Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “I’ve seen her before,” Siobhan said quietly. From the corner of her eye she could see one of the team rolling his eyes in disbelief.

  Here she was again: Captain Underpants’s sidekick, showing them all up.

  Live with it, she wanted to tell them. But instead, she turned to Young, who looked as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “I think I saw her dancing once.”

  “Where?”

  Siobhan looked at the team, then back towards Young. “A place called the Nook.”

  “The lap-dancing bar?” one of the men said, eliciting laughter and jabbed fingers. “It was a stag,” he tried explaining.

  “So did you pass the audition?” one of the others was asking Siobhan, to even more laughter.

  “You’re behaving like schoolkids,” Les Young snapped. “Either grow up or ship out.” He hooked a thumb towards the door. Then, to Siobhan: “When was this?”

  “A few days back. In connection with Ishbel Jardine.” She had the full attention of the room now. “We had information she might’ve ended up working there.”

  “And?”

  Siobhan shook her head. “No sign of her. But . . .” Pointing towards the TV. “I’m fairly sure she was there, doing much the same dance she’s doing right now.” On the screen, one of the men, naked apart from his socks, was approaching the dancer. He pressed his hands to her shoulders, trying to push her to her knees, but she twisted free and kept on dancing, eyes closed. The man looked to the camera and shrugged. Now the camera was jerked downwards, the focus blurring. When it came up again, someone new had entered the frame.

  Shaven-headed, his facial scars more prominent on film than in real life.

  Donny Cruikshank.

  He was fully dressed, a grin spreading across his face, can of lager in one hand.

  “Give us the camera,” he said, holding out his free hand.

  “Know how to use it?”

  “Get away, Mark. If you can do it, I can do it.”

  “Cheers, Donny,” said one of the officers, scribbling the name “Mark” into his notebook.

  The discussion continued, the camera eventually changing hands. And now Donny Cruikshank swung the camera up to capture his friend. The hand went up too slowly to cover the face from identification. Without needing to be told, the officer with the remote tracked back and froze the frame. His colleague with the digital camera raised it to his face.

  On the screen: a huge, shaved head, the dome shiny with sweat. Studs in both ears and through the nose, a nick in one of the thick black eyebrows, one central tooth missing from the protesting mouth.

  And the spider’s-web tattoo, of course, covering the whole of the neck . . .

  24

  From Pollock Halls, it was a short drive to Gayfield Square. There was only one other body in the CID office, and it belonged to Phyllida Hawes, whose face started to redden the moment Rebus walked in.

  “Grassed up any good colleagues lately, DC Hawes?”

  “Look, John . . .”

  Rebus laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Phyl. You did what you felt you had to.” Rebus rested against the edge of her desk. “When Storey came to see me, he said he thought I was on the level because he knew my reputation—I’m guessing I’ve got you to thank for that.”

  “All the same, I should have warned you.” She sounded relieved, and Rebus realized she’d been dreading this encounter.

  “I’m not going to hold it against you.” Rebus stood up and made for the kettle. “Can I make you one?”

  “Please . . . thanks.”

  Rebus spooned coffee into the only two clean mugs left. “So,” he asked casually, “who introduced you to Storey?”

  “It came down the line: Fettes HQ to DCI Macrae.”

  “And Macrae decided you were the woman for the job?” Rebus nodded, as if in agreement with the choice.

  “I wasn’t to tell anyone,” Hawes added.

  Rebus waved the spoon at her. “I can’t remember . . . do you take milk and sugar?”

  She tried a thin smile. “It’s not that you’ve forgotten.”

  “What, then?”

  “This is the first time you’ve offered.”

  Rebus raised an eyebrow. “You’re probably right. First time for everything, eh?”

  She’d risen from her chair and come part of the way towards him. “I just take milk, by the way.”

  “Duly noted.” Rebus was sniffing the contents of a half-liter carton. “I’d make one for young Colin, but I’m guessing he’s down at Waverley, on the lookout for traveling sneak thieves.”

  “Actually, he got called away.” Hawes nodded towards the window. Rebus peered out at the car park. Uniforms were packing themselves into the available patrol cars, four or five to each vehicle.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Reinforcements needed at Cramond.”

  “Cramond?” Rebus’s eyes widened. Sandwiched between a golf course and the River Almond, it was one of the city’s more sedate neighborhoods, with some of the most expensive homes. “Are the peasants revolting?”

  Hawes had joined him at the window. “Something to do with illegal immigrants,” she said. Rebus stared at her.

  “What exactly?”

  She shrugged. Rebus took her arm and guided her back to her desk, lifted the telephone receiver and handed it to her. “Give your friend Felix a call,” he said, making it sound like an order.

  “What for?”

  Rebus just shook away the question and watched her punch the numbers.

  “His mobile?” he guessed. She nodded and he took the receiver from her. The call was picked up on the seventh ring.

  “Yes?” The voice impatient.

  “Felix?” Rebus said, his eyes on Phyllida Hawes. “It’s Rebus here.”

  “I’m a bit pushed right now.” He sounded as if he was in a car, either driving or being driven at speed.

  “Just wondering how my search is coming along?”

  “Your search . . . ?”

  “Senegalese living in Scotland. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?” Trying to sound hurt.

  “I’ve had other things on my mind, John. I’ll get to it eventually.”

  “So what’s been keeping you so busy? Is that you on your way to Cramond, Felix . . . ?”

  There was silence on the line, Rebus’s face breaking into a grin.

  “Okay,” Storey said slowly. “As far as I’m aware, I never got round to giving you this number . . . meaning you probably got it from DC Hawes, which in turn means you’re probably calling from Gayfield Square . . .”

  “And watching the cavalry ride out as we speak. So what’s the big deal at Cramond, Felix?”

  More silence on the line, and then the words Rebus had been waiting for.

  “Maybe you’d best come along and find out . . .”

  The car park wasn’t in Cramond itself, but a little way along the coast. People would stop there and take a winding path through grass and nettles towards the beach. It was a barren, windswept spot, probably never before as crowded as now. There were a dozen patrol cars and four marked vans, plus the powerful sedans favored by Customs and Immigration. Felix Storey was gesticulating as he gave orders to the troops.

  “It’s only about fifty yards to the shore, but be warned—soon as they see us, they’ll start running. The saving grace is, there’s nowhere for them to run to, unless they plan to swim to Fife.” There were smiles at this, but Storey held up a hand. “I’m serious. It’s happened before. That’s why the coast guard’s on stand-by.” A walkie-talkie crackled into life. He held it to his ear. “Go ahead.” Listened to what seemed to Rebus like a wash of static. “Over and out.” He lowered the handset again. “That’s the two flanking teams in position. They’ll start moving in about thirty seconds, so let’s get going.”

  He set off, making to pass Rebus, who had just given up trying to get a cigarette lit.

  “Another tip-off?” Rebus guessed.

>   “Same source.” Storey kept walking, his men—DC Colin Tibbet included—behind him. Rebus started walking, too, right by Storey’s shoulder.

  “So what’s happening, then? Boats bringing illegals ashore?”

  Storey glanced at him. “Mollusking.”

  “Say again?”

  “Picking mollusks. The gangs behind it use immigrants and asylum seekers, pay them a pittance. The two Land Rovers back there . . .” Rebus turned his head, saw the vehicles in question, parked in a corner of the car park. They both had small trailers attached to their tow bars. A couple of uniforms stood guard beside each. “That’s how they bring them in. They sell the mollusks to restaurants; some of them probably go overseas . . .” At that moment they passed a sign warning them that any crustaceans found on the seashore were likely to be contaminated and unfit for human consumption. Storey gave Rebus another glance. “The restaurants aren’t to know what they’re buying.”

  “I’ll never look at paella the same way.” Rebus was about to ask about the trailers, but he could hear the high whine of small engines, and as they crested the rise, he saw two ATVs laden with bulging sacks, and dotted all around the shore stooped figures with shovels, reflected in the shimmer of the wet sand.

  “Now!” Storey called, breaking into a run. The others followed as best they could down the incline, across its powder-dry surface. Rebus held back to watch. He saw the mollusk-pickers look up, saw sacks and shovels dropped. Some stood where they were, others started to flee. Uniforms were approaching from both directions. With Storey’s men descending on them from the dunes, the only possible escape route was provided by the Firth of Forth. One or two waded farther out but seemed to come to their senses by the time the icy water started numbing legs and waists.

  Some of the invaders were yelling and whooping; others lost their footing and went down on all fours, spattered with sand. Rebus had finally found shelter enough to get his lighter to work. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in as he enjoyed the spectacle. The ATVs were circling, the two drivers shouting at each other. One of them took the initiative and headed up the slope, perhaps imagining that if he made it to the car park he might manage to escape. But he was going too fast for the cargo still strapped to the bike’s rear. The machine’s front tires flew upwards, the bike somersaulting, throwing its driver to the ground, where he was pounced on by four uniforms. The other rider saw no reason to follow suit. Instead, he held up his hands, the bike idling until its ignition was switched off by a besuited Immigration officer. It reminded Rebus of something . . . yes, that was it—the end of the Beatles film Help. All they needed now was Eleanor Bron.

  As he walked onto the beach, he saw that some of the workers were young women. A few were sobbing. They all looked Chinese, including the two men on the bikes. One of Storey’s men seemed to know the relevant language. He had his hands cupped to his mouth and was rattling off instructions. Nothing he said seemed to appease the women, who wailed all the harder.

  “What are they saying?” Rebus asked him.

  “They don’t want to be sent home.”

  Rebus looked around. “Can’t be any worse than this, can it?”

  The officer’s mouth twitched. “Forty-kilo sacks . . . they get paid maybe three quid for each one, and it’s not as if they can go to an employment tribunal, is it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Slavery’s what it boils down to . . . turning human beings into something you can buy and sell. In the northeast, it’s fish-gutting. Other places, it’s picking fruits and vegetables. The gangmasters have a supply for every possible demand . . .” He started barking out more advice to the workers, most of whom looked exhausted and glad of any excuse to stop working. The flanking officers had arrived, having picked up a few strays.

  “One call!” one of the bike riders was screeching. “Get to make one call!”

  “When we get to the station,” an officer corrected him. “If we’re feeling generous.”

  Storey had stopped in front of the rider. “Who is it you want to call? Got a mobile on you?” The rider made to move his hands towards his trouser pocket, hampered by the handcuffs. Storey took the phone out for him, held it in front of his face. “Give me the number, I’ll dial it for you.”

  The man stared at him, then gave a grin and shook his head, letting Storey know he wasn’t falling for it.

  “You want to stay in this country?” Storey persisted. “You better start cooperating.”

  “I am legal . . . work permit and everything.”

  “Good for you . . . we’ll be sure to check it’s not a forgery or expired.”

  The grin melted, like a sand castle hit by the incoming tide.

  “I’m always open to negotiation,” Storey informed the man. “Soon as you feel like talking, let me know.” He nodded for the prisoner to be marched uphill with the others. Then he noticed Rebus standing beside him. “Bugger is,” he said, “if his paperwork’s in order, he doesn’t have to tell us a thing. It’s not illegal to pick mollusks.”

  “And what about them?” Rebus gestured in the direction of the stragglers. These were the oldest of the workers, seeming to move with a permanent stoop.

  “If they’re illegals, they’ll be locked up till we can ship them home.” Storey straightened up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his knee-length camel-hair coat. “Plenty more like them to take their place.”

  Rebus saw that the Immigration man was staring out at the gray, unceasing swell. “Canute and the tide?” he offered by way of comparison.

  Storey took out a huge white handkerchief and blew his nose noisily, then started climbing the dune, leaving Rebus to finish his cigarette.

  By the time he reached the car park, the vans had moved off. However, a new, handcuffed figure had entered the picture. One of the uniforms was explaining to Storey what had happened.

  “He was heading along the road . . . saw the patrol cars and did a three-point turn. We managed to head him off . . .”

  “I told you,” the man barked, “it was nothing to do with youse!” He sounded Irish. A few days’ growth on his square chin, lower jaw pushed out belligerently. His car had been brought into the car park. It was an old-model BMW 7 series, its red paint fading, sills turning to rust. Rebus had seen it before. He walked around it. There was a notebook visible on the passenger seat, folded open at a list of what looked like Chinese names. Storey caught Rebus’s eye and nodded: he already knew about it.

  “Name, please?” he asked the driver.

  “Let’s have your ID first,” the man snapped back. He was wearing an olive-green parka, maybe the same coat he’d been wearing when Rebus had first set eyes on him the previous week. “Fuck are you staring at?” he asked Rebus, looking him up and down. Rebus just smiled and took out his own mobile, made a call.

  “Shug?” he said when it was answered. “Rebus here . . . Remember at the demo? You were going to come up with a name for that Irishman . . .” Rebus listened, eyes on the man in front of him. “Peter Hill?” He nodded to himself. “Well, guess what: if I’m not mistaken, he’s standing right in front of me . . .”

  The man just scowled, making no attempt to deny it.

  It was Rebus’s suggestion that they take Peter Hill to Torphichen police station, where Shug Davidson was already waiting in the Stef Yurgii murder room. Rebus introduced Davidson to Felix Strorey and the two men shook hands. A few of the detectives couldn’t help staring. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a black man, but it was the first time they’d welcomed one to this particular corner of the city.

  Rebus contented himself with listening, while Davidson explained the connection between Peter Hill and Knoxland.

  “You have evidence he was dealing drugs?” Storey asked at the end.

  “Not enough to convict him . . . but we did put away four of his friends.”

  “Meaning either he was too small a fish or . . .”

  “Too clever to get caught,” Davidson conceded
with a nod.

  “And the connection to the paramilitaries?”

  “Again, hard to pin down, but the drugs had to come from somewhere, and intelligence in Northern Ireland pointed to that particular source. Terrorists need to raise money any way they can . . .”

  “Even by acting as gangmasters to illegal immigrants?”

  Davidson shrugged. “First time for everything,” he speculated.

  Storey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That car he was driving . . .”

  “BMW seven series,” Rebus offered.

  Storey nodded. “Those weren’t Irish number plates, were they? Northern Ireland, they’re usually three letters and four numbers.”

  Rebus looked at him. “You’re well informed.”

  “I worked Customs for a while. When you’re checking passenger ferries, you get to know number plates . . .”

  “I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at,” Shug Davidson was forced to admit. Storey turned to him.

  “Just wondering how he came by the car, that’s all. If he didn’t bring it over here with him, then he either bought ir here, or . . .”

  “Or it belongs to someone else.” Davidson nodded slowly.

  “Unlikely he’s working alone, not a setup of that size.”

  “Something else we can ask him,” Davidson said. Storey offered a smile, and turned his gaze to Rebus, as if seeking further agreement. But Rebus’s eyes had narrowed slightly. He was still wondering about that car . . .

  The Irishman was in Interview Room 2. He took no notice of the three men when they came in, relieving the uniform who’d been standing guard. Storey and Davidson sat down opposite him at the table, Rebus finding a section of wall to rest his weight against. There was the sound of pneumatic drilling from the roadworks outside. It would punctuate any discussion, ending up on the cassette tapes Davidson was unwrapping. He slotted both into the recording machine and made sure the timer was correct. Then he did the same with a couple of blank videotapes. The camera was above the door, pointing straight at the table. If any suspect wanted to claim intimidation, the tapes would give the lie to the accusation.