static,” she explained, nodding towards the hall carpet. “I keep telling Mo we need to change it to all-wool.”

  Rebus nodded and thanked her, jogging back to his car. He checked in his A to Z for the address she’d given him. It looked like a fifteen-minute drive, most of it south on the Dalmarnock Road. Parkhead wasn’t far away, but the home team wasn’t at home today, meaning less chance of finding his route closed or diverted. The rain, however, had forced shoppers and travelers into their vehicles. Ignoring his map for a few minutes, he found that he’d managed to take yet another wrong turn and was heading for Cambuslang. Pulling over, prepared to wait until he could execute a U-turn, he was startled when the back doors were yanked open and two men fell in.

  “Good on ye,” one of them said. He smelled of beer and cigarettes. His hair was a mess of soaked curls, which he shook free of raindrops much as a dog would.

  “What the hell is this?” Rebus asked, voice rising. He’d turned in his seat, the better to let both men examine the expression on his face.

  “You no’ our minicab?” the other man said. His nose was like a strawberry, breath soured and teeth blackened by dark rum.

  “Bloody right I’m not!” Rebus shouted.

  “Sorry, pal, sorry . . . genuine misunderstanding.”

  “Aye, no offense meant,” his companion added. Rebus looked out of the passenger-side window, saw the pub they’d just raced from. Cinder blocks and a solid door—no windows. They were preparing to exit the car.

  “Not headed to Wardlawhill by any chance, gents?” Rebus asked, voice suddenly calmer.

  “We’d usually hike it, but wi’ the rain an’ that . . .”

  Rebus nodded. “Tell you what, then . . . how about I drop you at the community center there?”

  The men looked at each other, then at him. “And how much do you plan to charge?”

  Rebus waved the mistrust aside. “Just playing the Good Samaritan.”

  “You going to try and convert us or something?” The first man’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

  Rebus laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to ‘show you the way’ or anything.” He paused. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

  “Eh?”

  “I want you to show me.”

  By the end of the short, twisty drive through the housing scheme, the three were on first-name terms, Rebus asking if either of his passengers had thought to attend the residents’ meeting.

  “Best keep your head down, that’s always been my philosophy,” he was told.

  The rain had eased by the time they arrived outside the single-story building. Like the pub, it, too, seemed to have no windows on first appraisal. However, it was just that they were tucked away high on the front elevation, almost at the eaves. Rebus shook hands with his guides.

  “Getting you in here’s one thing . . .” they offered with a laugh. Rebus nodded and smiled. He, too, had been wondering if he’d ever find the motorway back to Edinburgh. Neither passenger had asked why a visitor might be interested in the residents’ meeting. Rebus put this down to that philosophy of life again: keeping your head down. If you didn’t ask questions, no one could accuse you of sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. In some ways it was sound advice, but he’d never lived like that and never would.

  There were figures huddled around the building’s main entrance doors. Having waved good-bye to his passengers, Rebus parked as close to those doors as he could, worrying that the meeting had already broken up, meaning he’d missed Mo Dirwan. But as he approached, he saw he’d been wrong. A middle-aged white man in a suit, tie, and black coat was holding a leaflet out to him. The man’s head was shaven, gleaming with droplets of rainwater. His face looked pale and doughy, the neck composed of rolls of fat.

  “BNP,” he said in what sounded to Rebus like a London accent. “Let’s make Britain’s streets safe again.” The front of the leaflet showed a photo of an elderly woman looking terrified as a blur of colored youths charged towards her.

  “All pictures posed by models?” Rebus guessed, mashing the dampened leaflet in his fist. The other men on the scene, keeping in the background but flanking the man in the suit, were considerably younger and scruffier, wearing what had almost become rabble chic: sneakers, jogging bottoms, and windbreakers, baseball caps low on their foreheads. Their jackets were zipped tight, so that the bottom half of each face disappeared into the collar. It meant they were harder to identify from photographs.

  “All we want is fair rights for British people.” The word “British” almost came out as a bark. “Britain for the British—you tell me what’s wrong with that.”

  Rebus dropped the leaflet and kicked it aside. “I get the feeling your definition might be a bit narrower than most.”

  “You won’t know unless you give us a try.” The man’s lower jaw jutted forward. Christ, Rebus thought, and this is him trying to be nice . . . It was like watching a gorilla’s first attempt at flower arranging. From inside, he could hear a mixture of hand claps and boos.

  “Sounds lively,” Rebus said, pulling open the doors.

  There was a reception area, with another set of double doors leading to the main hall. There was no stage as such, but someone had provided a PA system, meaning that whoever held the microphone should have the advantage. But some in the audience had other ideas. Men were standing up, trying to shout down opponents, fingers stabbing the air. Women were on their feet, too, screaming with equal gusto. There were rows of chairs, most of them full. Rebus saw that these chairs faced a trestle table at which sat five glum-looking figures. He guessed this table comprised a mix of local worthies. Mo Dirwan was not among them, but Rebus saw him nevertheless. He was standing up in the front row, flapping his arms as if trying to emulate flight, but actually gesturing for the audience to settle. His hand was still bandaged, the pink sticking plaster still covering his chin.

  One of the worthies, however, had had enough. He flung some paperwork into a satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and marched towards the exit. More booing erupted. Rebus couldn’t tell if this was because he was chickening out, or because he’d been forced to withdraw.

  “You’re a wanker, McCluskey,” someone called out. This failed to clarify things for Rebus. But now others were following their leader. A small, plump woman at the table held the mike, but her innate good manners and reasonable tone of voice were never going to restore order. Rebus saw that the audience comprised a melting pot: it wasn’t white faces on one side of the room, coloreds on the other. The age range was mixed, too. One woman had brought her baby stroller with her. Another was waving her walking cane wildly in the air, causing those in the vicinity to duck. Half a dozen uniformed police officers had been trying to melt into the background, but now one of them was on his walkie-talkie, almost certainly summoning reinforcements. Some kids had decided that the uniforms should be the focus of their own complaints. The two groups stood only eight or ten feet apart, and that gap was closing with each moment that passed.

  Rebus could see that Mo Dirwan didn’t know what to do next. There was a look of consternation on his face, as if he were realizing that he was a human rather than a superman. This situation was beyond even his control, because his powers depended on the willingness of others to listen to his arguments, and no one here was going to listen to anything. Rebus reckoned Martin Luther King could have been standing there with a bullhorn and go
ne unheeded. One young man seemed bewildered by it all. His eyes rested on Rebus’s for a moment. He was Asian but wore the same clothes as the white kids. There was a single hooped earring through one of his lobes. His bottom lip was puffy and crusted with old blood, and Rebus saw that he stood awkwardly, as though trying to keep the weight off his left leg. That leg was hurting. Was this the reason for his bewilderment? Was he the latest victim, the one who’d led to the meeting being called? If he looked anything, it was scared . . . scared that a single act could escalate so ceaselessly.

  Rebus would have tried for reassurance if he’d known how, but the doors were bursting open, more uniforms crowding in. There was a senior face there: more silver on his lapels and cap than any of the others. Silver, too, in the hair that emerged from below his cap.

  “Let’s have some order!” he yelled, marching confidently towards the front of the hall and the microphone, which he snatched without ceremony from the now mumbling woman.

  “A bit of order, please, people!” The voice booming through the loudspeakers. “Let’s try and calm things down.” He looked down at one of the figures seated at the table. “I think this meeting’s probably best adjourned for now.” The man he’d been looking towards nodded just perceptibly. Maybe the local councillor, Rebus guessed; certainly someone the policeman had to pretend to defer to.

  But there was only one man in charge now.

  When a hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder, he flinched, but it was a grinning Mo Dirwan, who’d somehow spotted him and made his approach unseen.

  “My very good friend, what in God’s name brings you here at this time?”

  Close up, Rebus saw that Dirwan’s injuries were no more serious than would be sustained during a weekend brawl between drunks: just a minimum of scrapes and nicks. He was suddenly dubious of the plaster and the bandage, wondering if they were for show.

  “Wanted to see how you were.”

  “Ha!” Dirwan pounded his shoulder again. The fact that he was using his bandaged hand reinforced Rebus’s suspicions. “You were feeling perhaps a little bit of guilt?”

  “I also want to know how it happened.”

  “Bloody hell, that’s easily told—I was jumped. Didn’t you read your newspaper this morning? Whichever one you chose, I was in them all.”

  And Rebus didn’t doubt those papers would be spread across the floor of Dirwan’s living room . . .

  But now the lawyer’s attention was diverted by the fact that everyone was being ushered from the hall. He squeezed through the crowd until he met the senior uniform, whose hand he shook, sharing a few words. Then it was on to the councillor, whose expression told Rebus that one more wasted, thankless Saturday like this and he’d be tapping out that letter of resignation. Dirwan had strong words for this man, but when he attempted to grip the man’s arm, it was shrugged off with a force which had probably been building for the whole length of the meeting. Dirwan wagged a finger instead, then patted the man’s shoulder and headed back towards Rebus.

  “Bloody hell, isn’t this an absolute melee?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  Dirwan stared at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’d say that whatever the circumstances in front of you?”

  “Happens to be true,” Rebus told him. “So . . . can I have that word now?”

  “What word?”

  But Rebus said nothing. Instead, it was his turn to slap a hand down on Dirwan’s shoulder, holding it there as he steered the lawyer out of the building. A scuffle was taking place, one of the BNP man’s minions having come to blows with a young Asian. Dirwan looked ready to step in, but Rebus held him back, and the uniforms waded in. The BNP man was standing on a grassy bank across the road, hand held high in what looked like a Nazi salute. To Rebus’s mind, he seemed ridiculous, which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

  “Shall we go to my house?” Dirwan was suggesting.

  “My car,” Rebus said, shaking his head. They got in, but there was too much still happening all around. Rebus started the ignition, figuring he’d drive into one of the side streets, the better to talk without distractions. As they made to pass the BNP man, he pushed his foot a little harder on the accelerator, and steered the car close to the curb, sending up a spray which doused the man, much to Mo Dirwan’s delight.

  Rebus reversed into a tight curbside space, switched off the ignition, and turned to face the lawyer.

  “So what happened?” he asked.

  Dirwan shrugged. “It is quickly told . . . I was doing as you asked, questioning as many of Knoxland’s incomers as would speak with me . . .”

  “Some refused?”

  “Not everyone trusts a stranger, John, not even when he boasts the same color of skin.”

  Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. “So where were you when they jumped you?”

  “Waiting for one of the lifts in Stevenson House. They came from behind, maybe four or five of them, faces hidden.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “One of them did . . . right at the end.” Dirwan looked uncomfortable, and Rebus was reminded that he was dealing with the victim of an assault. No matter how minor the injuries, it was unlikely to be the sort of memory the lawyer would cherish . . .

  “Look,” Rebus said, “I should have said right at the start—I’m sorry this had to happen.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, John. I should have been better prepared.”

  “I’m assuming you were targeted?”

  Dirwan nodded slowly. “The one who spoke, he told me to get out of Knoxland. He said I’d be dead otherwise. He held a knife to my cheek as he spoke.”

  “What sort of knife?”

  “I can’t be sure . . . You’re thinking of the murder weapon?”

  “I suppose so.” And, he could have added, the knife found on Howie Slowther. “You didn’t recognize any of them?”

  “I spent most of my time on the ground. Fists and shoes were about the only things I saw.”

  “What about the one who spoke. Did he sound local?”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “I don’t know . . . Irish maybe.”

  “I find Irish and Scots hard to tell apart sometimes.” Dirwan shrugged an apology. “Shocking, I know, in someone who has spent some years here . . .”

  Rebus’s mobile sounded from deep within one of his pockets. He dug it out and studied the screen. It was Caro Quinn. “I have to take this,” he told Dirwan, opening the car door. He walked a few paces along the sidewalk and held the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “How could you do that to me?”

  “What?”

  “Let me drink like that,” she groaned.

  “Nursing a sore head, are we?”

  “I’m never touching alcohol again.”

  “An excellent proposition . . . maybe we could discuss it over dinner?”

  “I can’t tonight, John. I’m off to the Filmhouse with a mate.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  She seemed to consider this. “I’m supposed to be doing some work this weekend . . . and thanks to last night I’m already losing today.”

  “You can’t work with a hangover?”

  “Can you?”

  “I’ve turned it into an art form, Caro.”

  “Look, let’s see how tomorrow pans out . . . I’ll try to give you a call.”

  “Is that the best I can hope for?”

  “Take it or leave it, chum.”

  “Then I’ll take it.” Rebus had turned and was heading back towards the car. “Bye, Caro.”

  “Bye, John.”

  Off to the Filmhouse with a mate . . . A mate, not a “pal.” Rebus got in behind the steering wheel. “Sorry about that.”

  “Business or pleasure?” Mo Dirwan asked.

  Rebus didn’t answer; he had a question of his own. “You know Caro Quinn, don’t you?”

  Dirwan frowned, trying to place the name. “Our Lady of the Vigils?” he gu
essed. Rebus nodded. “Yes, she is quite a character.”

  “A woman of principles.”

  “My goodness, yes. She has given a room in her home to an asylum seeker—did you know that?”

  “I did, as it happens.”

  The lawyer’s eyes widened. “She was the one you were speaking to just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that she, too, was chased out of Knoxland?”

  “She told me.”

  “We share a common thread, she and I . . .” Dirwan studied him. “Perhaps you are part of that thread, too, John.”

  “Me?” Rebus started the engine. “More likely I’m one of those knots you come across from time to time.”

  Dirwan chuckled. “I’m quite sure you think of yourself that way.”

  “Can I give you a lift home?”

  “If it’s not any trouble.”

  Rebus shook his head. “It might actually help me get back to the motorway.”

  “So the offer masked an ulterior motive?”

  “I suppose you could put it like that.”

  “And if I accept, will you allow me to offer some hospitality?”

  “I really need to be getting back . . .”

  “I am being snubbed.”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  “Well, that is exactly how it looks.”

  “Bloody hell, Mo . . .” Rebus gave a loud sigh. “All right then, a quick cup of coffee.”

  “My wife will insist that you eat something.”

  “A biscuit, then.”

  “And some cake perhaps.”

  “Just a biscuit.”

  “She will prepare a little bit more . . . you will see.”

  “All right, cake, then. Coffee and cake.”

  The lawyer’s face broke open in a grin. “You are new to the bartering method, John. Had I been selling carpets, your credit card would now be maxing out.”

  “What makes you think it’s not there already?”

  Besides, Rebus could have added, he really was hungry . . .

  21

  On a bright, blustery Sunday morning, Rebus walked to the bottom of Marchmont Road and headed across the Meadows. Teams were already gathering for prearranged football games. Some of the sides wore uniform strips in emulation of professional sides. Others were more ragged affairs, denims and sneakers in place of shorts and boots. Traffic cones were the favored replacements for proper goalposts, and the lines marking the boundary of each pitch were invisible to all but the players.