Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (22 page)

“What?” Les Young asked, wiping the thin line of foam from his top lip.

“Well, Malky here knows we’re CID. And we’ve got a man over there setting up a camera . . . And Malky hasn’t asked why.”

The barman offered a shrug. “Doesn’t bother me what you do,” he muttered, turning away to wipe one of the beer taps.

The photographer seemed almost ready. “DS Clarke,” he said, “maybe you should go first, check no one’s in there.”

Siobhan smiled. “How many women do you think come in here?”

“All the same . . .”

Siobhan turned to Malky. “Anyone in the ladies?”

Malky gave another shrug. Siobhan turned to Young. “See? He’s not even surprised we’re taking photos in the loo . . .” Then she walked to the door and pushed it open. “All clear,” she told the photographer. But then, peering into the cubicle, she saw that changes had been made. The various pieces of graffiti had been gone over with a thick black marker, rendering them almost illegible. Siobhan let out a hiss of air and told the photographer to do his best. She strode back to the bar. “Nice work, Malky,” she said coldly.

“What?” Les Young asked.

“Malky here’s as sharp as a tack. Saw me using the toilet both times I was here, and it dawned on him why I was so interested. So he decided to cover over the messages as best he could.”

Malky said nothing, but raised his jawline a little, as if to show that he felt no guilt.

“You don’t want to give us any leads, is that it, Malky? You’re thinking: Banehall’s well shot of Donny Cruikshank, good luck to whoever did it. Am I right?”

“I’m saying nothing.”

“You don’t need to . . . there’s still ink on your fingers.”

Malky looked down at the black smudges.

“Thing is,” Siobhan went on, “first time I came in here, you and Cruikshank were having a falling-out.”

“I was sticking up for you,” Malky retorted.

Siobhan nodded. “But after I left, you slung him out. Bit of bad blood between the two of you?” She leaned her elbows on the bar and stood on tiptoe, stretching towards him. “Maybe we need to take you in for a proper interview . . . What do you say, DI Young?”

“Sounds good to me.” He put down his empty glass. “You can be our first official suspect, Malky.”

“Get stuffed.”

“Or . . .” Siobhan paused. “You can tell us whose work the graffiti is. I know some belongs to Ishbel and Susie, but who else?”

“Sorry, I don’t frequent the ladies’ lavs.”

“Maybe not, but you knew about the graffiti.” Siobhan smiled again. “So you must go in there sometimes . . . maybe when the bar’s shut?”

“Got a bit of a perv thing going, Malky?” Young prodded. “That why you didn’t get on with Cruikshank . . . too much alike?”

Malky pushed a finger towards Young’s face. “You’re talking pish!”

“Seems to me,” Young said, ignoring the proximity of Malky’s forefinger to his left eye, “we’re talking straight common sense. Case like this, one connection’s sometimes all you need to make . . .” He straightened up. “Would you be okay to come with us just now, or do you need a minute to close up the bar?”

“You’re having a laugh.”

“That’s right, Malky,” Siobhan said. “You can see it in our faces, can’t you?”

Malky looked from one to the other. Their faces were stern, serious.

“I’m guessing you only work here,” Young pressed on. “Best phone the owner and tell him you’re being taken in for questioning.”

Malky had allowed the finger to retreat back into his fist, the fist to fall to his side. “Come on . . .” he said, hoping to make them see sense.

“Can I just remind you,” Siobhan told him, “that interfering with the course of a murder inquiry is a big no-no . . . judges tend to pounce on it.”

“Christ, all I . . .” But he clamped shut his mouth. Young sighed and pulled out his mobile, called a number.

“Can I get a couple of uniforms to the Bane? Suspect to be detained . . .”

“All right, all right,” Malky said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Let’s sit down and have a talk. Nothing we can’t do here, eh?” Young snapped shut his phone.

“We’ll let you know once we’ve heard what you’ve got to say,” Siobhan informed the barman. He looked around, making sure none of the regulars needed a refill, then helped himself to a whiskey from a bottle behind the bar. Opened the serving hatch and came out, nodding towards the table with the camera bag on it.

The photographer was just emerging from the toilets. “Did what I could,” he said.

“Thanks, Billy,” Les Young said. “Let me have them by close of play.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Digital camera, Billy . . . take you five minutes to do me some prints.”

“Depends.” Billy had packed his bag, slipped it on to his shoulder. He gave a general nod of farewell and headed for the door. Young sat with arms folded, businesslike. Malky had drained his drink in one go.

“Tracy was well liked,” he began.

“Tracy Jardine,” Siobhan said, for Young’s benefit. “The girl Cruikshank raped.”

Malky nodded slowly. “She was never the same afterwards . . . when she topped herself, it didn’t surprise me.”

“And then Cruikshank came back home?” Siobhan prompted.

“Bold as brass, like he owned the place. Figured we should all be scared of him because he’d done prison time. Fuck that . . .” Malky examined his empty glass. “Anyone for another?”

They shook their heads, so he headed back behind the bar and fetched himself a refill. “This is my last today,” he told himself.

“Bit of a drinking problem in the past?” Young asked, sounding sympathetic.

“I used to put a bit away,” Malky admitted. “I’m fine now.”

“Good to hear it.”

“Malky,” Siobhan said, “I know Ishbel and Susie wrote some of those things in the toilet, but who else?”

Malky took a deep breath. “I’d guess a pal of theirs called Janine Harrison. She was more a pal of Tracy’s, to be honest, but after Tracy died, she started going around with Ishbel and Susie.” He leaned back, staring at the glass as if willing himself to eke it out. “She works at Whitemire.”

“Doing what?”

“She’s one of the guards.” He paused. “Did you hear what happened? Someone hanged himself. Christ, if they shut that place . . .”

“What?”

“Banehall was built on coalfields. Only there’s no coal left. Whitemire’s the only employer round here. Half the folk you see—the ones with new cars and satellite dishes—they’ve got something to do with Whitemire.”

“Okay, so that’s Janine Harrison. Anyone else?”

“There’s another friend of Susie’s. Right quiet, she is, until the drink hits her . . .”

“Name?”

“Janet Eylot.”

“And does she work at Whitemire, too?”

He nodded. “I think she’s one of the secretaries.”

“They live locally, Janine and Janet?”

He nodded again.

“Well,” Siobhan said, having jotted the names down, “I don’t know, DI Young . . .” She looked at Les Young. “What do you think? Do we still need to take Malky in for questioning?”

“Not right this moment, DS Clarke. But we need his surname and a contact address.”

Malky was happy to provide both.

18

T
hey took Siobhan’s car to Whitemire. Young admired the interior. “This is a bit sporty.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good, probably . . .”

A tent had been pitched next to the access road, and its owner was being interviewed by a TV crew, more reporters listening in, hoping for a few usable quotes. The guard at the gate told them it was “an even bigger bloody circus” inside.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan assured him, “we’ve brought our leotards.”

Another uniformed guard was there to meet them at the car park. He greeted them coolly.

“I know this isn’t the best of days,” Young said consolingly, “but we’re working a murder inquiry, so you can appreciate that it couldn’t wait.”

“Who is it you need to see?”

“Two members of staff—Janine Harrison and Janet Eylot.”

“Janet’s gone home,” the guard said. “She was a bit upset at the news . . .” He saw Siobhan raise an eyebrow. “News of the suicide,” he clarified.

“And Janine Harrison?” she asked.

“Janine works the family wing . . . I think she’s on duty till seven.”

“We’ll talk to her, then,” Siobhan said. “And if you could give us Janet’s home address . . .”

Inside, the corridors and public areas were empty. Siobhan guessed that the inmates were being kept corralled until the fuss had died down. She caught glimpses of meetings behind doors left only slightly ajar: men in suits with grim looks on their faces; women in white blouses and half-moon glasses, pearls around their necks.

Officialdom.

The guard led them to an open-plan office and put in a call to Officer Harrison. While they were waiting, a man walked past, backtracking so he could ask the guard what was going on.

“Police, Mr. Traynor. About a murder in Banehall.”

“Have you told them all our clients are accounted for?” He sounded profoundly irritated by this latest news.

“It’s just background, sir,” Siobhan piped up. “We’re talking to anyone who knew the victim . . .”

This seemed to satisfy him. He made a grunting noise and moved off.

“Brass?” Siobhan guessed.

“Second in command,” the guard confirmed. “Not having a good day . . .”

The guard left the room when Janine Harrison appeared. She was in her midtwenties with short, dark hair. Not tall, but with some muscle beneath the uniform. Siobhan would guess she worked out, maybe did martial arts or the like.

“Sit down, will you?” Young offered, having introduced himself and Siobhan.

She stayed standing, hands behind her back. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about the suspicious death of Donny Cruikshank,” Siobhan said.

“Somebody nailed him—what’s suspicious about that?”

“You weren’t a fan of his?”

“A man who rapes a drunk teenager? No, you couldn’t call me a fan.”

“The local pub,” Siobhan prompted, “graffiti in the ladies’ loo . . .”

“What about it?”

“You contributed a little something of your own.”

“Did I?” She looked thoughtful. “Might’ve done, I suppose . . . female solidarity and all that.” She gave Siobhan a look. “He raped a young girl, beat her up. And now you’re going to knock yourself out trying to pin someone down for getting rid of him?” She gave a slow shake of her head.

“No one deserves to be murdered, Janine.”

“No?” Harrison sounded doubtful.

“So which one did you write? ‘Dead Man Walking’ maybe? Or how about ‘Claimed in blood’?”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“We might ask for a specimen of your writing,” Les Young interrupted.

She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“When did you last see Cruikshank?”

“About a week ago in the Bane. Playing pool by himself, because no one would give him a game.”

“I’m surprised he drank there, if he was such a hate figure.”

“He liked it.”

“The pub?”

Harrison shook her head. “All the attention. Didn’t seem to bother him what kind it was, as long as he was at the center . . .”

From the little Siobhan had seen of Cruikshank, she could accept this. “You were a friend of Tracy’s, weren’t you?”

Harrison wagged a finger. “I know who you are now. You hung around with Tracy’s mum and dad, went to her funeral.”

“I didn’t really know her.”

“But you saw what she’d been through.” Again the tone was accusatory.

“Yes, I saw,” Siobhan said quietly.

“We’re police officers, Janine,” Young interrupted. “It’s our
job.
”

“Fine . . . so go and do your job. Just don’t expect too much help.” She brought her arms out from behind her back and folded them across her chest, creating a picture of hardened resolve.

“If there’s anything you can tell us,” Young persisted, “best we should hear it from your own lips.”

“Then hear this—I didn’t kill him, but I’m glad he’s dead all the same.” She paused. “And if I
had
killed him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.”

A few seconds of silence followed, then Siobhan asked: “How well do you know Janet Eylot?”

“I know Janet. She works here . . . That’s her chair you’re sitting in.” She nodded towards Young.

“What about socially?”

Harrison nodded.

“You go out drinking?” Siobhan prompted.

“Occasionally.”

“Was she with you in the Bane the last time you saw Cruikshank?”

“Probably.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I hear she gets a bit daft with a drink in her.”

“Have you seen her? She’s five-foot-nothing in high heels.”

“You’re saying she wouldn’t have attacked Cruikshank?”

“I’m saying she wouldn’t have succeeded.”

“On the other hand,
you
look pretty fit, Janine.”

Harrison gave a glacial smile. “You’re not my type.”

Siobhan paused. “Have you any idea what might have happened to Ishbel Jardine?”

Harrison was thrown momentarily by the change of subject. “No,” she said at last.

“She never talked about running away?”

“Never.”

“She must have spoken about Cruikshank, though.”

“Must have.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Harrison shook her head. “Is that what you do when you’re stuck? Pin the blame on someone who’s not around to stick up for herself?” She fixed her eyes on Siobhan. “Some friend you are . . .” Young started to say something, but she cut him off. “It’s your job, I know . . . Just a job . . . like working in this place . . . Someone dies in our care, we all feel it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Young said.

“Speaking of which, I’ve got checks I need to make before I clock off . . . Are we finished here?”

Young looked to Siobhan, who had one final question. “Did you know Ishbel had written to Cruikshank while he was in prison?”

“No.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you think you did.” Siobhan paused. “Thanks for talking to us.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Young added. Then, as she started to rise: “We’ll be in touch about that sample of your handwriting . . .”

After she’d gone, Young leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “If it wasn’t so politically incorrect, I’d probably call her a ballbreaker.”

“Probably comes with the job she does.”

The guard who’d brought them in appeared suddenly in the doorway, as though he’d been waiting within earshot.

“She’s fine once you get to know her,” he said. “Here’s Janet Eylot’s address.” As Siobhan took the note from him, she saw that he was studying her. “And by the way . . . for what it’s worth, you’re
exactly
Janine’s type . . .”

Janet Eylot lived in a new-build bungalow on the edge of Banehall. For now, the view from her kitchen window was of fields.

“Won’t last,” she said. “Developer’s got his eye on it.”

“Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Young said, accepting the mug of tea. The three of them sat down around the small square table. There were two young kids in the house, struck dumb by a noisy video game.

“I limit them to an hour,” Eylot explained. “And only once the homework’s done.” Something about the way she said it told Siobhan that Eylot was a single mum. A cat jumped onto the table, Eylot sweeping it off with her arm. “I’ve bloody told you!” she shouted, as the cat retreated into the hall. Then she put a hand to her face. “Sorry about that . . .”

“We realize you’re upset, Janet,” Siobhan said softly. “Did you know the man who hanged himself?”

Eylot shook her head. “But he did it fifty yards from where I was sitting. It just makes you think about all the horrible things that could be happening around you, and you don’t know about it.”

“I see what you mean,” Young said.

She looked at him. “Well, in your job . . . you see things all the time.”

“Like Donny Cruikshank’s body,” Siobhan said. She’d noticed the neck of an empty wine bottle jutting out from beneath the lid of the kitchen bin; a single wineglass drying on the draining board. Wondered how much Janet Eylot put away of an evening.

“He’s the reason we’re here,” Young was telling Eylot. “We’re looking at his lifestyle, people who might have known him, maybe even harbored a grudge . . .”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Didn’t you know him?”

“Who’d want to?”

“We just thought . . . after what you wrote about him on the wall of the Bane . . .”

“I wasn’t the only one!” Eylot snapped.

“We know that.” Siobhan’s voice had grown even quieter. “We’re not accusing anyone, Janet. We’re just filling in the background.”

“This is all the thanks I get,” Eylot said, shaking her head. “Bloody typical . . .”

“How do you mean?”

“That asylum seeker . . . the one who got himself stabbed. It was me phoned you lot. You’d never have known who he was otherwise. And this is how I’m paid back.”

“You gave us Stef Yurgii’s name?”

“That’s right—and if my boss ever hears that, I’ll be for the high jump. Two of your lot came to Whitemire: big hefty bloke and a younger woman . . .”

“DI Rebus and DS Wylie?”

“Couldn’t tell you their names. I was keeping my head down.” She paused. “But instead of solving that poor sod’s murder, you’d rather focus on a sleazebag like Cruikshank.”

“Everyone’s equal under the law,” Young said. She stared at him so hard he started to blush, disguising the fact by lifting the mug to his lips.

“See?” she said accusingly. “You say the words, but you know it’s all crap.”

“All DI Young means,” Siobhan interrupted, “is that we have to be objective.”

“But that’s not true either, is it?” Eylot rose to her feet, the chair legs scraping across the floor. She opened the fridge door, realized what she’d done, and slammed it shut again. Three bottles of wine chilling on the middle shelf . . .

“Janet,” Siobhan said, “is Whitemire the problem? You don’t like working there?”

“I hate it.”

“Then leave.”

Eylot laughed harshly. “And where’s the other job coming from? I’ve two kids, I need to provide for them . . .” She sat down again, staring out at the view. “Whitemire’s what I’ve got.”

Whitemire, two kids, and a fridge . . .

“What was it you wrote on the toilet wall, Janet?” Siobhan asked quietly.

There were sudden tears in Eylot’s eyes. She tried blinking them back. “Something about him being claimed,” she said, voice cracking.

“Claimed in blood?” Siobhan corrected her. The woman nodded, tears trickling down either cheek.

They didn’t stay much longer. Both found themselves taking lungfuls of fresh air when they emerged.

“You got kids, Les?” Siobhan asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve been married, though. Lasted a year; we split up eleven months ago. How about you?”

“Never even come close.”

“She’s coping, though, isn’t she?” He risked a glance back at the house.

“I don’t think we need to phone social services just yet.” She paused. “Where to now?”

“Back to base.” He checked his watch. “Nearly time to knock off. I’m buying, if you’re interested.”

“As long as you’re not suggesting the Bane.”

He gave a smile. “I’m heading into Edinburgh, actually.”

“I thought you lived in Livingston.”

“I do, but I’m in this bridge club . . .”

“Bridge?” She couldn’t completely suppress a smile.

He shrugged. “I started playing years ago in college.”

“Bridge,” she repeated.

“What’s wrong with that?” He tried a laugh, but sounded defensive all the same.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just trying to picture you in a dinner jacket and bow tie . . .”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then we’ll meet for a drink in town and you can tell me all about it. The Dome on George Street . . . six-thirty?”

“Six-thirty it is,” he said.

Maybury was as good as gold: called Rebus back at five-fifteen. He jotted the time down so it could be added to the case notes . . . One of the truly great Who songs, he thought to himself.
Out of my brain on the five- fifteen . . .

“I’ve played her the tape,” Maybury was saying.

“You didn’t waste any time.”

“I found her mobile number. Extraordinary how they seem to work anywhere these days.”

“She’s in France, then?”

“Bergerac, yes.”

“So what did she say?”

“Well, the sound quality wasn’t brilliant . . .”

“I appreciate that.”

“And the connection kept breaking up.”

“Yes?”

“But after I’d played it back to her a few times, she came up with Senegal. She’s not a hundred percent sure, but that’s her best guess.”

“Senegal?”

“It’s in Africa, French-speaking.”

“Okay, well . . . thanks for that.”

“Good luck, Inspector.”

Rebus put the phone down, found Wylie working at her computer. She was typing a report of the day’s activities, to be added to the Murder Book.

“Senegal,” he told her.

“Where’s that?”

Rebus sighed. “In Africa, of course. French-speaking.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Maybury just told you that, didn’t she?”