Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “Any help you can give would be appreciated.” It was the same line he’d used during their initial conversation. She’d listened closely, then made a call to someone higher up the admin ladder. Assent had been given, but with a caution—personal data was a confidential matter. There would need to be a written request, a discussion, a good reason for the handing over of any information.

  Rebus had agreed to all of this, adding that it would be irrelevant should there turn out to be no Senegalese students registered at the university.

  As a result of which, Mrs. Scrimgour was going to make a search of the database.

  “You could have waited in the office, you know,” she said now. Rebus just nodded as they turned into an open doorway. A younger woman was working at a computer. “I’ll need to relieve you, Nancy,” Mrs. Scrimgour said, managing to make it sound like admonishment rather than request. Nancy almost tipped over the chair in her rush to comply. Mrs. Scrimgour nodded to the other side of the desk, meaning for Rebus to stand there, where he couldn’t see the screen. He complied up to a point, leaning forward so his elbows rested against the edge of the desk, eyes at a level with Mrs. Scrimgour’s own. She frowned at this, but Rebus just smiled.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  She was tapping keys. “Africa’s divided into five zones,” she informed him.

  “Senegal’s in the northwest.”

  She peered at him. “North or west?”

  “One or the other,” he said with a shrug. She gave a little sniff and kept typing, eventually pausing with her hand on the mouse.

  “Well,” she said, “we do have one student from Senegal . . . so that’s that.”

  “But I’m not allowed to know name and whereabouts?”

  “Not without the procedures we discussed.”

  “Which just end up taking more time.”

  “Proper procedures,” she intoned, “as laid down by law, if you need reminding.”

  Rebus nodded slowly. His face had inched closer to hers. She pulled back in her seat.

  “Well,” she said, “I think that’s as much as we can do today.”

  “And it’s unlikely that you’d absentmindedly leave the screen showing when you walked away . . . ?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that, Inspector.” Saying which, she clicked twice with the mouse. Rebus knew that the information had disappeared, but that was all right. He’d seen just about enough from the reflection in her lenses. A smiling photo of a young woman with dark curly hair. He was pretty sure her name was Kawake, with an address at the university’s halls of residence on Dalkeith Road.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” he told Mrs. Scrimgour.

  She tried not to look too disappointed at this news.

  Pollock Halls was situated at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, on the edge of Holyrood Park. A sprawling, mazelike compound which mixed old architecture with new, crow-stepped gables and turrets with boxy modernity. Rebus stopped his car at the gatehouse, getting out to meet the uniformed guard.

  “Hiya, John,” the man said.

  “You’re looking well, Andy,” Rebus offered, shaking the proffered hand.

  Andy Edmunds had been a police constable from the age of eighteen, meaning he’d been able to retire on a full pension while still well shy of his fiftieth birthday. The guard’s job was part-time, a way of filling some of the hours in a day. The two men had been useful to each other in the past: Andy feeding Rebus info on any dealers attempting to sell to the students at Pollock; Andy feeling still part of the force as a result.

  “What brings you here?” he asked now.

  “A bit of a favor. I’ve got a name—could be her first or last—and I know this is her most recent address.”

  “What’s she done?”

  Rebus looked around, as if to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. Edmunds took the bait, moved a step closer.

  “That murder at Knoxland,” Rebus said under his breath. “There may be a tie-in.” He placed his finger to his mouth, Edmunds nodding his understanding.

  “What’s said to me stays with me, John, you know that.”

  “I know, Andy. So . . . is there any way we can track her down?”

  The “we” seemed to galvanize Edmunds. He retreated to his glass box and made a call, then returned to Rebus. “We’ll go talk to Maureen,” he said. Then he winked. “Wee thing going on between the two of us, but she’s married . . .” It was his turn to place a finger to his mouth.

  Rebus just nodded. He had shared a confidence with Edmunds, so a confidence had to be traded in return. Together, they walked the ten yards or so to the main admin building. This was the oldest structure on the site, built in the Scots baronial style, the interior dominated by a vast wooden staircase, the walls paneled with more slabs of dark-stained wood. Maureen’s office was on the ground floor, boasting an ornate green marble fireplace and a paneled ceiling. She wasn’t quite what Rebus had been expecting—small and plump, almost mousy. Hard to imagine her carrying on an illicit affair with a man in uniform. Edmunds was staring at Rebus, as though seeking some sort of appraisal. Rebus raised an eyebrow and gave a little nod, which seemed to satisfy the ex-cop.

  Having shaken Maureen’s hand, Rebus spelled the name for her. “I might have the odd letter in the wrong place,” he cautioned.

  “Kawame Mana,” Maureen corrected him. “I’ve got her here.” Her screen was showing the identical information to Mrs. Scrimgour’s. “She’s got a room in Fergusson Hall . . . studying psychology.”

  Rebus had flipped open his notebook. “Date of birth?”

  Maureen tapped the screen and Rebus jotted down what was printed there. Kawame was a second-year student, aged twenty.

  “Calls herself Kate,” Maureen added. “Room two-ten.”

  Rebus turned to Andy Edmunds, who was already nodding. “I’ll show you,” he said.

  The narrow, cream-colored corridor was quieter than Rebus had expected.

  “Nobody playing hip-hop full blast?” he queried. Edmunds snorted.

  “They’ve all got earphones these days, John, shuts them right away from the world.”

  “So even if we knock, she won’t hear us?”

  “Time to find out.” They paused at the door marked 210. It boasted stickers of flowers and smiley faces, plus the name Kate picked out in tiny silver stars. Rebus made a fist and gave three hard thumps. The door across the corridor opened a fraction, male eyes gazing at them. The door closed again quickly and Edmunds made a show of sniffing the air.

  “One hundred percent herbal,” he said. Rebus’s mouth twitched.

  When there was still no answer at the second attempt, he kicked the other door, causing it to rattle in its frame. By the time it opened, he already had his warrant card out. He reached forward and plucked at the tiny earphones, dislodging them. The student was in his late teens, dressed in baggy green combats and a shrunken gray T-shirt. A breeze was coming from a just-opened window.

  “What’s up?” the boy asked in a lazy drawl.

  “You are, by the look of things.” Rebus walked to the window and angled his head out. A thin wisp of smoke was coming from the bush immediately below. “Hope there wasn’t too much of it left.”

  “Too much of what?” The voice was educated, Home Counties.

  “Whatever it is you call it—draw, blaw, wacky baccy, weed . . .” Rebus smiled. “But the last thing I want to do is go back downstairs, retrieve the spliff, check the saliva on the cigarette papers for DNA, and come all the way back up here to arrest you.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Grass has been decriminalized.”

  Rebus shook his head. “Downgraded—there’s a difference. Still, you’ll be allowed a phone call to your parents—that’s one law they’ve yet to tinker with.” Rebus looked around the room: single bed, with a rumpled duvet on the floor beside it; shelves of books; a laptop computer on a desk. Posters advertising drama productions.

  “You like the theater
?” Rebus asked.

  “I’ve done a bit of acting—student productions.”

  Rebus nodded. “You know Kate?”

  “Yeah.” The student was switching off the machine attached to the earphones. Siobhan, Rebus guessed, would know what it was. All he could tell was that it was too small to play CDs.

  “Know where we could find her?”

  “What’s she done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything; we just need a word.”

  “She’s not here much . . . probably in the library.”

  “John . . .” This from Edmunds, who was holding open the door, allowing a view of the corridor. A dark-skinned young woman, her tightly curled hair held back in a band, was unlocking the door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, curious about the scene in her neighbor’s room.

  “Kate?” Rebus guessed.

  “Yes. What is the matter?” Her accent gave each syllable equal stress.

  “I’m a police officer, Kate.” Rebus had stepped into the corridor. Edmunds let the door swing shut on the male student, dismissing him. “Mind if we have a word?”

  “My God, is it my family?” Her already wide eyes grew wider still. “Has something happened to them?” The satchel slid from her shoulder to the ground.

  “It’s nothing to do with your family,” Rebus assured her.

  “Then what . . . ? I do not understand.”

  Rebus reached into his pocket, produced the tape in its little clear box. He gave it a rattle. “Got a cassette player?” he asked.

  When the tape had finished playing, she raised her eyes towards his.

  “Why do you make me listen to this?” she asked, voice trembling.

  Rebus was standing against the wardrobe, hands behind his back. He’d asked Andy Edmunds to wait outside, which hadn’t pleased the security man. Partly, Rebus hadn’t wanted him to hear—this was a police inquiry, and Edmunds was no longer a cop, whatever he might like to think. Partly also—and this was the argument Rebus would use to Edmunds’s face—there simply wasn’t room for the three of them. Rebus didn’t want to make things any less comfortable for Kate. The cassette radio sat on her desk. Rebus leaned towards it, hitting “stop” and then “rewind.”

  “Want to hear it again?”

  “I do not see what it is you want me to do.”

  “We think she’s from Senegal, the woman on the tape.”

  “From Senegal?” Kate pursed her lips. “I suppose it is possible . . . Who told you such a thing?”

  “Someone in the linguistics department.” Rebus ejected the tape. “Are there many Senegalese in Edinburgh?”

  “I’m the only one I know of.” Kate stared at the cassette. “What has this woman done?”

  Rebus was making a show of perusing her collection of CDs. There was a whole rack of them, plus further teetering piles on the window ledge. “You like your music, Kate.”

  “I like to dance.”

  Rebus nodded. “I can see that.” In fact, what he could see were the names of bands and performers completely unknown to him. He straightened up. “You don’t know anyone else from Senegal?”

  “I know there are some in Glasgow . . . What has she done?”

  “Just what you heard on the tape—made an emergency call. Someone she knew was murdered, and now we need to talk to her.”

  “Because you think she did it?”

  “You’re the psychologist here—what do you think?”

  “If she had killed him, why would she then make the call to police?”

  Rebus nodded. “That’s pretty well what we think. All the same, she may have information . . .” Rebus had taken note of everything, from Kate’s array of jewelry to the new-smelling leather satchel. He looked around for photos of the parents he presumed were paying for it all. “Family back in Senegal, Kate?”

  “Yes, in Dakar.”

  “That’s where the rally finishes, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And your family . . . you keep in touch with them?”

  “No.”

  “Oh? So you’re supporting yourself?” She glared at him.

  “Sorry . . . nosiness is a hazard of the job. How are you liking Scotland?”

  “It’s a much colder place than Senegal.”

  “I’d imagine it is.”

  “I am not talking about the climate merely.”

  Rebus nodded his understanding. “So you can’t help me, then, Kate?”

  “I am truly sorry.”

  “Not your fault . . .” He placed a business card on the desk. “But if a stranger from home should suddenly cross your path . . .”

  “I will be sure to tell you.” She’d risen from the bed, apparently eager to see him on his way.

  “Well, thanks again.” Rebus stretched a hand towards her. When she took it, her own was cold and clammy. And as the door closed behind him, Rebus wondered about the look in her eyes, a look very much of relief.

  Edmunds was sitting on the topmost stair, arms wrapped around his knees. Rebus apologized, giving his explanation. Edmunds didn’t say anything till they were back outside, making for the barrier and Rebus’s car. Eventually, he turned to Rebus.

  “Is that right, about DNA from cigarette papers?”

  “How the hell should I know, Andy? But it put the fear of God into that wee toerag, and that’s all that matters.”

  The porn had gone to Divisional HQ in Livingston. There were three other women officers in the viewing room, and Siobhan saw that this made it an uncomfortable experience for the dozen or so men. The only available TV had an eighteen-inch screen, meaning they had to cluster round it. The men stayed tight-lipped for the most part, or chewed on their pens, keeping jokes to a minimum. Les Young spent most of his time pacing the floor behind them, arms folded, peering down at his shoes, as if wanting to dissociate himself from the whole enterprise.

  Some of the films were commercially made, brought in from America and the Continent. One was in German, another Japanese, the latter featuring school uniforms and girls who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen.

  “Kiddie porn,” was one officer’s comment. He would ask for an occasional freeze-frame, using a digital camera to take a photo of the relevant face.

  One of the DVDs was badly filmed and edited. It showed a suburban living room. One couple on the green leather sofa, another on the shag-pile carpet. Another woman, darker-skinned, crouched topless by the electric fire, appearing to masturbate as she watched. The camera was all over the place. At one point, the cameraman’s hand came into the shot so he could squeeze one woman’s breast. The sound track, which until then had been a series of mumbles, grunts, and wheezings, picked up his question.

  “All right there, big man?”

  “Sounds local,” one of the officers commented.

  “Digital camera and some computer software,” someone else added. “Anyone can direct their own porn film these days.”

  “Happily, not everyone would want to,” a woman officer qualified.

  “Wait a second,” Siobhan interrupted. “Go back a bit, will you?”

  The officer holding the remote obliged, freezing the frame and backtracking moment by moment.

  “Is this you looking for tips, Siobhan?” one of the men asked, to a few snorts.

  “That’s enough, Rod,” Les Young called out.

  An officer near Siobhan leaned in towards his neighbor. “That’s exactly what the woman on the rug just said,” he whispered.

  This produced another snort, but Siobhan’s mind was on the TV screen. “Freeze it there,” she said. “What’s that on the back of the cameraman’s hand?”

  “Birthmark?” someone guessed, angling their head for a better view.

  “Tattoo,” one of the women offered. Siobhan nodded agreement. She slid from her chair, getting even closer to the screen. “I’d say if it’s anything, it’s a spider.” She looked up at Les Young.

  “A spider tattoo,” he said softly.


  “With maybe the web on his neck?”

  “Meaning the victim’s friend makes porn films.”

  “We need to know who he is.”

  Les Young looked around the room. “Who’s in charge of finding us names for Cruikshank’s known associates?”

  The team shared looks and shrugs, until one of the women cleared her throat and offered an answer.

  “DC Maxton, sir.”

  “And where is he?”

  “I think he said he was headed back to Barlinnie.” Meaning he was checking for prisoners who’d been close to Cruikshank.

  “Call him and tell him about the tattoos,” Young ordered. The officer walked over to a desk and picked up a phone. Siobhan meantime was on her mobile. She’d moved away from the TV, was standing next to the curtained window.

  “Can I speak to Roy Brinkley, please?” She caught Young’s eye and he nodded, realizing what she was doing. “Roy? DS Clarke here . . . Listen, this friend of Donny Cruikshank’s, the one with the spider’s web . . . you didn’t happen to notice any other tattoos on him?” She listened, broke into a grin. “On the back of his hand? Okay, thanks for that. I’ll let you get back to your books.”

  She ended the call. “Spider tattoo on the back of his hand.”

  “Nice work, Siobhan.”

  There were a few resentful glances at this. Siobhan ignored them. “Doesn’t get us any further until we know who he is.”

  Young seemed to agree. The officer in charge of the remote was running the film again.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he said. “If this guy’s as hands-on as he looks, he might pass the camera to somebody else.”

  They sat down again to watch. Something was niggling Siobhan, but she couldn’t say what. Then the camera panned round from the sofa to the crouching woman, only she was no longer crouching. She’d risen to her feet. There was some music in the background. It wasn’t a sound track, but actually playing in the living room as the filming happened. The woman was dancing to this music, seeming lost in it, oblivious to the other choreographies around her.