Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (14 page)

“It livens up later on,” Dodds told Rebus. “Place is mental at the weekend . . .” He led them across the floor, stopping at a door marked “Private” and punching numbers into the keypad alongside. He pushed the door open and nodded them through.

They were in a short, narrow hallway with a door at its end. Dodds knocked and waited.

“If you must!” the voice called from the other side. Rebus motioned with his head to tell Dodds they could manage without him from here on. Then he turned the handle.

The office was not much bigger than a closet, and what space there was had been filled almost to capacity. Shelves groaned under paperwork and bits and pieces of discarded equipment—everything from a disconnected beer pump to an electric typewriter. Magazines were stacked on the linoleum floor: trade mags mostly. The bottom half of a water cooler had become a support for shrink-wrapped collections of beer mats. A venerable-looking green safe stood open to reveal boxes of drinking straws and packs of paper napkins. There was a tiny barred window behind the desk, which Rebus guessed would give a minimum of natural light in daytime. The available wall space was filled with framed cuttings from newspapers: paparazzi-style pics of men exiting the Nook. Rebus recognized a couple of footballers whose careers had stalled.

The man seated at the desk was in his thirties. He wore a tight white T-shirt, giving definition to his muscular torso and arms. The face was tanned, the cropped hair jet black. No jewelry, other than a gold watch with more dials than necessary. His blue eyes shone, even in this room’s dim wattage. “Stuart Bullen,” he said, reaching out a hand without bothering to stand.

Rebus introduced himself, then Siobhan. Handshakes completed, Bullen apologized for the lack of chairs.

“No room for them,” he shrugged.

“We’re fine standing, Mr. Bullen,” Rebus assured him.

“As you can see, the Nook has nothing to hide . . . which makes your visit all the more intriguing.”

“That’s not a local accent, Mr. Bullen,” Rebus commented.

“I’m from the west coast originally.”

Rebus nodded. “I seem to know the name . . .”

Bullen’s mouth twitched. “To put your mind at rest, yes, my dad was Rab Bullen.”

“Glasgow gangster,” Rebus explained to Siobhan.

“A respected
businessman,
” Bullen corrected.

“Who died when someone fired at him from point-blank range on his own doorstep,” Rebus added. “What was that—five, six years ago?”

“If I’d known it was my dad you wanted to talk about . . .” Bullen was staring hard at Rebus.

“It isn’t,” Rebus interrupted.

“We’re looking for a girl, Mr. Bullen,” Siobhan said. “A runaway called Ishbel Jardine.” She handed him the photograph. “Maybe you’ve seen her?”

“And why would I have seen her?”

Siobhan shrugged. “She might need money. We hear you’ve been hiring dancers.”

“Every club in town’s hiring dancers.” It was his turn to shrug. “They come and they go . . . All my dancers are legit, mind, and dancing’s as far as it goes.”

“Even in the VIP booth?” Rebus asked.

“We’re talking about housewives and students . . . women who need a bit of easy cash.”

“If you could just look at the photo, please,” Siobhan said. “She’s eighteen, and her name’s Ishbel.”

“Never seen her before in my life.” He made to hand the photo back. “Who told you I was hiring?”

“Information received,” Rebus informed him.

“I saw you looking at my little collection.” Bullen nodded towards the photos on the wall. “This is a classy place. We like to think we’re a bit above the other clubs in the area. That means we’re choosy about the girls we employ. We tend not to take the junkies.”

“Nobody said she was a junkie. And I doubt very much whether this dive could ever be described as ‘classy.’”

Bullen sat back, the better to study him. “You can’t be too far off retiring, Inspector. I look forward to the day when I can deal with cops like your colleague.” He smiled in Siobhan’s direction. “A much pleasanter prospect.”

“How long have you had this place?” Rebus asked. He’d brought out his cigarettes.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Bullen told him. “It’s a fire risk.” Rebus hesitated, then put the pack away again. Bullen gave a little nod of thanks. “To answer your question: four years.”

“What took you away from Glasgow?”

“Well, my dad’s murder might give you a clue.”

“Never caught the killer, did they?”

“Shouldn’t that ‘they’ be a ‘we’?”

“Glasgow and Edinburgh police—chalk and cheese.”

“You mean you’d have had more luck?”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Well, Inspector, if that’s all you came for . . . I’m sure you’ve got other premises to visit?”

“Mind if we talk to the girls?” Siobhan asked suddenly.

“What for?”

“Just to show them the photo. Is there a dressing room they use?”

He nodded. “Through the black curtain. But they only go there between shifts.”

“Then we’ll talk to them where we find them.”

“If you must,” Bullen snapped.

She turned to leave, but pulled up short. There was a black leather jacket hanging behind the door. She rubbed the collar between her fingers. “What car do you drive?” she asked abruptly.

“What’s it to do with you?”

“It’s a simple enough question, but if you want to do it the hard way . . .” She glared at him.

Bullen let out a sigh. “BMW X-Five.”

“Sounds sporty.”

Bullen snorted. “It’s an off-roader, a four-by-four. Huge big tank of a thing.”

She nodded understanding. “Those are the cars men buy when there’s something they feel the need to compensate for . . .” On which line she made her exit. Rebus offered Bullen a smile.

“How’s she rating now as that ‘pleasanter prospect’ you were talking about?”

“I know you,” Bullen replied, wagging a finger. “You’re the cop Ger Cafferty keeps in his pocket.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s what everybody says.”

“I can’t argue with that, then, can I?”

Rebus turned to follow Siobhan out. He reckoned he’d done well not to rise to the young prick’s goading. Big Ger Cafferty had for many years been king of Edinburgh’s underworld. These days, he lived a quieter life: at least on the surface. But with Cafferty, you never could tell. It was true that Rebus knew him. In fact, Bullen had just given Rebus an idea, because if there was one man who might know what the hell a Glasgow lowlife like Stuart Bullen was doing on the other side of the country from his natural lair, that man was Morris Gerald Cafferty.

Siobhan had taken a stool at the bar, the businessmen having moved to a table. Rebus joined her, putting the barman’s mind at ease: he’d probably never had to serve a single woman before.

“Bottle of your best beer,” Rebus said. “And whatever the lady’s having.”

“Diet Coke,” she told the barman. He brought their drinks.

“Six pounds,” he said.

“Mr. Bullen says they’re on the house,” Rebus informed him with a wink. “He wants to keep us sweet.”

“Ever see this girl in here?” Siobhan asked, holding up the photograph.

“Looks familiar . . . but then, a lot of girls look like that.”

“What’s your name, son?” Rebus asked.

The barman bristled at that use of “son.” He was in his early twenties, short and wiry. White T-shirt, maybe trying to copy his boss’s style. Hair spiked with gel. He wore the same earpiece as the bouncers. There were two stud earrings in his other ear.

“Barney Grant.”

“Worked here long, Barney?”

“Couple of years.”

“Place like this, that probably qualifies you as a lifer.”

“Nobody’s been here as long as me,” Grant agreed.

“Bet you’ve seen a few things.”

Grant nodded. “But one thing I haven’t seen in all that time is Stuart offering free drinks.” He held his hand out. “Six pounds, please.”

“I admire your persistence, son.” Rebus handed over the money. “What’s your accent?”

“Aussie. And I’ll tell you something else—I’ve got a memory for faces, and I seem to know yours.”

“I was in here a few months back . . . stag party. Didn’t stay long.”

“So, to get back to Ishbel Jardine,” Siobhan cajoled, “you think maybe you’ve seen her?”

Grant took another look at the photo. “Might not have been here, though. Plenty of clubs and pubs . . . could’ve been anywhere.” He took the money to the till. Siobhan turned round to study the room and almost wished she hadn’t. One of the dancers was leading a suit towards the VIP booth. Another, the one she’d seen earlier, concentrating on the music, was now sliding up and down the silver pole, minus her thong.

“Christ, this is sleazy,” she commented to Rebus. “What the hell do you get out of this?”

“A lightening of the wallet,” he replied.

Siobhan turned to Grant again. “How much do they charge?”

“Tenner a dance. Lasts a couple of minutes, no touching allowed.”

“And in the VIP booth?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Never been in. Want another drink?” He motioned to her glass, which was as full of ice as when it had arrived, but otherwise empty.

“Trick of the trade,” Rebus told her. “More ice you put in, less room there is for the actual drink.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she told Grant. “Do you think any of the girls would talk to us?”

“Why should they?”

“What if I leave the photo with you . . . would you show it around?”

“Could do.”

“And my card.” She handed it over with the photograph. “You can phone me if there’s any news.”

“Okay.” He placed both items under the bar. Then, to Rebus: “What about you? Fancy another?”

“Not at those prices, Barney, thanks all the same.”

“Remember,” Siobhan said, “call me.” She slid from the stool and headed for the exit. Rebus had stopped to study another row of framed photos—copies of the newspaper cuttings in Bullen’s office. He tapped one of them. Siobhan looked closer: Lex Cater and his film-star father, their faces turned ghostly white by the photographer’s flash gun. Gordon Cater had raised his hand to his face, but too late. His eyes looked haunted, but his son was grinning, happy to be captured for posterity.

“Look at the byline,” Rebus told her. Each story was accompanied by an “exclusive” tag, and beneath the headlines sat the same bold-print name: Steve Holly.

“Funny how he’s always in the right place at the right time,” Siobhan said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Rebus agreed.

Outside, he paused to light a cigarette. Siobhan kept walking, unlocking the car and getting in, sitting there with hands gripped around the steering wheel. Rebus walked slowly, inhaling deeply. There was still half a cigarette left by the time he reached the Peugeot, but he flicked it onto the road and climbed into the passenger side.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“Do you?” She signaled to move away from the curb.

He turned to her. “More than one kind of fleshmarket,” he stated. “Why did you ask about his car?”

Siobhan considered her reply. “Because he looked like a pimp,” she said, Rebus’s words turning over in her mind:

More than one kind of fleshmarket . . .

DAY FOUR

Thursday

11

N
ext morning, Rebus was back in Knoxland. Some of the previous day’s banners and placards were strewn around, their slogans blurred by footprints. Rebus was in the Portakabin, drinking a coffee he’d brought with him and finishing the newspaper. Stef Yurgii’s name had been revealed to the media at a press conference yesterday evening. It merited just the one mention in Steve Holly’s tabloid, while Mo Dirwan got a couple of paragraphs. There was also a series of pictures of Rebus: wrestling the youth to the ground, being proclaimed a hero by an arms-aloft Dirwan, and watched by Dirwan’s followers. The headline—almost certainly the work of Holly himself—was the single word STONED!

Rebus tossed the paper into the bin, aware that someone would in all probability just fish it out again. He found a cup half full of cold slops and poured it over the newsprint, feeling better for it. His watch said it was nine-fifteen. Earlier, he’d made the request for a patrol car to head out to Portobello. By his reckoning, it would be here any minute. The Portakabin was quiet. Wise counsel had decided that it would be foolish to bring a computer into Knoxland, so instead, all the door-to-door reports were being collated back at Torphichen. Walking over to the window, Rebus scraped some shards of glass into a pile. Despite its grille, the window had been broken: a stick of some kind or a thin metal pole. Something sticky had then been sprayed through the window, marking the floor and the nearest desk. To add a final touch, the word FILTH had been spray-painted on every available surface of the exterior. By close of play today, Rebus knew that the window would be boarded up. In fact, the Portakabin might even have been declared surplus to requirements. They’d gleaned what they could, taken what evidence was available. Rebus knew that Shug Davidson had one main strategy: shame the estate into pointing the finger. So maybe Holly’s stories were no bad thing.

Well, it would be nice to think so, but Rebus doubted many people in Knoxland would read of racism and feel anything but complete justification. However, Davidson was counting on just one person seeing the light—one witness was all he needed.

One name.

There would have been blood; a weapon to dispose of; clothes to be burned or thrown out. Someone knew. Hidden away in one of those blocks, hopefully with guilt gnawing away at them.

Someone knew.

Rebus had called Steve Holly first thing, asked him how come he always seemed to be outside the Nook when a celeb came stumbling out.

“Just good investigative journalism. But you’re talking ancient history.”

“How so?”

“When the place opened, it was hot for a few months. That’s when those pics got taken. Go there often, do you?”

Rebus had hung up without replying.

Now he heard a car approaching, peered through the cracked glass and saw it. Allowed himself a little smile as he drained his coffee.

He walked out to meet Gareth Baird, nodding a greeting at the two uniforms who’d brought him here.

“Morning, Gareth.”

“What’s the game, then?” Gareth dug his fists into his pockets. “Harassment, is that it?”

“Not at all. It’s just that you’re a valuable witness. Remember,
you’re
the one who knows what Stef Yurgii’s girlfriend looks like.”

“Christ, I barely noticed her!”

“But she did the talking,” Rebus said calmly. “And I’ve an inkling you’d know her if you saw her again.”

“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 off 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 . . .”