Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (25 page)

“Marty!” she was yelling. “Paul! Dinnae be sae fuckn daft!”

Of course, she didn’t really mean what she was saying. Her eyes were alight at the spectacle—and all of it for
her!
Friends were trying to comfort her, arms embracing her, wanting to be close to the drama’s core.

Farther along, someone was singing to the effect that they were too sexy for their shirt, which went some way towards explaining why they’d ditched it somewhere along the route. A patrol car cruised by to jeers and V-signs. Someone kicked a bottle into the road, eliciting cheers when it exploded under a wheel. The patrol car didn’t seem to mind.

A young woman appeared suddenly in Rebus’s path, hair falling in dirty ringlets, eyes hungry as she asked him first for money, then for a cigarette, and finally whether he wanted to “do a bit of business.” The phrase sounded curiously old-fashioned. He wondered if she’d learned it from a book or film.

“Bugger off home before I arrest you,” he told her.

“Home?” she mouthed, as though this were some new and alien concept. She sounded English. Rebus just shook his head and moved on. He cut through to Buccleuch Street. Things were quieter here, and quieter still as he crossed the expanse of the Meadows, its name reminding him that at one time much of this had been farmland. As he entered Arden Street, he looked up at the tenement windows. There were no signs of student parties, nothing to keep him awake. He heard car doors open behind him, spun round expecting to confront Felix Storey. But these two men were white, dressed in black from their turtlenecks to their shoes. It took him a moment to place them.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“You owe us a flashlight,” the leader said. His colleague was younger and scowling. Rebus recognized him as Alan, the man whose flashlight he had borrowed in the first place.

“It got stolen,” Rebus told them with a shrug.

“It was an expensive piece of kit,” the leader said. “And you promised to return it.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never lost stuff before.” But the man’s face told Rebus that he was unlikely to be won over by any argument, any appeal to a spirit of camaraderie. The Drugs Squad saw itself as a force of nature, independent from other cops. Rebus held his hands up in surrender. “I can write you a check.”

“We don’t want a check. We want a flashlight identical to the one we gave you.” The leader held out a slip of paper, which Rebus took. “That’s the make and model number.”

“I’ll nip down Argos tomorrow . . .”

The leader was shaking his head. “Think you’re a good detective? Tracking that down will be the proof.”

“Argos or Dixon’s—I’ll let you have what I find.”

The leader took a step closer, chin jutting. “You want us off your back, you’ll find
that
flashlight.” He stabbed a finger at the piece of paper. Then, satisfied he’d made his point, he pivoted and headed for the car, followed by his young colleague.

“Look after him, Alan,” Rebus called. “Bit of TLC and he’ll be right as rain.”

He waved the car off, then climbed the steps to his flat and unlocked the door. The floorboards creaked underfoot, as though in complaint. Rebus switched on the hi-fi: a Dick Gaughan CD, just audible. Then he collapsed into his favorite chair, searching his pockets for a cigarette. He inhaled and closed his eyes. The world seemed to be tilting, taking it with him. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair, feet pressed solidly to the floor. When the phone rang, he knew it would be Siobhan. He reached down and picked up the receiver.

“You’re home, then,” her voice said.

“Where did you expect me to be?”

“Do I need to answer that?”

“You’ve got a dirty little mind.” Then: “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Apologize?” Her voice had risen. “What in God’s name is there to apologize about?”

“You’d had a bit too much to drink.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.” She sounded grimly sober.

“If you say so.”

“I admit I don’t quite see the attraction . . .”

“You sure you want us to have this conversation?”

“Will it be taken down and used in evidence?”

“Hard to take things back once they’re said out loud.”

“Unlike you, John, I’ve never been good at bottling things up.”

Rebus had spotted a mug on the carpet. Cold coffee, half full. He took a mouthful, swallowed. “So you don’t approve of my choice of companion . . .”

“It’s not up to me who you go out with.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“But the two of you just seem so . . .
different.
”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

She gave a loud sigh, which rumbled like static down the line. “Look, all I’m trying to say . . . We don’t just work together, do we? There’s more to us than that—we’re . . . pals.”

Rebus smiled to himself, smiled at the pause before “pals.” Had she considered “mates,” discarding it because of its other, more awkward meaning?

“And as a pal,” he said, “you don’t want to see me make a bad decision?”

Siobhan was silent for a moment, long enough for Rebus to drain the mug. “Why
are
you so interested in her, anyway?” she asked.

“Maybe because she
is
different.”

“You mean because she holds to a set of woolly ideals?”

“You don’t know her well enough to be able to say that.”

“I think I know the type.”

Rebus closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking: that’s pretty much what I’d have said before this case came along. “We’re back on thin ice, Shiv. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You think I’m going to change my mind, don’t you?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I can assure you I’m not.”

“Your prerogative. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She paused so long, Rebus feared she’d already drifted off. But then: “What’s that you’re listening to?”

“Dick Gaughan.”

“He sounds angry about something.”

“That’s just his style.” Rebus had taken out the slip of paper with the flashlight’s details.

“A Scottish trait maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Good night, then, John.”

“Before you go . . . if you didn’t phone to apologize, then why exactly did you phone?”

“I didn’t want us falling out.”

“And are we falling out?”

“I hope not.”

“So you weren’t just checking that I was safely tucked up on my lonesome?”

“I’m going to ignore that.”

“Night, Shiv. Sleep tight.”

He put down the receiver, rested his head against the back of the chair, and closed his eyes again.

Not mates . . . just pals.

DAYS SIX AND SEVEN

Saturday/ Sunday

20

S
aturday morning the first thing he did was call Siobhan’s number. When her machine picked up, he left a brief answer—“This is John, keeping that promise from last night . . . talk to you soon”—then tried her mobile, and was forced to leave one there, too.

After breakfast, he dug in the hall cupboard and in the boxes beneath his bed, and emerged with dust and cobwebs clinging to him, clasping packets of photographs to his chest. He knew he didn’t have many family snaps—his ex-wife had taken most of them with her. But he did retain a few photos she hadn’t felt able to claim right to—members of his family, his mother and father, uncles and aunts. Again, there weren’t many of these. He reckoned either his brother had the majority, or they’d been lost over time. Years back, his daughter, Sammy, would want to play with them, staring at them for long periods, running fingers over their ribbed edges, touching sepia faces, studio poses. She would ask who people were, and Rebus would turn the photo over, hoping to find clues penciled on the back, then offering a shrug.

His grandfather—his father’s father—had arrived in Scotland from Poland. Rebus didn’t know why he’d emigrated. It had been before the rise of fascism, so he could only guess that it had been for economic reasons. He’d been a young man and single, marrying a woman from Fife a year later or thereabouts. Rebus was sketchy on that whole period of his family’s history. He didn’t think he’d ever really asked his father. If he had, then his father either hadn’t wanted to answer or simply didn’t know. There could have been things his grandfather hadn’t wanted to remember, far less share and discuss.

Rebus held a photo now. He thought it was his grandfather: a middle-aged man, thinning black hair combed close the the skull, a wry smile on his face. He was dressed in Sunday best. It was a studio shot, showing a painted background of hayfield and bright sky. On the back was printed the photographer’s address in Dunfermline. Rebus turned the photo over again. He was searching for something of himself in his grandfather—the way the facial muscles worked, or the posture when at rest. But the man was a stranger to him. His whole family history was a collection of questions asked too late: photos with no names attached, no hint of year or provenance. Blurry, smiling mouths, the pinched faces of workers and their families. Rebus considered his own remaining family: daughter Sammy; brother Michael. He phoned them infrequently, usually after one drink too many. Maybe he’d call both of them later on, making sure he hadn’t been drinking first.

“I don’t know anything about you,” he said to the man in the photograph. “I can’t even be a hundred percent sure that you
are
who I think you are . . .” He wondered if he had any relatives in Poland. There could be whole villages of them, a clan of cousins who would speak no English but be pleased to see him all the same. Maybe Rebus’s grandfather hadn’t been the only one to leave. The family might well have spread to America and Canada, or east to Australia. Some could have ended up assassinated by the Nazis, or aiding that selfsame cause. Untold histories, crisscrossing with Rebus’s own life . . .

He thought again of the refugees and asylum seekers, the economic migrants. The mistrust and resentment they brought with them, the way tribes feared anything new, anything from outside the camp’s tight confines. Maybe that explained Siobhan’s reaction to Caro Quinn, Caro not part of the gang. Multiply that mistrust and you got a situation like Knoxland.

Rebus didn’t blame Knoxland itself: the estate was a symptom rather than anything else. He realized he wasn’t going to glean anything from these old photographs, representing as they did his own lack of roots. Besides, he had a trip to take.

Glasgow had never been his favorite place. It seemed all teeming concrete and high-rise. He got lost there and always had trouble finding landmarks to navigate by. There were areas of the city which felt as if they could swallow up Edinburgh wholesale. The people were different, too; he couldn’t say what it was exactly—accent or mind-set. But the place made him uncomfortable.

Even with an A to Z, he managed to take take an apparent wrong turn almost as soon as he left the motorway. He’d come off too soon and found himself not far from Barlinnie prison, working his way slowly towards the center of the city, through a sludge of Saturday shopping traffic. It didn’t help that the fine mist had developed into rain, blurring street names and road signs. Mo Dirwan had said that Glasgow was the murder capital of Europe; Rebus wondered if the traffic system might have something to do with it.

Dirwan lived in Calton, between the Necropolis and Glasgow Green. It was a pleasant enough area, with plenty of green spaces and mature trees. Rebus found the house, but there was nowhere to park nearby. He did a circuit, and eventually ended up jogging the hundred yards from the car to the front door. It was a solidly built red-stone semi with a small front garden. The door was new: glazed with leaded diamonds of frosted glass. Rebus rang the bell and waited, only to find that Mo wasn’t home. His wife, however, knew who Rebus was and tried to pull him inside.

“I really just wanted to check he’s okay,” Rebus argued.

“You must wait for him. If he finds out I pushed you away . . .”

Rebus glanced down at the grip she had on his arm. “Doesn’t look like you’re doing much pushing.”

She relented, smiling in embarrassment. She was probably ten or fifteen years younger than her husband, with lustrous waves of black hair framing her face and neck. Her makeup had been applied liberally but with great care, turning her eyes dark and her mouth crimson. “I am sorry,” she told Rebus.

“Don’t be, it’s nice to feel wanted. Will Mo be back soon?”

“I’m not sure. He had to go to Rutherglen. There has been some trouble recently.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing serious, we hope, just gangs of young men fighting each other.” She shrugged. “I’m sure the Asians are just as much to blame as the others.”

“So what’s Mo doing there?”

“Attending a residents’ meeting.”

“You know where it’s being held?”

“I have the address.” She motioned indoors, Rebus nodding to let her know she should retrieve it. She left no hint of perfume in her wake. He stood just inside the doorway, sheltering from the rain. It was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it—“smirr.” He wondered if other cultures had similar vocabularies. When she returned and handed him the slip of paper, their fingers brushed and Rebus felt a momentary spark.

“Static,” she explained, nodding towards the hall carpet. “I keep telling Mo we need to change it to all-wool.”

Rebus nodded and thanked her, jogging back to his car. He checked in his A to Z for the address she’d given him. It looked like a fifteen-minute drive, most of it south on the Dalmarnock Road. Parkhead wasn’t far away, but the home team wasn’t at home today, meaning less chance of finding his route closed or diverted. The rain, however, had forced shoppers and travelers into their vehicles. Ignoring his map for a few minutes, he found that he’d managed to take yet another wrong turn and was heading for Cambuslang. Pulling over, prepared to wait until he could execute a U-turn, he was startled when the back doors were yanked open and two men fell in.

“Good on ye,” one of them said. He smelled of beer and cigarettes. His hair was a mess of soaked curls, which he shook free of raindrops much as a dog would.

“What the hell is this?” Rebus asked, voice rising. He’d turned in his seat, the better to let both men examine the expression on his face.

“You no’ our minicab?” the other man said. His nose was like a strawberry, breath soured and teeth blackened by dark rum.

“Bloody right I’m not!” Rebus shouted.

“Sorry, pal, sorry . . . genuine misunderstanding.”

“Aye, no offense meant,” his companion added. Rebus looked out of the passenger-side window, saw the pub they’d just raced from. Cinder blocks and a solid door—no windows. They were preparing to exit the car.

“Not headed to Wardlawhill by any chance, gents?” Rebus asked, voice suddenly calmer.

“We’d usually hike it, but wi’ the rain an’ that . . .”

Rebus nodded. “Tell you what, then . . . how about I drop you at the community center there?”

The men looked at each other, then at him. “And how much do you plan to charge?”

Rebus waved the mistrust aside. “Just playing the Good Samaritan.”

“You going to try and convert us or something?” The first man’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

Rebus laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to ‘show you the way’ or anything.” He paused. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

“Eh?”

“I want
you
to show
me.
”

By the end of the short, twisty drive through the housing scheme, the three were on first-name terms, Rebus asking if either of his passengers had thought to attend the residents’ meeting.

“Best keep your head down, that’s always been my philosophy,” he was told.

The rain had eased by the time they arrived outside the single-story building. Like the pub, it, too, seemed to have no windows on first appraisal. However, it was just that they were tucked away high on the front elevation, almost at the eaves. Rebus shook hands with his guides.

“Getting you in here’s one thing . . .” they offered with a laugh. Rebus nodded and smiled. He, too, had been wondering if he’d ever find the motorway back to Edinburgh. Neither passenger had asked why a visitor might be interested in the residents’ meeting. Rebus put this down to that philosophy of life again: keeping your head down. If you didn’t ask questions, no one could accuse you of sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. In some ways it was sound advice, but he’d never lived like that and never would.

There were figures huddled around the building’s main entrance doors. Having waved good-bye to his passengers, Rebus parked as close to those doors as he could, worrying that the meeting had already broken up, meaning he’d missed Mo Dirwan. But as he approached, he saw he’d been wrong. A middle-aged white man in a suit, tie, and black coat was holding a leaflet out to him. The man’s head was shaven, gleaming with droplets of rainwater. His face looked pale and doughy, the neck composed of rolls of fat.

“BNP,” he said in what sounded to Rebus like a London accent. “Let’s make Britain’s streets safe again.” The front of the leaflet showed a photo of an elderly woman looking terrified as a blur of colored youths charged towards her.

“All pictures posed by models?” Rebus guessed, mashing the dampened leaflet in his fist. The other men on the scene, keeping in the background but flanking the man in the suit, were considerably younger and scruffier, wearing what had almost become rabble chic: sneakers, jogging bottoms, and windbreakers, baseball caps low on their foreheads. Their jackets were zipped tight, so that the bottom half of each face disappeared into the collar. It meant they were harder to identify from photographs.

“All we want is fair rights for British people.” The word “British” almost came out as a bark. “Britain for the British—you tell me what’s wrong with that.”

Rebus dropped the leaflet and kicked it aside. “I get the feeling your definition might be a bit narrower than most.”

“You won’t know unless you give us a try.” The man’s lower jaw jutted forward. Christ, Rebus thought, and this is him trying to be nice
. . .
It was like watching a gorilla’s first attempt at flower arranging. From inside, he could hear a mixture of hand claps and boos.

“Sounds lively,” Rebus said, pulling open the doors.

There was a reception area, with another set of double doors leading to the main hall. There was no stage as such, but someone had provided a PA system, meaning that whoever held the microphone should have the advantage. But some in the audience had other ideas. Men were standing up, trying to shout down opponents, fingers stabbing the air. Women were on their feet, too, screaming with equal gusto. There were rows of chairs, most of them full. Rebus saw that these chairs faced a trestle table at which sat five glum-looking figures. He guessed this table comprised a mix of local worthies. Mo Dirwan was not among them, but Rebus saw him nevertheless. He was standing up in the front row, flapping his arms as if trying to emulate flight, but actually gesturing for the audience to settle. His hand was still bandaged, the pink sticking plaster still covering his chin.

One of the worthies, however, had had enough. He flung some paperwork into a satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and marched towards the exit. More booing erupted. Rebus couldn’t tell if this was because he was chickening out, or because he’d been forced to withdraw.

“You’re a wanker, McCluskey,” someone called out. This failed to clarify things for Rebus. But now others were following their leader. A small, plump woman at the table held the mike, but her innate good manners and reasonable tone of voice were never going to restore order. Rebus saw that the audience comprised a melting pot: it wasn’t white faces on one side of the room, coloreds on the other. The age range was mixed, too. One woman had brought her baby stroller with her. Another was waving her walking cane wildly in the air, causing those in the vicinity to duck. Half a dozen uniformed police officers had been trying to melt into the background, but now one of them was on his walkie-talkie, almost certainly summoning reinforcements. Some kids had decided that the uniforms should be the focus of their own complaints. The two groups stood only eight or ten feet apart, and that gap was closing with each moment that passed.

Rebus could see that Mo Dirwan didn’t know what to do next. There was a look of consternation on his face, as if he were realizing that he was a human rather than a superman. This situation was beyond even his control, because his powers depended on the willingness of others to listen to his arguments, and no one here was going to listen to anything. Rebus reckoned Martin Luther King could have been standing there with a bullhorn and gone unheeded. One young man seemed bewildered by it all. His eyes rested on Rebus’s for a moment. He was Asian but wore the same clothes as the white kids. There was a single hooped earring through one of his lobes. His bottom lip was puffy and crusted with old blood, and Rebus saw that he stood awkwardly, as though trying to keep the weight off his left leg. That leg was hurting. Was this the reason for his bewilderment? Was he the latest victim, the one who’d led to the meeting being called? If he looked anything, it was scared . . . scared that a single act could escalate so ceaselessly.