Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “I want her to spend it,” Mangold countered. “She’s had a tough life . . . time she had a bit of fun.”

  “Ishbel,” Siobhan said, “you say you were scared of Cruikshank?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Scared of what, exactly?”

  Ishbel lowered her eyes. “Of what he’d see when he looked at me.”

  “Because you’d remind him of Tracy?”

  Ishbel nodded. “And I’d know that’s what he was thinking . . . remembering the things he’d done to her . . .” She placed both hands over her face, Mangold sliding an arm around her shoulders.

  “And yet you wrote to him in prison,” Siobhan said. “You wrote that he’d taken your life as well as Tracy’s.”

  “Because Mum and Dad were turning me into Tracy.” Her voice cracked.

  “It’s all right, kid,” Mangold said quietly. Then, to Siobhan: “You see what I mean? It’s not been easy for her.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But she still needs to speak to the investigation.”

  “She needs to be left alone.”

  “Left alone with you, you mean?”

  Behind the tinted glasses, Mangold’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

  Siobhan just shrugged, pretending to busy herself with her glass.

  “It’s like I told you, Ray,” Ishbel was saying. “I’ll never be free of Banehall.” She started shaking her head slowly. “The other side of the world wouldn’t be far enough.” She was clinging to his arm now. “You said it would be all right, but it’s not.”

  “A holiday’s what you need, girl. Cocktails by the pool . . . room service and a nice sandy beach.”

  “What did you mean just then, Ishbel?” Siobhan interrupted. “About it not being all right?”

  “She didn’t mean anything,” Mangold snapped, moving his arm further around Ishbel’s shoulders. “You want to ask any more questions, make it official, eh?” He was rising to his feet, picking up some of the bags. “Come on, Ishbel.”

  She picked up the rest of the shopping, took a final look around to see if she’d missed anything.

  “It will be made official, Mr. Mangold,” Siobhan said warningly. “Skeletons in the cellar are one thing, but murder’s quite another.”

  Mangold was doing his best to ignore her. “Come on, Ishbel. We’ll take a taxi to the pub . . . no sense walking with all this lot.”

  “Call your parents, Ishbel,” Siobhan said. “They came to me because they were worried about you . . . nothing to do with Tracy.”

  Ishbel said nothing, but Siobhan called out her name, louder this time, and she turned.

  “I’m glad you’re safe and well,” Siobhan told her with a smile. “Really I am.”

  “Then you tell them.”

  “I will if you want me to.”

  Ishbel hesitated. Mangold was holding open the door for her. Ishbel stared at Siobhan and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then she was gone.

  Siobhan watched from the window as they headed for the taxi rank. She shook her glass, enjoying the sound of the ice cubes. Mangold, she felt, really did care about Ishbel, but that didn’t make him a good man. You said it would be all right, but it’s not . . . Those words had spurred Mangold to his feet. Siobhan thought she knew why. Love could be an even more destructive emotion than hate. She’d seen it plenty of times: jealousy, mistrust, revenge. She considered all three as she shook her glass again. At some point, it must have started annoying the barman.

  He upped the volume on the TV, by which time she’d whittled the three down to one.

  Revenge.

  Joe Evans was not at home. It was his wife who answered the door of their bungalow on Liberton Brae. There was no front garden as such, just a paved parking space, an empty trailer sitting there.

  “What’s he done now?” his wife asked, after Siobhan had identified herself.

  “Nothing,” Siobhan assured the woman. “Did he tell you what happened at the Warlock?”

  “Only a couple of dozen times.”

  “It’s just a few follow-up questions.” Siobhan paused. “Has he been in trouble before?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “As good as.” Siobhan smiled, telling the woman it didn’t matter to her in any case.

  “Just a couple of fights in the pub . . . drunk and disorderly . . . but he’s been pure gold this past year.”

  “That’s good to know. Any idea where I could find him, Mrs. Evans?”

  “He’ll be in the gym, love. I can’t keep him away from the place.” She saw the look on Siobhan’s face and gave a snort. “Just messing with you . . . He’s same place as every Tuesday—quiz night at his local. Just up the hill, other side of the road.” Mrs. Evans gestured with her thumb. Siobhan thanked her and headed off.

  “And if he’s not there,” the woman called after her, “come back and let me know—means he’s got a fancy piece tucked away somewhere!”

  The hacking laugh followed Siobhan all the way back to the sidewalk.

  The pub boasted a tiny car park, already full. Siobhan parked on the street and headed in. The drinkers all looked seasoned and comfortable: signs of a good local. Teams sat around every available table, one of their number writing the answers down. A question was being repeated as Siobhan walked in. The quizmaster seemed to be the landlord. He stood behind the bar with microphone in hand, the question sheet gripped in his free hand.

  “Final question, teams, and here it is again: ‘Which Hollywood startlet connects a Scottish actor to the song “Yellow”?’ Moira’s coming round now to collect your answers. We’ll have a wee break, and then we’ll let you know which team’s come out top. Sandwiches are on the pool table, so help yourselves.”

  Players started to rise from their tables, some handing their completed sheets to the landlady. There was a sudden blare of conversation as people asked one another how they’d done.

  “It’s the bloody arithmetic ones that get me . . .”

  “And you a bookkeeper!”

  “That last one, did he mean ‘Yellow Submarine’?”

  “Christ’s sake, Peter, there’s been music made since the Beatles, you know.”

  “But nothing to come close to them, and I’ll fight any man that says otherwise.”

  “So what was the name of Humphrey Bogart’s partner in The Maltese Falcon?”

  Siobhan knew the answer to this one. “Miles Archer,” she told the man. He stared at her.

  “I know you,” he said. He was holding the dregs of a pint in one hand, pointing at her with the other.

  “We met at the Warlock,” Siobhan reminded him. “You were drinking brandies then.” She gestured towards his glass. “Get you another?”

  “What’s this about?” he asked. The others were giving Siobhan and Joe Evans space to themselves, as if an invisible force field had suddenly been activated. “Not still those bloody skeletons?”

  “Not really, no . . . To be honest, I’m after a favor.”

  “What sort of favor?”

  “The sort that begins with a question.”

  He thought about this for a moment, then considered his empty glass. “Better get me a refill, then,” he said. Siobhan was happy to oblige. At the bar, questions flew at her—nothing to do with the quiz, but locals curious as to her identity, how she knew Evans, was she his parole officer maybe, or his social worker? Siobhan handled these deftly enough, smiling at the laughter, and handed Evans a fresh pint of best. He raised it to his mouth and took three or four long gulps, coming up for breath eventually.

  “So go ahead and ask your question,” he said.

  “Are you still working at the Warlock?”

  He nodded. “That’s it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “What I’m wondering is, do you have a key for the place?”

  “For the pub?” He snorted. “Ray Mangold wouldn’t be that daft.”

  Siobhan shook her head again. “I meant the cellar,” she said. “Can you
let yourself in and out of the cellar?”

  Evans looked at her questioningly, then took a few more gulps of beer, wiping his top lip dry afterwards.

  “Maybe you want to ask the audience?” Siobhan suggested. His face twitched in a smile.

  “The answer’s yes,” he said.

  “Yes, you’ve got a key?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a key.”

  Siobhan took a deep breath. “. . . is the correct answer,” she said. “Now, do you want to go for the star prize?”

  “I don’t need to.” There was a twinkle in Evans’s eye.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I know the question. You want me to lend you my key.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m wondering how far in the manure that would get me with my employer.”

  “And?”

  “I’m also wondering why you want it. You reckon there are more skeletons down there?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Siobhan admitted. “Answers to be provided at a later date.”

  “If I give you the key?”

  “It’s either that or I tell your wife I couldn’t find you at the quiz night.”

  “That’s a hard offer to refuse,” Joe Evans said.

  Late night in Arden Street. Rebus buzzed her up. He was waiting in his doorway by the time she reached his landing.

  “Happened to be passing,” she said. “Saw your light was on.”

  “Bloody liar,” he said. Then: “Feeling thirsty?”

  She held up the carrier bag. “Great minds and all that.”

  He gestured for her to enter. The living room was no messier than usual. His chair was by the window, phone, ashtray, and tumbler next to it on the floor. Music was playing: Van Morrison, Hard Nose the Highway.

  “Things must be bad,” she said.

  “When are they not? That’s pretty much Van’s message to the world.” He lowered the volume a little. She lifted a bottle of red from the bag.

  “Corkscrew?”

  “I’ll fetch one.” He started heading for the kitchen. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a glass, too?”

  “Sorry to be fussy.”

  She took off her coat and was resting on the arm of the sofa when he returned. “A quiet night in, eh?” she said, taking the corkscrew from him. He held the glass for her while she poured. “You having any?”

  He shook his head. “I’m three whiskies in, and you know what they say about the grape and the grain.” She took the glass from him, made herself comfortable on the sofa.

  “Been having a quiet night yourself?” he asked.

  “On the contrary—up until forty minutes ago, I was hard at it.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Managed to persuade Ray Duff to burn the midnight oil.”

  Rebus nodded. He knew Ray Duff worked forensics at the police lab in Howdenhall; by now they owed him a world of favors.

  “Ray finds it hard to say no,” he agreed. “Anything I should know about?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure . . . So how’s your day been?”

  “You heard about Alan Traynor?”

  “No.”

  Rebus let the silence lie for a moment between them; picked up his glass and took a couple of sips. Took his time appreciating the aroma, the aftertaste.

  “Nice to sit and talk, isn’t it?” he commented at last.

  “All right, I give in . . . You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

  Rebus smiled, went to the table where the bottle of Bowmore sat. Refilled his glass and returned to his chair.

  Started talking.

  After which, Siobhan told him her own story. Van Morrison was swapped for Hobotalk and Hobotalk for James Yorkston. Midnight had come and gone. Slices of toast had been made, buttered, and consumed. The wine was down to its last quarter, the whiskey to its final inch. When Rebus checked that she wouldn’t be trying to drive home, Siobhan admitted that she’d come by cab.

  “Meaning you assumed we were going to do this?” Rebus teased.

  “I suppose.”

  “And what if Caro Quinn had been here?”

  Siobhan just shrugged.

  “Not that that’s going to happen,” Rebus added. He looked at her. “I think I may have blown it with the Lady of the Vigils.”

  “The what?”

  He shook his head. “It’s what Mo Dirwan calls her.”

  Siobhan was staring at her glass. It looked to Rebus as though she had a dozen questions waiting, a dozen things to say to him. But in the end, all she said was: “I think I’ve had enough.”

  “Of my company?”

  She shook her head. “The wine. Any chance of a coffee?”

  “Kitchen’s where it’s always been.”

  “The perfect host.” She got to her feet.

  “I’ll have one, too, if you’re offering.”

  “I’m not.”

  But she brought him a mug anyway. “The milk in your fridge is still usable,” she told him.

  “So?”

  “So that’s a first, isn’t it?”

  “Listen to the ingratitude!” Rebus put the mug on the floor. Siobhan returned to the sofa, cupping hers between her hands. While she’d been out of the room, he’d opened the window a little, so she wouldn’t complain about his smoke. He saw her notice what he’d done; watched her decide to make no comment.

  “Know what I’m wondering, Shiv? I’m wondering how those skeletons ended up in Stuart Bullen’s hands. Could he have been Pippa Greenlaw’s date that night?”

  “I doubt it. She said his name was Barry or Gary, and he played football—I think that’s how they met.” She broke off as a smile started spreading across Rebus’s face.

  “Remember when I grazed my leg at the Nook?” he said. “That Aussie barman told me he could sympathize.”

  Siobhan nodded. “Typical football injury . . .”

  “And his name’s Barney, isn’t it? Not quite Barry, but close enough.”

  Siobhan was still nodding. She’d reached into her bag for her mobile and notebook, flicked through it for the number.

  “It’s one in the morning,” Rebus warned her. She ignored him. Pushed buttons and held the phone to her ear.

  When it was answered, she started talking. “Pippa? It’s DS Clarke here, remember me? You out clubbing or something?” Her eyes were on Rebus as she relayed the answers to him. “Just waiting for a taxi home . . .” She nodded. “Been to the Opal Lounge or somewhere? Well, I’m sorry to bother you so late at night.” Rebus was walking towards the sofa, leaning down to share the earpiece. He could hear traffic sounds, drunken voices close by. A screech of “Taxi!” followed by swearing.

  “Missed that one,” Pippa Greenlaw said. She sounded breathless rather than drunk.

  “Pippa,” Siobhan said, “it’s about your partner . . . the night of Lex’s party . . .”

  “Lex is here! Do you want to talk to him?”

  “It’s you I want to talk to.”

  Greenlaw’s voice grew muffled, as though she were trying not to let someone hear. “I think we might be starting something.”

  “You and Lex? That’s great, Pippa.” Siobhan rolled her eyes, giving the lie to her words. “Now, about the night those skeletons went missing . . .”

  “You know I kissed one of them?”

  “You told me.”

  “Even now it makes me want to puke . . . Taxi!”

  Siobhan held the phone farther from her ear. “Pippa, I just need to know something . . . the guy you were with that night . . . could he have been an Australian called Barney?”

  “What?”

  “Australian, Pippa. The guy you were with at Lex’s party.”

  “Do you know . . . now you come to mention it . . .”

  “And you didn’t think it worth telling me?”

  “I didn’t think much of it at the time. Must’ve slipped my mind . . .” She spoke to Lex Cater, filling him in. The phone changed hands.

&n
bsp; “Is that Little Miss Matchmaker?” Lex’s voice. “Pippa told me you set the pair of us up that night . . . it was meant to be you, but she was there instead. Female solidarity and all that, eh?”

  “You didn’t tell me Pippa’s guest at your party was an Aussie.”

  “Was he? Never really noticed . . . Here’s Pippa again.”

  But Siobhan had ended the call. “Never really noticed,” she echoed. Rebus was heading back to his chair.

  “People like that, they seldom do. Think the world revolves around them.” Rebus grew thoughtful. “Wonder whose idea it was.”

  “What?”

  “The skeletons weren’t stolen to order. So either Barney Grant had the idea of using them to scare off any uppity immigrants . . .”

  “Or Stuart Bullen did.”

  “But if it was our friend Barney, that means he knew what was going on—not just barman, but Bullen’s lieutenant.”

  “Which might explain what he was doing with Howie Slowther. Slowther’s been working for Bullen, too.”

  “Or more likely for Peter Hill, but you’re right—the end result’s the same.”

  “So Barney Grant should be behind bars, too,” Siobhan stated. “Otherwise, what’s to stop the whole thing starting up again?”

  “A little bit of proof might be useful right about now. All we’ve got is Barney Grant in a car with Slowther . . .”

  “That and the skeletons.”

  “Hardly enough to convince the Procurator Fiscal.”

  Siobhan blew across the surface of her coffee. The hi-fi had gone quiet; might have been that way for some time.

  “Something for another day, eh, Shiv?” Rebus eventually conceded.

  “Is that me getting my marching orders?”

  “I’m older than you . . . I need my sleep.”

  “I thought you need less sleep as you get older?”

  Rebus shook his head. “You don’t need less sleep; you just take it.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Mortality closing in, I suppose.”

  “And you can sleep all you like when you’re dead?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to keep you up so late, old-timer.”

  Rebus smiled. “Not too long now till there’s a younger cop sitting opposite you.”

  “Now there’s a thought to end the night with . . .”