by Ian Rankin
‘Is it always this busy?’
Sandra Carnegie shrugged. ‘Seems about normal,’ she yelled. She was seated right next to Clarke, but even so was almost rendered unintelligible by the pounding music. Not for the first time, Clarke wondered how you were supposed to meet anyone in a place like this. The men at the table would make eye contact, nod towards the dance floor. If the woman agreed, everyone would have to move so the couple could get out. Then when they danced they seemed to move in their own worlds, barely making eye contact with their partner. It was much the same when a stranger approached the group: eye contact; dance floor nod; then the ritual of the dance itself. Sometimes women danced with other women, shoulders drooped, eyes scanning the other faces. Sometimes a man could be seen dancing alone. Clarke had pointed out faces to Sandra Carnegie, who’d always studied them closely before shaking her head.
It was Singles Night at the Marina Club. Good name for a nightclub sited just the two and a half miles from the coastline. Not that ‘Singles Night’ meant much. In theory it meant that the music might hark back to the 1980s or ’70s, catering for a slightly more mature clientele than some of the other clubs. For Clarke the word singles meant people in their thirties, some of them divorced. But there were lads in tonight who’d probably had to finish their homework before coming out.
Or was she just getting old?
It was her first time at a singles night. She’d tried rehearsing chat lines. If any sleazeball asked her how she liked her eggs in the morning, she was ready to tell him ‘Unfertilised’, but she’d no idea what she’d say if anyone asked what she did.
I’m a detective constable with Lothian and Borders Police wasn’t the ideal opening gambit. She knew that from experience. Maybe that was why lately she’d all but given up trying. All of them around the table knew who she was, why she was here. None of the men had tried chatting her up. There had been words of consolation for Sandra Carnegie, words and hugs, and dark looks at the men in the company, who’d shrivelled visibly. They were men, and men were in it together, a conspiracy of bastards. It was a man who had raped Sandra Carnegie, who had turned her from a fun-loving single mum into a victim.
Clarke had persuaded Sandra to turn hunter – that was the way she’d phrased it.
‘We’ve got to turn the tables on him, Sandra. That’s my feeling anyway . . . before he does it again.’
Him . . . he . . . But there were two of them. One to carry out the assault, the other to help hold the victim. When the rape had been reported in the newspapers, two more women had come forward with their stories. They ’d been assaulted – sexually, physically – but not raped, not insofar as the law defined the crime. The women’s stories had been almost identical: all three were members of singles clubs; all three had been at functions organised by their club; all three had been heading home alone.
One man on foot, following them, grabbing them, and another driving the van which pulled up. The assaults took place in the back of the van, its floor covered with material of some kind, maybe a tarpaulin. Kicked out of the van afterwards, usually on the outskirts of the city, with a final warning not to say anything, not to go to the police.
‘You go to a singles club, you’re asking for what you get.’
The rapist’s final words, words which had set Siobhan Clarke thinking, seated in her cramped cupboard of an office; seconded to Sex Crimes. One thing she knew: the crimes were becoming more violent as the attacker grew in confidence. He’d progressed from assault to rape; who knew where he’d want to take it from there? One thing was obvious: he had something about singles clubs. Was he targeting them? Where did he get his information?
She wasn’t working Sex Crimes any more, was back at St Leonard’s and everyday CID, but she’d been given the chance to work on Sandra Carnegie, to persuade her back into the Marina. Siobhan’s reasoning: how would he know his victims belonged to singles clubs unless he’d been in the nightclub? Members of the clubs themselves – there were three in the city – had been questioned, along with those who’d left or been kicked out.
Sandra was grey-faced and drinking Bacardi and Coke. She’d spent most of the evening so far staring at the table-top. Before coming to the Marina, the club had met in a pub. This was how it worked: sometimes they met in the pub and moved on elsewhere; sometimes they stayed put; occasionally some function was arranged – a dance or theatre trip. It was just possible the rapist followed them from the pub, but more likely he started in the dance hall, circling the floor, face hidden behind his drink. Indistinguishable from the dozens of men doing the selfsame thing.
Clarke wondered if it was possible to identify a singles group by sight alone. It would be a fair-sized crowd, mixed sex. But that could make it an office party. There’d be no wedding rings, though . . . and while the age range would be broad, there’d be no one who could be mistaken for the office junior. Clarke had asked Sandra about her group.
‘It just gives me some company. I work in an old people’s home, don’t get the chance to meet anyone my own age. Then there’s David. If I want to go out, my mum has to babysit.’ David being her eleven-year-old son. ‘It’s just for company . . . that’s all.’
Another woman in the group had said much the same thing, adding that a lot of the men you met at singles groups were ‘let’s say less than perfect’. But the women were fine: it was that company thing again.
Sitting at the edge of the booth, Clarke had been approached twice so far, turning down both suitors. One of the women had leaned across the table.
‘You’re fresh blood!’ she’d shouted. ‘They can always smell that!’ Then she’d leaned back and laughed, showing stained teeth and a tongue turned green from the cocktail she was drinking.
‘Moira’s just jealous,’ Sandra had said. ‘The only ones who ever ask her up have usually spent all day queuing to renew their bus pass.’
Moira couldn’t have heard the remark, but she stared anyway, as if sensing some slight against her.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Sandra said now.
‘I’ll come with you.’
Sandra nodded her agreement. Clarke had promised: you won’t be out of my sight for a second. They lifted their bags from the floor and started pushing their way through the throng.
The loo wasn’t much emptier, but at least it was cool, and the door helped muffle the sound system. Clarke felt a dullness in her ears, and her throat was raw from cigarette smoke and shouting. While Sandra queued for a cubicle, Clarke made for the washbasins. She examined herself in the mirror. She didn’t normally wear make-up, and was surprised to see her face so changed. The eyeliner and mascara made her eyes look hard rather than alluring. She tugged at one of her shoulder straps. Now that she was standing up, the hem of her dress was at her knees. But when she sat, it threatened to ride up to her stomach. She’d worn it only twice before: a wedding and a dinner party. Couldn’t recall the same problem. Was she getting fat in the bum, was that it? She half-turned, tried to see, then turned her attention to her hair. Short: she liked the cut. It made her face longer. A woman bumped against her in the rush for the hand-drier. Loud snorts from one of the cubicles: someone doing a line? Conversations in the toilet queue: off-colour remarks about tonight’s talent, who had the nicest bum. Which was preferable: a bulging crotch or a bulging wallet? Sandra had disappeared into one of the cubicles. Clarke folded her arms and waited. Someone stood in front of her.
‘Are you the condom attendant or what?’
Laughter from the queue. She saw that she was standing beside the wall dispenser, moved slightly so the woman could drop a couple of coins into the slot. Clarke focused on the woman’s right hand. Liver spots, sagging skin. The left hand went to the tray: her wedding finger was still marked from where she’d removed her ring. It was probably in her bag. Her face was machine-tanned, hopeful but hardened by experience. She winked.
‘You never know.’
Clarke forced a smile. Back at the station, she’d heard
Singles Night at the Marina called all sorts of things: Jurassic Park, Grab-a-Granny. The usual bloke jokes. She found it depressing, but couldn’t have said why. She didn’t frequent nightclubs, not when she could help it. Even when she’d been younger – school and college years – she’d avoided them. Too noisy, too much smoke and drink and stupidity. But it couldn’t just be that. These days, she followed Hibernian football club, and the terraces were full of cigarette smoke and testosterone. But there was a difference between the crowd in a stadium and the crowd at a place like the Marina: not many sexual predators chose to do their hunting in the midst of a football crowd. She felt safe at Easter Road; even attended away matches when she could. Same seat at every home game . . . she knew the faces around her. And afterwards . . . afterwards she melted into the streets, part of the anonymous mass. Nobody ’d ever tried to chat her up. That wasn’t why they were there, and she knew it, hugging the knowledge to her on cold winter afternoons when the floodlights were needed from kick-off.
The cubicle bolt slid back and Sandra emerged.
‘About bleedin’ time,’ someone called out. ‘Thought you’d a fellah in there with you.’
‘Only to wipe my backside on,’ Sandra said. The voice – all tough, casual humour – was forced. Sandra started fixing her make-up at the mirror. She’d been crying. There were fresh veins of red in the corners of her eyes.
‘All right?’ Clarke asked quietly.
‘Could be worse, I suppose.’ Sandra studied her reflection. ‘I could always be pregnant, couldn’t I?’
Her rapist had worn a condom, leaving no semen for the labs to analyse. They’d run checks on sex offenders, ruled out a slew of interviewees. Sandra had gone through the picture books, a gallery of misogyny. Just looking at their faces was enough to give some women nightmares. Bedraggled, vacuous features, dull eyes, weak jaws. Some victims who’d gone through the process . . . they’d had unasked questions, questions Clarke thought she could phrase along the lines of: Look at them, how could we let them do this to us? They’re the ones who look weak.
Yes, weak at the moment of photographing, weak with shame or fatigue or the pretence of submission. But strong at the necessary moment, the crackling moment of hate. The thing was, they worked alone, most of them. The second man, the accomplice . . . Siobhan was curious about him. What did he get out of it?
‘Seen anyone you fancy?’ Sandra was asking now. Her lipstick trembled slightly as she applied it.
‘No.’
‘Got someone at home?’
‘You know I haven’t.’
Sandra was still watching her in the mirror. ‘I only know what you’ve told me.’
‘I told you the truth.’
Long conversations, Clarke setting aside the rule book and opening herself to Sandra, answering her questions, stripping away her police self to reveal the person beneath. It had begun as a trick, a ploy to win Sandra over to the scheme. But it had evolved into something more, something real. Clarke had said more than she’d needed to, much more. And now it seemed Sandra hadn’t been convinced. Was it that she didn’t trust the detective, or was it that Clarke had become part of the problem, just someone else Sandra could never wholly trust? After all, they hadn’t known one another until the rape; would never have met if it hadn’t happened. Clarke was here at the Marina, looking like Sandra’s friend, but that was another trick. They weren’t friends; probably would never be friends. A vicious assault had brought them together. In Sandra’s eyes, Clarke would always remind her of that night, a night she wanted to forget.
‘How long do we have to stay?’ she was asking now.
‘That’s up to you. We can leave any time you like.’
‘But if we do, we might miss him.’
‘Not your fault, Sandra. He could be anywhere. I just felt we had to give it a try.’
Sandra turned from the mirror. ‘Half an hour more.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I promised my mum I’d be home by twelve.’
Clarke nodded, followed Sandra back into a darkness punctuated by lightning, as if the light show could somehow earth all the energy in the room.
Back at the booth, Clarke’s seat had been taken by a new arrival. Youngish male, fingers running down the condensation on a tall glass of what looked like straight orange juice. The club members seemed to know him.
‘Sorry,’ he said, getting to his feet as Clarke and Sandra approached. ‘I’ve nicked your seat.’ He stared at Clarke, then put out his hand. When Clarke took it, his grip tightened. He wasn’t going to let her go.
‘Come and dance,’ he said, pulling her in the direction of the dance floor. She could do little but follow him, right into the heart of the storm where arms buffeted her and the dancers squealed and roared. He looked back, saw that they were no longer visible from the table, and kept moving, crossing the floor, leading them past one of the bars and into the foyer.
‘Where are we going?’ Clarke asked. He looked around, seemed satisfied and leaned towards her.
‘I know you,’ he said.
Suddenly, she knew that his face was familiar to her. She was thinking: criminal, someone I helped put away? She glanced to left and right.
‘You work at St Leonard’s,’ he went on. She stared towards where his hand still held her wrist. Following her gaze, he let go suddenly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s just that . . .’
‘Who are you?’
He seemed hurt that she didn’t know. ‘Derek Linford.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Fettes?’ He nodded. The newsletter, that’s where she’d seen his face. And maybe in the canteen at HQ. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m with Sandra Carnegie.’ Thinking: no, I’m not; I’m out here with you . . . and I promised her . . .
‘Yes, but I don’t . . .’ His face crumpled. ‘Oh, hell, she was raped, wasn’t she?’ He ran thumb and forefinger down the slope of his nose. ‘You’re trying for an ID?’
‘That’s right.’ Clarke smiled. ‘You’re a member?’
‘What if I am?’ He seemed to expect an answer, but Clarke just shrugged. ‘It’s not the kind of information I bandy about, DC Clarke.’ Pulling rank, warning her off.
‘Your secret’s safe with me, DI Linford.’
‘Ah, speaking of secrets . . .’ He looked at her, head tilted slightly.
‘They don’t know you’re CID?’ It was his turn to shrug. ‘Christ, what have you told them?’
‘Does it matter?’
Clarke was thoughtful. ‘Hang on a sec, we talked to the club members. I don’t remember seeing your name.’
‘I only joined last week.’
Clarke frowned. ‘So how do we play this?’
Linford rubbed his nose again. ‘We’ve had our dance. We go back to the table. You sit one side, me the other. We really don’t need to talk to one another again.’
‘Charming.’
He grinned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Of course we can talk.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘In fact, something incredible happened this afternoon.’ He took her arm, guided her back into the club. ‘Help me get a round of drinks from the bar, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘He’s an arse.’
‘Maybe so,’ Clarke said, ‘but he’s rather a sweet arse.’
John Rebus sat in his chair, holding the cordless phone to his ear. His chair was by the window. There were no curtains and the shutters were still open. No lights were on in his living room, just a bare sixty-watt bulb in the hall. But the street lamps bathed the room in an orange glow.
‘Where did you say you bumped into him?’
‘I didn’t.’ He could hear the smile in her voice.
‘All very mysterious.’
‘Not compared to your skeleton.’
‘It’s not a skeleton. Kind of shrivelled, like a mummy.’ He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘The archaeologist, I thought he was going to jump into my a
rms.’
‘So what’s the verdict?’
‘SOCOs came in, roped the place off. Gates and Curt can’t look at Skelly till Monday morning.’
‘Skelly?’
Rebus watched a car cruising past, seeking a parking space. ‘Bobby Hogan came up with the name. It’ll do for now.’
‘Nothing on the body?’
‘Just what he was wearing: flared jeans, a Stones T-shirt.’
‘Lucky us, having an expert on the premises.’
‘If you mean a rock dinosaur, I’ll take that as a compliment. Yes, it was the cover of Some Girls. Album came out in ’78.’
‘Nothing else to date the body?’
‘Nothing in the pockets. No watch or rings.’ He checked his own watch: 2 a.m. But she’d known she could call him, had known he’d be awake.
‘What’s on the hi-fi?’ she asked.
‘That tape you gave me.’
‘The Blue Nile? There goes your dinosaur image. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re smitten by Mr Smarty-Pants.’
‘I do like it when you come over all fatherly.’
‘Watch I don’t put you over my knee.’
‘Careful, Inspector. These days I could have you off the job for saying something like that.’
‘Are we going to the game tomorrow?’
‘For our sins. I’ve a spare green and white scarf set aside for you.’