Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (18 page)

“Didn’t even know he was in Edinburgh.”

“So you knew who he was?”

“I know of the family, yes. Doesn’t mean I tuck them in at night.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Inspector.”

“You’re sounding me out, which amounts to the same thing—and none too subtly, I might add.”

“Sorry if it seems that way . . .”

“It
is
that way. And here I am, sharing my whiskey with you . . .” Rebus shook his head.

“I know your reputation, Inspector. Nothing I’ve heard leads me to believe you’d cozy up to Stuart Bullen.”

“Maybe you’ve just not been talking to the right people.” Rebus poured himself a little more whiskey, offering none to Storey. “So what is it you hope to find by spying on the Nook? Apart from cops on the take, naturally . . .”

“Associates . . . hints, and a few fresh leads.”

“Meaning the old ones have gone cold? How much hard evidence do you have?”

“His name’s been mentioned . . .”

Rebus waited for more, but there wasn’t any. He gave a snort. “Anonymous tip-off? Could be any one of his competitors in the pubic triangle, looking to dump on him.”

“The club would make for good cover.”

“Ever been inside?”

“Not yet.”

“Because you think you’d stick out?”

“You mean my skin color?” Storey shrugged. “Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Not many black faces on your streets, but that’ll change. Whether you choose to see them or not is another matter.” He looked around the room again. “Nice place . . .”

“So you said.”

“Been here long?”

“Just the twenty-odd years.”

“That’s a long time . . . Am I the first black person you’ve invited in?”

Rebus considered this. “Probably,” he admitted.

“Any Chinese or Asians?” Rebus chose not to answer. “All I’m saying is . . .”

“Look,” Rebus interrupted, “I’ve had enough of this. Finish your drink and vamoose . . . and that’s not me being racist, just bloody annoyed.” He rose to his feet. Storey did the same, handing the glass back.

“It was good whiskey,” he said. “See? You’ve taught me not to say ‘Scotch.’” He reached into his breast pocket and produced his business card. “In case you feel the need to get in touch.”

Rebus took the card without looking at it. “Which hotel are you in?”

“It’s near Haymarket, on Grosvenor Street.”

“I know the one.”

“Drop in some night, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Rebus said nothing to this, just: “I’ll see you out.”

Which he did, switching off the lights on his way back to the living room, standing by the uncurtained window, peering down towards street level. Sure enough, Storey emerged. As he did so, a car cruised to a stop and he got in the back. Rebus could make out neither driver nor number plate. It was a big car, maybe a Vauxhall. It turned right at the bottom of the street. Rebus walked over to the table and picked up the house phone, called for a taxi. Then he headed downstairs himself, waiting for it outside. As it drew up, his mobile chirped: Siobhan.

“You finished with our mystery guest?” she asked.

“For now.”

“What the hell was that all about?”

He explained it to her as best he could.

“And this arrogant prick thinks we’re in Bullen’s pocket?” was her first question. Rebus guessed it was rhetorical.

“He might want to talk to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for him.” An ambulance pulled out from a side street, siren wailing. “You’re in the car,” she commented.

“Taxi,” he corrected her. “Last thing I need right now is a conviction for drunk driving.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Just out on the town.” The cab had passed the Tollcross intersection. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Have fun.”

“I’ll try.”

He ended the call. The cabbie was taking them around the back of Earl Grey Street, making best use of the one-way system. They would cross Lothian Road at Morrison Street . . . next stop: Bread Street. Rebus handed over a tip, and decided to take a receipt. He could try adding it to his expenses on the Yurgii case.

“Not sure lap-dancing’s tax deductible, pal,” the cabbie warned him.

“Do I really look the type?”

“How honest an answer do you want?” the man called, crunching gears as he moved off.

“Last time you get a tip,” Rebus muttered, pocketing the receipt. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock. Packs of men prowled the streets, looking for their next watering hole. Bouncers protecting most of the harshly lit doorways: some wore three-quarter-length coats, others bomber jackets. Rebus saw them as clones beneath the clothing: it wasn’t so much that they looked identical, more in the way they saw the world—divided into two groups: threat and prey.

Rebus knew he couldn’t linger outside the closed-down shop—if one of the Nook’s doormen became suspicious, it could mean the end of Storey’s operation. Instead, Rebus crossed the road, on the same side now as the Nook, but ten yards shy of the entrance. He stopped and lifted his phone to his ear, conducting one side of an inebriated conversation.

“Aye, it’s me . . . where are you? You were supposed to be at the Shakespeare . . . no, I’m on Bread Street . . .”

It didn’t matter what he was saying. To anyone who saw or overheard, he was just another night person, uttering the low gutturals of the local drunk. But he was also making study of the shop. There was no light inside, no movement or shadow play. If the surveillance was twenty-four/seven, then it was bloody good. He reckoned they’d be filming, but couldn’t work out how. If they removed a small square of white from the window, anyone outside would be able to see in, eventually spotting the reflection from the lens. There were no gaps in the window anyway. The door was covered in a wire grille, a pull-down shade blocking any view. Again, no obvious spy hole. But hang on . . . above the door there was another, smaller window, maybe three feet by two, whited out except for a small square in one corner. It was ingenious: no passing eyes would stray there. Of course, it meant one of the surveillance team would have to be placed atop a stepladder or similar, armed with the camera. Awkward and uncomfortable, but perfect nonetheless.

Rebus finished his imaginary call and turned away from the Nook, walking back in the direction of Lothian Road. On Saturday nights, the place was best avoided. Even now, on a weeknight, there were songs and chants and people kicking bottles along the sidewalk, scampering across the lanes of traffic. The high-pitched laughter of hen parties, girls in short skirts with flashing headbands. A man was selling these headbands, plus pulsing plastic wands. He carried a fistful of each as he paced up and down. Rebus looked at him, remembering Storey’s words:
Whether you choose to see them or not . . .
The man was wiry and young and tan-skinned. Rebus stopped in front of him.

“How much are they?”

“Two pounds.”

Rebus made a show of searching his pockets for change. “Where you from?” The man didn’t respond, eyes everywhere but on Rebus. “How long have you been in Scotland?” But the man was moving off. “You not going to sell me one, then?” Obviously not: the man kept walking. Rebus headed in the opposite direction, towards Princes Street’s west end. A flower seller was emerging from the Shakespeare pub, one arm cradled around tight bunches of roses.

“How much?” Rebus asked.

“Five pounds.” The seller was barely into his teens. His face was tan, maybe Middle Eastern. Again, Rebus fumbled in his pockets.

“Where you from?”

The youth pretended not to understand. “Five,” he repeated.

“Is your boss anywhere around?” Rebus persisted.

The youth’s eyes darted to left and right, seeking help.

“How old are you, son? Which school are you at?”

“Not understand.”

“Don’t give me that . . .”

“You want roses?”

“I just need to find my money . . . Bit late for you to be out working, isn’t it? Mum and Dad know what you’re up to?”

The rose seller had had enough. He ran, dropping one of his bunches, not looking back, not stopping. Rebus picked it up, handed it to a group of passing girls.

“That doesn’t get you in my knickers,” one of them said, “but it does get you this.” She pecked him on the cheek. As they staggered away, screeching and clattering in their noisy heels, another of the group yelped that he was old enough to be their granddad.

So I am, Rebus thought, and feel it, too . . .

He scrutinized the faces all along Princes Street. More Chinese than he’d expected. The beggars all had Scottish and English accents. Rebus stopped in at a hotel. The head barman there had known him fifteen years; didn’t matter if Rebus needed a shave or wasn’t wearing his best suit, his crispest shirt.

“What’ll it be, Mr. Rebus?” Placing a coaster in front of him. “Maybe a wee malt?”

“Lagavulin,” Rebus said, knowing a single measure here would cost him the price of a quarter-bottle . . . The drink was placed in front of him, the barman knowing better than to suggest ice or water.

“Ted,” Rebus said, “does this place ever use foreign staff?”

No question ever seemed to faze Ted: sign of a good barman. He moved his jaws as he considered a response. Rebus meantime was helping himself from the bowl of nuts which had appeared beside his drink.

“Had a few Australians behind the bar,” Ted said, starting to polish glasses with a towel. “Doing the world tour . . . stopping off here for a few weeks. We never take them without experience.”

“What about elsewhere? The restaurant maybe.”

“Oh aye, there’s all sorts waiting tables. Even more in housekeeping.”

“Housekeeping?”

“Chambermaids.”

Rebus nodded at this clarification. “Look, this is strictly between us . . .” Ted leaned in a little closer at these words. “Any chance illegals could work here?”

Ted looked askance at the suggestion. “All aboveboard, Mr. Rebus. Management wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .”

“Fair enough, Ted. Didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

Ted seemed consoled by this. “Mind you,” he said, “I’m not saying other establishments are quite as choosy . . . Here, I’ll tell you a story. My local, I usually have a drink there on a Friday night. This group’s started coming in, dunno where they’re from. Two guys playing guitars . . . ‘Save All Your Kisses for Me,’ songs like that. And an older guy toting a tambourine, using it to collect money round the tables.” He shook his head slowly. “Pound to a penny they’re refugees.”

Rebus lifted his glass. “It’s a whole other world,” he said. “I never really thought about it before.”

“Looks like you could use a refill.” Ted gave a wink which creased his whole face. “On the house, if you’ll permit . . .”

The cold air hit Rebus when he left the bar. A turn to the right would send him in the direction of home, but instead he crossed the road and walked towards Leith Street, ending up on Leith Walk, passing Asian supermarkets, tattoo parlors, take-aways. He didn’t really know where he was headed. At the foot of the Walk, Cheyanne might be plying her trade. John and Alice Jardine might be cruising in their car, seeking a sighting of their daughter. All kinds of hunger out there in the dark. He had his hands in his pockets, jacket buttoned against the chill. Half a dozen motorbikes rumbled past, only to find their progress thwarted by a red light. Rebus decided to cross the road, but the lights were already changing. He stepped back as the leading bike roared away.

“Minicab, sir?”

Rebus turned towards the voice. There was a man standing in the doorway of a shop. The shop was illuminated from within and had obviously become a minicab office. The man looked Asian. Rebus shook his head but then changed his mind. The driver led him to a parked Ford Escort well past its sell-by date. Rebus told him the address, and the man reached for an A to Z.

“I’ll give you directions,” Rebus said. The driver nodded and started the engine.

“Been enjoying a few drinks, sir?” The accent was local.

“A few.”

“Day off work tomorrow, is it?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The man laughed at this, though Rebus couldn’t think why. They headed back along Princes Street and up Lothian Road, heading for Morningside. Rebus told the driver to pull over, said he’d only be a minute. He went into an all-night shop and emerged with a liter bottle of water, swigging from it as he got back into the passenger seat, using it to wash down a four-pack of aspirin.

“Good idea, sir,” the driver agreed. “Get your retaliation in first, eh? No hangover in the morning; no excuse for a sickie.”

Half a mile farther, Rebus told the driver they were taking a detour. Headed for Marchmont and stopped outside Rebus’s flat. He went inside, unlocked the door. Extracted a bulging folder from a drawer in the living room. Opened it, decided he’d take a few of the cuttings with him. Back downstairs and into the cab.

When they got to Bruntsfield, Rebus said to take a right, then another. They were in a dimly lit suburban street of large, detached houses, most of them hidden behind shrubbery and fencing. The windows were darkened or shuttered, the occupants safely asleep. But lights burned in one of them, and that’s where Rebus told the driver to drop him. The gate opened noisily. Rebus found the doorbell and rang it. There was no response. He took a few steps back and peered at the upstairs windows. They were lit but curtained. There were larger windows at ground level, either side of the porch, but both had their wooden shutters firmly closed. Rebus thought he could hear music coming from somewhere. He peered through the letter box but saw no movement and realized that the music was coming from behind the house. There was a gravel driveway to one side and he headed up it, security lights tripping as he passed them. The music was coming from the garden. It was dark, except for a strange reddish glow. Rebus saw a structure in the middle of the lawn, wooden decking leading to it from the glass conservatory. Steam was rising from the structure. And music, too, something classical. Rebus walked forward towards the Jacuzzi.

That’s what it was: a Jacuzzi, open to the Scottish elements. And in it sat Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as “Big Ger.” He was wedged into one corner, arms stretched along the rim of the molded tub. Jets of water streamed out from either side of him. Rebus looked around, but Cafferty was alone. There was some sort of light in the water, a colored filter casting a red glow over everything. Cafferty’s head was tipped back, eyes closed, a look on his face of concentration rather than relaxation.