Fleshmarket Alley

  “Well, Catriona, police from Livingston are at the scene as I speak. We’re being kept behind a cordon, of course, but a forensic team, dressed in regulation white overalls with hoods and masks, is entering the terraced house. It’s a council-owned property, maybe two or three bedrooms, with gray rough-stone walls and all its windows curtained. The front garden’s overgrown, and a small crowd of onlookers has gathered. I’ve managed to talk to some of the neighbors and it appears the victim was known to police, though whether this will have any bearing on the case remains to be seen . . .”

  “Colin, have they revealed his identity yet?”

  “Nothing official, Catriona. I can tell you that he was a local man of twenty-two years, and that his demise appears to have been pretty brutal. Again, though, we’ll have to await the press conference for a more detailed account. Officers here say that’ll happen in the next two to three hours.”

  “Thank you, Colin . . . and there’ll be more on that story in our lunchtime program. Meantime, a Central Scotland list MSP is calling for the closure of the Whitemire detention center situated just outside Banehall . . .”

  Siobhan unhooked her phone from its charger but then couldn’t remember the number for Livingston police station. And who did she know there anyway? Only DC Davie Hynds, and he’d been there less than a fortnight: another casualty of the changes at St. Leonard’s. She headed to the bathroom, checked her face and hair in the mirror. A splash and a wet comb might do for once. She didn’t have time for anything else. Decided, she dashed into the bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe doors.

  Less than an hour later, she was in Banehall. Drove past the Jardines’ old house. They’d moved so they wouldn’t be so close to Tracy’s rapist. Donny Cruikshank, whose age Siobhan calculated as twenty-two . . .

  There were a couple of police vans parked in the next street. The milling crowd had grown. A guy with a microphone was doing a vox pop—she guessed he was the same radio reporter she’d been listening to. The house at the center of all the attention was flanked by two others. All three doors stood open. She saw Steve Holly disappear into the right-hand one. Doubtless money had changed hands and Holly was being given access to the rear garden, where he might have a better view of things. Siobhan double-parked and approached the uniform standing guard at the blue-and-white tape. She showed her warrant card and he raised the tape for her so she could duck beneath.

  “Body been ID’d?” she asked.

  “Probably the guy who lived there,” he said.

  “Pathologist been?”

  “Not yet.”

  She nodded and moved on, pushing open the gate, walking up the path towards the shadowy interior. She took a few deep breaths, releasing them slowly; needed to look casual when she stepped indoors, needed to be professional. The lobby was narrow. Downstairs there appeared to be only a cramped living room and an equally small kitchen. A door led from the kitchen to the back garden. The stairs were steep to the only other floor: four doors here, all of them open. One was a hall cupboard, filled with cardboard boxes, spare duvets, and sheets. Through another she could see part of a pale pink bath. Two bedrooms, then: one a single, unused. Which left the larger, facing the front of the house. This was where all the activity was: scene-of-crime officers; photographers; a local GP consulting with a detective. The detective noticed her.

  “Can I help you?”

  “DS Clarke,” she said, showing him her ID. So far, she hadn’t as much as glanced at the body, but it was there all right: no mistaking it. Blood soaking into the biscuit-colored carpet beneath it. Face twisted, mouth sagging as though in an effort to suck in a final lungful of life. The shaven head crusted with blood. The SOCOs were running detectors over the walls, seeking spatters which would give them a pattern, the pattern in turn giving clues to the ferocity and nature of the attack.

  The detective handed back her ID. “You’re a ways from home, DS Clarke. I’m DI Young, officer in charge of this inquiry . . . and I don’t remember asking for any help from the big city.”

  She tried a winning smile. DI Young was just that—young; younger than her anyway, and already above her in rank. A sturdy face above a sturdier body. Probably played rugby, maybe came from farming stock. He had red hair and fairer eyelashes, a few burst blood vessels either side of his nose. If someone had told her he wasn’t long out of school, she’d probably have believed them.

  “I just thought . . .” She hesitated, trying to find the right combination of words. Looking around, she noticed the pictures stuck to the walls—soft porn, blondes with their mouths and legs open.

  “Thought what, DS Clarke?”

  “That I might be able to help.”

  “Well, that’s a very kind thought, but I think we can manage, if that’s all right with you.”

  “But the thing is . . .” And now she stared down at the corpse. Her stomach felt as though it had been replaced by a punching bag, but her face showed only professional interest. “I know who he is. I know quite a bit about him.”

  “Well, we know who he is, too, so thanks again . . .”

  Of course they knew him. With his reputation and his scarred face. Donny Cruikshank, lifeless on the floor of his bedroom.

  “But I know things you don’t,” she persisted.

  Young’s eyes narrowed, and she knew she was in.

  “Plenty more porn in here,” one of the SOCOs was saying. He meant the living room: the floor beside the TV stacked with pirate DVDs and videos. There was a computer, too, another officer sitting in front of it, busy with the mouse. He had a lot of floppies and CDs to get through.

  “Remember: this is work,” Young reminded them. He decided the room was still too busy, so he led Siobhan into the kitchen.

  “I’m Les, by the way,” he said, softening now that she had something to offer him.

  “Siobhan,” she replied.

  “So . . .” He leaned against a countertop, arms folded. “How did you come to know Donald Cruikshank?”

  “He was a convicted rapist—I worked that case. His victim committed suicide. She lived locally . . . parents still do. They came to me a few days back because their other daughter’s run off.”

  “Oh?”

  “They said they talked to someone at Livingston about it . . .” Siobhan tried to sound anything but judgmental.

  “Any reason to think . . . ?”

  “What?”

  Young shrugged. “That this might have something to do with . . . I mean, connect in some way?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. It’s why I decided to come here.”

  “If you could write this up as a report . . . ?”

  Siobhan nodded. “I’ll do it today.”

  “Thanks.” Young eased himself away from the countertop, readying to head back upstairs. But he paused in the doorway. “You busy in Edinburgh?”

  “Not really.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “DCI Macrae.”

  “Maybe I could have a word with him . . . see if he can spare you for a few days.” He paused. “Always supposing you’re agreeable?”

  “I’m all yours,” Siobhan said. She could have sworn he was blushing as he left the room.

  She was walking back through to the living room when she almost collided with a new arrival: Dr. Curt.

  “You do get around, DS Clarke,” he said. He looked to left and right to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Any progress on Fleshmarket Alley?”

  “A little. I bumped into Judith Lennox.”

  Curt winced at the name. “You didn’t tell her anything?”

  “Of course not . . . your secret’s safe with me. Any plans to put Mag Lennox back on display?”

  “I should think so.” He moved aside to let a SOCO past. “Well, I suppose I’d better . . .” He motioned to the stairs.

  “Don’t worry—he’s not going anywhere.”

  Curt stared at her. “If you don’t mind me saying, Siobhan,” he drawled, “that remar
k says much about you.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ve been around John Rebus for far too long . . .” The pathologist started climbing the stairs, taking his black leather medical case with him. Siobhan could hear his knees clicking with each step.

  “What’s the interest, DS Clarke?” someone outside was shouting. She looked towards the cordon and saw Steve Holly there, waving his notebook at her. “Bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?”

  She muttered something under her breath and walked down the path, opening the gate again, ducking under the cordon. Holly was at her shoulder as she made for her car.

  “You worked on the case, didn’t you?” he was saying. “The rape case, I mean. I remember trying to ask you . . .”

  “Buzz off, Holly.”

  “Look, I’m not going to quote you or anything . . .” He was in front of her now, walking backwards so he could make eye contact. “But you must be thinking the same as me . . . same as lots of us . . .”

  “And what’s that?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish. I mean, whoever did this, they deserve a medal.”

  “I know limbo dancers that couldn’t go as low as you.”

  “Your mate Rebus said much the same thing.”

  “Great minds think alike.”

  “But, come on, you must . . .” He broke off as he backed into her car, losing his balance and falling into the road. Siobhan got in and started the engine before he could climb to his feet again. He was brushing himself down as she reversed down the street. He made to pick up his pen, but noticed that she’d crushed it under her wheels.

  She didn’t drive far, just to the junction with Main Street and across it. Found the Jardines’ house easily enough. Both were at home, and ushered her inside.

  “You’ve heard?” she said.

  They nodded, looking neither pleased nor displeased.

  “Who could have done it?” Mrs. Jardine asked.

  “Just about anyone,” her husband replied. His eyes were on Siobhan. “Nobody in Banehall wanted him back, not even his own family.”

  Which explained why Cruikshank had lived alone.

  “Is there any news?” Alice Jardine asked, trying to press Siobhan’s hands between her own. It was as if she’d already dismissed the murder from her mind.

  “We went to the club,” Siobhan admitted. “Nobody seemed to know Ishbel. Still no word from her?”

  “You’re the first person we’d tell,” John Jardine assured her. “But we’re forgetting our manners—you’ll take a cup of tea?”

  “I really don’t have time.” Siobhan paused. “Something I did want, though . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “A sample of Ishbel’s handwriting.”

  Alice Jardine’s eyes widened. “What for?”

  “It’s nothing really . . . might just come in handy later on.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” John Jardine said. He went upstairs, leaving the two women alone. Siobhan had pushed her hands into her pockets, safe from Alice.

  “You don’t think we’ll find her, do you?”

  “She’ll let herself be found . . . when she’s ready,” Siobhan said.

  “You don’t think anything’s happened to her?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m guilty of thinking the worst,” Alice Jardine said, rubbing her hands together as though washing them clean of something.

  “You know we’ll want to interview you?” Siobhan spoke softly. “There’ll be questions about Cruikshank . . . about how he died.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You’ll be asked about Ishbel, too.”

  “Gracious me, they can’t think . . . ?” The woman’s voice had risen.

  “It’s just something that has to be done.”

  “And will it be you asking the questions, Siobhan?”

  Siobhan shook her head. “I’m too close. It might be a man called Young. He seems okay.”

  “Well, if you say so . . .”

  Her husband was returning. “There’s not much, to be honest,” he said, handing over an address book. It listed names and phone numbers, most of them in green felt-tip. Inside the cover, Ishbel had written her own name and address.

  “Might do it,” Siobhan said. “I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.”

  Alice Jardine had grabbed her husband’s elbow. “Siobhan says the police will want to talk to us about . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to use his name. “About him.”

  “Will they?” Mr. Jardine turned to Siobhan.

  “It’s routine,” she said. “Turning the victim’s life into a pattern . . .”

  “Yes, I see.” Though he sounded unsure. “But they can’t . . . they won’t think Ishbel had anything to do with it?”

  “Don’t be so stupid, John!” his wife hissed. “Ishbel wouldn’t do something like that!”

  Maybe not, Siobhan thought, but then Ishbel was by no means the only member of the family who’d be regarded as a suspect . . .

  Tea was offered again, and politely refused. She managed to get out of the door, escaping to her car. As she drove off, she looked in her rearview mirror and saw Steve Holly striding along the sidewalk, checking house numbers. For a moment, she considered stopping—heading back and warning him off. But that sort of thing would only pique his curiosity. However he acted, whatever he asked, the Jardines would have to survive without her help.

  She turned along Main Street and stopped outside the Salon. Inside, the place smelled of perms and hairspray. Two customers sat beneath dryers. They had magazines open on their laps but were busy talking, voices raised above the machines.

  “. . . and the best of British luck to them, I say.”

  “No great loss, that’s for sure . . .”

  “It’s Sergeant Clarke, isn’t it?” This last came from Angie. She spoke even more loudly than her clients, and they heeded her warning, falling silent, eyes on Siobhan.

  “What can we do for you?” Angie said.

  “It’s Susie I want to see.” Siobhan smiled at the young assistant.

  “Why? What’ve I done?” Susie protested. She was taking a cup of instant cappuccino to one of the women beneath the dryers.

  “Nothing,” Siobhan reassured her. “Unless, of course, you murdered Donny Cruikshank.”

  The four women looked horrified. Siobhan held up her hands. “Bad joke,” she said.

  “No shortage of suspects,” Angie admitted, lighting a cigarette for herself. Her nails were painted blue today, with tiny spots of yellow, like stars in the sky.

  “Care to name your favorites?” Siobhan asked, trying to make light of the question.

  “Look around you, sweetheart.” Angie blew smoke ceilingwards. Susie was taking another drink over to the dryers—a glass of water this time.

  “It’s one thing to think about doing someone in,” she said.

  Angie nodded. “It’s like an angel heard us and decided for once to do the right thing.”

  “An avenging angel?” Siobhan ventured.

  “Read your Bible, sweetheart: they weren’t all just feathers and halos.” The women under the dryers shared a smile at this. “You expect us to help you put whoever did that behind bars? It’s the patience of Job you’ll be needing.”

  “Sounds like you know your Bible, which means you also know murder’s a sin against God.”

  “Depends on your God, I suppose . . .” Angie took a step closer. “You’re a friend of the Jardines—I know, they’ve told me. So come on now, you tell me straight out . . .”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me you’re not glad the bastard’s dead.”

  “I’m not.” She held the hairdresser’s gaze.

  “Then you’re not an angel, you’re a saint.” Angie went to check how the women’s hair was progressing. Siobhan seized the chance to talk to Susie.

  “It’s really just that I could do with your details.”

 
“My details?”

  “Your vital statistics, Susie,” Angie said, the two customers laughing with her.

  Siobhan managed to smile. “Just your full name and address, maybe your phone number. In case I need to write up a report.”

  “Oh, right . . .” Susie looked flustered. She went to the till, found a notepad next to it, started writing. She tore off the sheet and handed it to Siobhan. The writing was in capitals, but that didn’t worry Siobhan: so was most of the graffiti in the Bane’s ladies’ lavatory.

  “Thanks, Susie,” she said, slipping the note into her pocket, next to Ishbel’s address book.

  There were a few more drinkers in the Bane than on her previous visit. They moved aside to give her some room at the bar. The barman recognized her, nodded something that could have been either a greeting or an apology for Cruikshank’s behavior last time round.

  She ordered a soft drink.

  “On the house,” he said.

  “Aye, aye,” said one of the drinkers, “Malky’s trying some foreplay for a change.”

  Siobhan ignored this. “I don’t usually get free drinks until after I’ve identified myself as a detective.” She held up her warrant card as proof.

  “Good choice, Malky,” a man said. “I suppose it’s about young Donny?” Siobhan turned to the speaker. He was in his sixties, a flat cap perched above a shiny dome of a head. He held a pipe in one hand. There was a dog lying at his feet, fast asleep.

  “That’s right,” she admitted.

  “The lad was a bloody idiot, we all know that . . . Didn’t deserve to die for it, though.”

  “No?”

  The man shook his head. “Lassies cry rape too quick these days.” He held up a hand to stifle the barman’s protest. “No, Malky, I’m just saying, though . . . put a bit of drink in a girl, she’ll walk into trouble. Look at the way they dress when they parade up and down Main Street. Go back fifty years, women covered themselves up a bit . . . and you didn’t read about indecent assaults every day in your paper.”