Fleshmarket Alley

  “You want me to do a photofit for you, is that it?”

  “That comes later. Right now, you’re going to go on a recce with these two officers.”

  “A recce?”

  “Door-to-door. Give you a taste of police work.”

  “How many doors?” Gareth was scanning the tower blocks.

  “All of them.”

  He stared at Rebus, wide-eyed like a kid given detention on the flimsiest of evidence.

  “Sooner you start . . .” Rebus patted the young man on the shoulder. Then, to the uniforms: “Take him away, lads.”

  Watching Gareth trudge, head down, towards the first of the blocks, sandwiched by the two constables, Rebus felt a buzz of satisfaction. It was good to know the job could still offer the odd perk . . .

  Two more cars were arriving: Davidson and Wylie in one, Reynolds in another. They’d probably traveled in convoy from Torphichen. Davidson carried the morning paper with him, folded open at STONED!

  “Seen this?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t lower myself, Shug.”

  “Why not?” Reynolds grinned. “You’re the towel-heads’ new hero.”

  Davidson’s cheeks reddened. “One more crack like that, Charlie, and I’ll have you on report—is that clear?”

  Reynolds stiffened his back. “Slip of the tongue, sir.”

  “You’ve collected more slips than a bookie’s dustbin. Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Sir.”

  Davidson let the silence lie for a moment, then decided he’d made his point. “Is there anything useful you can be doing?”

  Reynolds relaxed a little. “Inside scoop—there’s a woman in one of the flats does a pot of tea and some biscuits.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Met her yesterday, sir. She said she wouldn’t mind making us a brew as and when.”

  Davidson nodded. “Then go fetch.” Reynolds made to move off. “Oh—and Charlie? The clock’s running—don’t get too comfy in there . . .”

  “I’ll remain professional, sir, don’t worry.” Giving Rebus a leer as he passed him.

  Davidson turned to Rebus. “Who was that with the uniforms?”

  Rebus lit a cigarette. “Gareth Baird. He’s going to see if the victim’s lady friend is hiding behind one of those doors.”

  “Needle-in-a-haystack stuff?” Davidson commented.

  Rebus just shrugged. Ellen Wylie had disappeared inside the Portakabin. Davidson was only now registering the fresh daubs. “Filth, eh? I’ve always thought that the people who call us that are that.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead, scratching at his scalp. “Anything else on today?”

  “Victim’s wife’s ID-ing the body. Thought I’d maybe attend.” He paused. “Unless you want to do it.”

  “It’s all yours. Nothing waiting for you back at Gayfield, then?”

  “Not even a proper desk.”

  “They’re hoping you’ll take the hint?”

  Rebus nodded. “Think I should?”

  Davidson looked skeptical. “What’s waiting for you when you retire?”

  “Liver disease, probably. I’ve already made the down payment . . .”

  Davidson smiled. “Well, I’d say we’re still shorthanded, which means I’m happy for you to stick around.” Rebus was about to say something—thanks, perhaps—but Davidson raised a finger. “So long as you don’t go off on any wild tangents, understood?”

  “Crystal clear, Shug.”

  Both men turned at a sudden bellow from two stories up: “Good morning to you, Inspector!” It was Mo Dirwan, waving down to Rebus from the walkway. Rebus gave a halfhearted wave back, but then remembered that he had a few questions for the lawyer.

  “Stay there, I’m coming up!” he called.

  “I’m in flat two-oh-two.”

  “Dirwan’s been working for the Yurgii family,” Rebus reminded Davidson. “Few things I need to clear up with him.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” Davidson placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. “But no more photo calls, eh?”

  “Don’t worry, Shug, there won’t be.”

  Rebus took the lift to the second floor, and walked to the door marked 202. Looking down, he saw that Davidson was studying the damage to the outside of the Portakabin. There was no sign of Reynolds with the promised tea.

  The door was ajar, so Rebus walked in. The place was carpeted with what looked like off-cuts. A broom rested against the lobby wall. A plumbing problem had left a large brown stain on the cream ceiling.

  “In here,” Dirwan called. He was seated on a sofa in the living room. Again, the windows were frosted with condensation. Both bars of the electric fire were glowing. Ethnic music was playing softly from a tape machine. An elderly couple were standing in front of the sofa.

  “Join me,” Dirwan said, slapping the cushion beside him with one hand, cup and saucer gripped in the other. Rebus sat down, the couple bowing slightly at his smiled greeting. It was only when he was seated that he realized there were no other chairs, nothing for the couple to do but stand there. Not that this seemed to bother the lawyer.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Singh have been here eleven years,” he was saying. “But not for much longer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rebus replied.

  Dirwan chuckled. “They’re not being deported, Inspector: their son has done very well for himself in business. Big house in Barnton . . .”

  “Cramond,” Mr. Singh corrected, naming one of the city’s better areas.

  “Big house in Cramond,” the lawyer plowed on. “They’re moving in with him.”

  “Into the granny flat,” Mrs. Singh said, seeming to take pleasure in the phrase. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “I’m fine actually,” Rebus apologized. “But I do need a word with Mr. Dirwan.”

  “You would like us to leave?”

  “No, no . . . we’ll talk outside.” Rebus gave Dirwan a meaningful look. The lawyer handed his cup to Mrs. Singh.

  “Tell your son I wish him everything he could wish himself,” he barked, his voice seeming out of all proportion to what was necessary. The room echoed as he stopped.

  The Singhs bowed again, and Rebus got to his feet. Hands had to be shaken before Rebus could lead Dirwan out onto the walkway.

  “A lovely family, you must agree,” Dirwan said after the door had closed. “Immigrants, you see, can make a vital contribution to the community at large.”

  “I’ve never doubted it. You know we have a name for the victim? Stef Yurgii.”

  Dirwan sighed. “I just found out this morning.”

  “You didn’t see the photos we placed in the tabloids?”

  “I do not read the gutter press.”

  “But you were going to come and talk to us, to let us know you knew him?”

  “I didn’t know him: I know his wife and children.”

  “And you hadn’t had any contact with him? He didn’t try getting a message to his family?”

  Dirwan shook his head. “Not through me. I would not hesitate to tell you.” He fixed his eyes on Rebus. “You must trust me on that, John.”

  “Only my best friends call me John,” Rebus warned, “and trust has to be earned, Mr. Dirwan.” He paused to let this sink in. “You didn’t know he was in Edinburgh?”

  “I did not.”

  “But you’ve been working on the wife’s case?”

  The lawyer nodded. “It’s not right, you know: we call ourselves civilized but are happy to let her rot with her children in Whitemire. You’ve seen them?” Rebus nodded. “Then you will know—no trees, no freedom, the bare minimum of education and nourishment . . .”

  “But nothing to do with this inquiry,” Rebus felt the need to say.

  “My God, I don’t believe I just heard that! You’ve seen firsthand the problems with racism in this country.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be harming the Singhs.”

  “Just because they smile doesn’t mean anything.” He broke o
ff suddenly, started rubbing the back of his neck. “I should not drink so much tea. It heats the blood, you know.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, talking to all these people . . .”

  “Regarding which, would you like to know what I’ve gleaned?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was knocking on doors all of last evening, and from first thing this morning . . . Of course, not everyone was relevant or would speak with me.”

  “Thanks for trying anyway.”

  Dirwan received the praise with a motion of his head. “You know that Stef Yurgii was a journalist in his own country?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, people here—the ones who knew him—did not know that. However, he was good at getting to know people; at getting them to talk—it is in a journalist’s nature, yes?”

  Rebus nodded.

  “So,” the lawyer continued, “Stef spoke to people about their lives, asking many questions without revealing much of his own past.”

  “You think he was going to write about it?”

  “That is a possibility.”

  “What about the girlfriend?”

  Dirwan shook his head. “No one seems to know about her. Of course, with a family in Whitemire, it is entirely possible that he would want her existence to remain a secret.”

  Rebus nodded again. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not as yet. You wish me to continue knocking on doors?”

  “I know it’s a chore . . .”

  “But that’s exactly what it isn’t! I am gaining a feel for this place, and I’m meeting people who may wish to form their own collective.”

  “Like the one in Glasgow?”

  “Exactly. People are stronger when they act together.”

  Rebus considered this. “Well, good luck to you—and thanks again.” He shook the proffered hand, unsure how far he trusted Dirwan. The man was a lawyer, after all; added to which, he had his own agenda.

  Someone was walking towards them. They had to move to let him pass. Rebus recognized the youth from yesterday, the one with the rock. The youth just stared at the two men, unsure as to who deserved his scorn more. He stopped at the lifts and jabbed the button.

  “I hear you like tattoos,” Rebus called out. He nodded to Dirwan to let the lawyer know they were finished. Then he walked over to join the youth, who backed away as if fearing contamination. Like the youth, Rebus kept his eyes on the lift doors. Dirwan meantime was getting no answer at 203; moved farther away to try 204.

  “What do you want?” the youth muttered.

  “Just passing the time of day. It’s what humans do, you know: communicate with each other.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Something else we do: accept the opinions of others. We’re all different, after all.” There was a dull ping as the doors on the left-hand lift shuddered open. Rebus made to step in, then saw that the youth was going to stay behind. Rebus grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him inside, held him till the doors had closed again. The youth pushed him away, tried the “Door Open” button, but too late. The lift was starting its creeping descent.

  “You like the paramilitaries?” Rebus went on. “UVF, all that lot?”

  The youth clamped his mouth shut, lips sucked in behind his teeth.

  “Gives you something to hide behind, I suppose,” Rebus said, as if to himself. “Every coward needs some sort of shield . . . They’ll look lovely later on, too, those tattoos, when you’re married with kids . . . Catholic neighbors and a Muslim boss . . .”

  “Aye, right, like I’d let that happen.”

  “A lot of things are going to happen to you that you can’t control, son. Take it from a veteran.”

  The lift came to a stop, its doors not opening fast enough for the youth, who started trying to pull them apart, squeezing out and loping off. Rebus watched him cross the stretch of playground. Shug Davidson, too, was watching from the Portakabin’s doorway.

  “Been fraternizing with the locals?” he asked.

  “A bit of lifestyle advice,” Rebus acknowledged. “What’s his name, by the way?”

  Davidson had to think. “Howard Slowther . . . calls himself Howie.”

  “Age?”

  “Nearly fifteen. Education is after him for truancy. Young Howie’s heading down the pan big time.” Davidson shrugged. “And there’s bugger-all we can do about it until he does something really stupid.”

  “Which could be any day now,” Rebus said, eyes still on the rapidly retreating figure, following it as it descended the slope towards the underpass.

  “Any day,” Davidson agreed. “What time’s your meeting at the mortuary?”

  “Ten.” Rebus checked his watch. “Time I was going.”

  “Remember: keep in touch.”

  “I’ll send you a postcard, Shug: ‘Wish you were here.’”

  12

  Siobhan had no reason to think that Ishbel’s “pimp” was Stuart Bullen: Bullen seemed too young. He had the leather jacket, but not a sports car. She’d looked at an X5 on the Internet, and it was anything but sporty.

  Then again, she’d asked him a specific question: what car did he drive? Maybe he had more than one: the X5 for day-to-day stuff, and something else garaged for nights and weekends. Was it worth checking? Worth another visit to the Nook? Right now, she didn’t think so.

  Having squeezed into a space on Cockburn Street, she was walking up Fleshmarket Alley. A couple of middle-aged tourists were gazing at the cellar door. The man held a videocam, the woman a guidebook.

  “Excuse me,” the woman asked. Her accent was English Midlands, maybe Yorkshire. “Do you know if this is where the skeletons were found?”

  “That’s right,” Siobhan told her.

  “The tour guide told us about it,” the woman explained. “Last night.”

  “One of the ghost tours?” Siobhan guessed.

  “That’s it, pet. She told us it were witchcraft.”

  “Is that right?”

  The husband had already started filming the studded wooden door. Siobhan found herself apologizing as she brushed past. The pub wasn’t open yet, but she reckoned someone would be there, so she rattled the door with her foot. The lower half was solid, but the top half comprised green glass circles, like the bottoms of wine bottles. She watched a shadow move behind the glass, the click of a key being turned.

  “We open at eleven.”

  “Mr. Mangold? DS Clarke . . . remember me?”

  “Christ, what is it now?”

  “Any chance I can come in?”

  “I’m in a meeting.”

  “It won’t take long . . .”

  Mangold hesitated, then pulled open the door.

  “Thanks,” Siobhan said, stepping in. “What happened to your face?”

  He touched the bruising on his left cheek. The eye above was swollen. “Bit of a disagreement with a punter,” he said. “One of the perils of the job.”

  Siobhan looked towards the barman. He was transferring ice from one bucket to another, gave her a nod of greeting. There was a smell of disinfectant and wood polish. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the bar, a mug of coffee next to it. There was paperwork, too: the morning post by the look of things.

  “Looks like you got off lightly,” she said. The barman shrugged.

  “Wasn’t my shift.”

  She noticed two more mugs of coffee on a corner table, a woman cupping one of them in both hands. There was a small pile of books in front of her. Siobhan could make out a couple of the titles: Edinburgh Haunts and The City Above and Below.

  “Make it quick, will you? I’m up to my eyes today.” Mangold seemed in no hurry to introduce his other visitor, but Siobhan offered her a smile anyway, which the woman returned. She was in her forties, with frizzy dark hair tied back with a black velvet bow. She’d kept on her Afghan coat. Siobhan could see bare ankles and leather sandals beneath. Mangold stood with arms folded, legs apart, in the center of the room.


  “You were going to look out the paperwork,” Siobhan reminded him.

  “Paperwork?”

  “For the laying of the floor in the cellar.”

  “There aren’t enough hours in the day,” Mangold complained.

  “Even so, sir . . .”

  “Two fake skeletons—where’s the fire?” He held his arms out in supplication.

  Siobhan realized that the woman was coming towards them. “You’re interested in the burials?” she asked in a soft, sibilant voice.

  “That’s right,” Siobhan said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke, and you’re Judith Lennox.” Lennox went wide-eyed. “I recognize you from your picture in the paper,” Siobhan explained.

  Lennox took Siobhan’s hand, gripping rather than shaking it. “You’re so full of energy, Miss Clarke. It’s like electricity.”

  “And you’re giving Mr. Mangold here a history lesson.”

  “Quite right.” The woman’s eyes had widened again.

  “The titles on the spines,” Siobhan explained, nodding towards the books. “Bit of a giveaway.”

  Lennox looked at Mangold. “I’m helping Ray develop his new theme bar . . . it’s very exciting.”

  “The cellar?” Siobhan guessed.

  “He wants some idea of historical context.”

  Mangold coughed an interruption. “I’m sure Detective Sergeant Clarke has better things to do with her time . . .” Hinting that he, too, was a man with things to do. Then, to Siobhan: “I did have a quick look for anything to do with the job, but came up blank. Could have been cash-in-hand. Plenty cowboys out there who’ll lay a floor, no questions asked, nothing in writing . . .”

  “Nothing in writing?” Siobhan repeated.

  “You were here when the skeletons were found?” Judith Lennox asked.

  Siobhan tried to ignore her, focused on Mangold instead. “You’re trying to tell me . . .”

  “It was Mag Lennox, wasn’t it? It was her skeleton you found.”

  Siobhan stared at the woman. “What makes you say that?”

  Judith Lennox squeezed shut her eyes. “I had a premonition. I’d been trying to arrange tours of the medical faculty . . . they wouldn’t let me. Wouldn’t even let me see the skeleton . . .” Her eyes burned with zeal. “I’m her descendant, you know.”