Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (26 page)

Rebus would have tried for reassurance if he’d known how, but the doors were bursting open, more uniforms crowding in. There was a senior face there: more silver on his lapels and cap than any of the others. Silver, too, in the hair that emerged from below his cap.

“Let’s have some order!” he yelled, marching confidently towards the front of the hall and the microphone, which he snatched without ceremony from the now mumbling woman.

“A bit of order, please, people!” The voice booming through the loudspeakers. “Let’s try and calm things down.” He looked down at one of the figures seated at the table. “I think this meeting’s probably best adjourned for now.” The man he’d been looking towards nodded just perceptibly. Maybe the local councillor, Rebus guessed; certainly someone the policeman had to pretend to defer to.

But there was only one man in charge now.

When a hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder, he flinched, but it was a grinning Mo Dirwan, who’d somehow spotted him and made his approach unseen.

“My very good friend, what in God’s name brings you here at this time?”

Close up, Rebus saw that Dirwan’s injuries were no more serious than would be sustained during a weekend brawl between drunks: just a minimum of scrapes and nicks. He was suddenly dubious of the plaster and the bandage, wondering if they were for show.

“Wanted to see how you were.”

“Ha!” Dirwan pounded his shoulder again. The fact that he was using his bandaged hand reinforced Rebus’s suspicions. “You were feeling perhaps a little bit of guilt?”

“I also want to know how it happened.”

“Bloody hell, that’s easily told—I was jumped. Didn’t you read your newspaper this morning? Whichever one you chose, I was in them all.”

And Rebus didn’t doubt those papers would be spread across the floor of Dirwan’s living room . . .

But now the lawyer’s attention was diverted by the fact that everyone was being ushered from the hall. He squeezed through the crowd until he met the senior uniform, whose hand he shook, sharing a few words. Then it was on to the councillor, whose expression told Rebus that one more wasted, thankless Saturday like this and he’d be tapping out that letter of resignation. Dirwan had strong words for this man, but when he attempted to grip the man’s arm, it was shrugged off with a force which had probably been building for the whole length of the meeting. Dirwan wagged a finger instead, then patted the man’s shoulder and headed back towards Rebus.

“Bloody hell, isn’t this an absolute melee?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Dirwan stared at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’d say that whatever the circumstances in front of you?”

“Happens to be true,” Rebus told him. “So . . . can I have that word now?”

“What word?”

But Rebus said nothing. Instead, it was his turn to slap a hand down on Dirwan’s shoulder, holding it there as he steered the lawyer out of the building. A scuffle was taking place, one of the BNP man’s minions having come to blows with a young Asian. Dirwan looked ready to step in, but Rebus held him back, and the uniforms waded in. The BNP man was standing on a grassy bank across the road, hand held high in what looked like a Nazi salute. To Rebus’s mind, he seemed ridiculous, which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

“Shall we go to my house?” Dirwan was suggesting.

“My car,” Rebus said, shaking his head. They got in, but there was too much still happening all around. Rebus started the ignition, figuring he’d drive into one of the side streets, the better to talk without distractions. As they made to pass the BNP man, he pushed his foot a little harder on the accelerator, and steered the car close to the curb, sending up a spray which doused the man, much to Mo Dirwan’s delight.

Rebus reversed into a tight curbside space, switched off the ignition, and turned to face the lawyer.

“So what happened?” he asked.

Dirwan shrugged. “It is quickly told . . . I was doing as you asked, questioning as many of Knoxland’s incomers as would speak with me . . .”

“Some refused?”

“Not everyone trusts a stranger, John, not even when he boasts the same color of skin.”

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. “So where were you when they jumped you?”

“Waiting for one of the lifts in Stevenson House. They came from behind, maybe four or five of them, faces hidden.”

“Did they say anything?”

“One of them did . . . right at the end.” Dirwan looked uncomfortable, and Rebus was reminded that he was dealing with the victim of an assault. No matter how minor the injuries, it was unlikely to be the sort of memory the lawyer would cherish . . .

“Look,” Rebus said, “I should have said right at the start—I’m sorry this had to happen.”

“It wasn’t your fault, John. I should have been better prepared.”

“I’m assuming you were targeted?”

Dirwan nodded slowly. “The one who spoke, he told me to get out of Knoxland. He said I’d be dead otherwise. He held a knife to my cheek as he spoke.”

“What sort of knife?”

“I can’t be sure . . . You’re thinking of the murder weapon?”

“I suppose so.” And, he could have added, the knife found on Howie Slowther. “You didn’t recognize any of them?”

“I spent most of my time on the ground. Fists and shoes were about the only things I saw.”

“What about the one who spoke. Did he sound local?”

“As opposed to what?”

“I don’t know . . . Irish maybe.”

“I find Irish and Scots hard to tell apart sometimes.” Dirwan shrugged an apology. “Shocking, I know, in someone who has spent some years here . . .”

Rebus’s mobile sounded from deep within one of his pockets. He dug it out and studied the screen. It was Caro Quinn. “I have to take this,” he told Dirwan, opening the car door. He walked a few paces along the sidewalk and held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he said.

“How could you do that to me?”

“What?”

“Let me drink like that,” she groaned.

“Nursing a sore head, are we?”

“I’m never touching alcohol again.”

“An excellent proposition . . . maybe we could discuss it over dinner?”

“I can’t tonight, John. I’m off to the Filmhouse with a mate.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

She seemed to consider this. “I’m supposed to be doing some work this weekend . . . and thanks to last night I’m already losing today.”

“You can’t work with a hangover?”

“Can you?”

“I’ve turned it into an art form, Caro.”

“Look, let’s see how tomorrow pans out . . . I’ll try to give you a call.”

“Is that the best I can hope for?”

“Take it or leave it, chum.”

“Then I’ll take it.” Rebus had turned and was heading back towards the car. “Bye, Caro.”

“Bye, John.”

Off to the Filmhouse with a mate . . .
A mate, not a “pal.” Rebus got in behind the steering wheel. “Sorry about that.”

“Business or pleasure?” Mo Dirwan asked.

Rebus didn’t answer; he had a question of his own. “You know Caro Quinn, don’t you?”

Dirwan frowned, trying to place the name. “Our Lady of the Vigils?” he guessed. Rebus nodded. “Yes, she is quite a character.”

“A woman of principles.”

“My goodness, yes. She has given a room in her home to an asylum seeker—did you know that?”

“I did, as it happens.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened. “She was the one you were speaking to just now?”

“Yes.”

“You know that she, too, was chased out of Knoxland?”

“She told me.”

“We share a common thread, she and I . . .” Dirwan studied him. “Perhaps you are part of that thread, too, John.”

“Me?” Rebus started the engine. “More likely I’m one of those knots you come across from time to time.”

Dirwan chuckled. “I’m quite sure you think of yourself that way.”

“Can I give you a lift home?”

“If it’s not any trouble.”

Rebus shook his head. “It might actually help me get back to the motorway.”

“So the offer masked an ulterior motive?”

“I suppose you could put it like that.”

“And if I accept, will you allow me to offer some hospitality?”

“I really need to be getting back . . .”

“I am being snubbed.”

“It’s not that . . .”

“Well, that is exactly how it looks.”

“Bloody hell, Mo . . .” Rebus gave a loud sigh. “All right then, a quick cup of coffee.”

“My wife will insist that you eat something.”

“A biscuit, then.”

“And some cake perhaps.”

“Just a biscuit.”

“She will prepare a little bit more . . . you will see.”

“All right, cake, then. Coffee and cake.”

The lawyer’s face broke open in a grin. “You are new to the bartering method, John. Had I been selling carpets, your credit card would now be maxing out.”

“What makes you think it’s not there already?”

Besides, Rebus could have added, he really
was
hungry . . .

21

O
n a bright, blustery Sunday morning, Rebus walked to the bottom of Marchmont Road and headed across the Meadows. Teams were already gathering for prearranged football games. Some of the sides wore uniform strips in emulation of professional sides. Others were more ragged affairs, denims and sneakers in place of shorts and boots. Traffic cones were the favored replacements for proper goalposts, and the lines marking the boundary of each pitch were invisible to all but the players.

Farther on, a game of Frisbee saw a panting dog playing monkey-in-the-middle, while a couple on one of the benches made hard work of trying to turn the pages of their Sunday newspapers, each gust of wind threatening to turn the many supplements into airborne kites.

Rebus had spent a quiet evening at home, but only after a saunter down Lothian Road had established that the movies showing at the Filmhouse were not his kind of thing. He now had a little bet with himself about which of the offerings had received Caro’s custom. He also wondered what excuse he’d have used if she’d happened to bump into him in the foyer . . .

Nothing I like better than a good Hungarian family saga . . .

Home had seen him demolish an Indian take-away (his fingers still redolent, even after a morning shower) and a double helping of videos he’d watched before:
Rock ’n’ Roll Circus
and
Midnight Run.
While he’d smiled throughout the De Niro, it was Yoko Ono’s performance on the former which had sent him into hoots of laughter.

Just the four bottles of IPA to wash it all down, which meant he’d awakened early and clearheaded, breakfast consisting of half a leftover nan and a mug of tea. Now it was approaching lunchtime, and Rebus was walking. The old Infirmary was surrounded by billboards, doing nothing to mask the building work within. Last he’d heard, the compound would become a mix of retail and housing. He wondered who would pay to move into a reconfigured cancer ward. Would the place be haunted by a century of distress? Maybe they’d end up running ghost tours, same as they did with places like Mary King’s Alley, said to be home to the spirits of plague victims, or Greyfriars Kirkyard, where covenanters had perished.

He’d often thought of moving from Marchmont; had gone as far as quizzing a solicitor on a likely asking price. Two hundred K, he’d been told . . . probably not enough to buy even half a cancer ward, but with money like that in his pocket, he could jack the job in on full pension and do some traveling.

Problem was, nowhere appealed. He’d be far more likely to piss it all away. Was this the fear that kept him working? The job was his whole life; over the years, he’d let it push aside everything else: family, friends, pastimes.

Which was why he was working now.

He walked up Chalmers Street, passing the new school, and crossed the road at the art college, heading down Lady Lawson Street. He didn’t know who Lady Lawson had been but doubted she’d be impressed by the road named in her honor—and probably less so by the huddle of pubs and clubs adjoining it. Rebus was back in the pubic triangle. Not that much was happening. It was probably only seven or eight hours since some of the premises had closed for the night. People would be sleeping off Saturday’s excesses: dancers with the best pay packet of the week; owners like Stuart Bullen dreaming of their next expensive car; businessmen wondering how to explain that forthcoming credit-card statement to their spouses . . .

The street had been cleaned, the neon turned off. Church bells in the distance. Just another Sunday.

A metal bar held the Nook’s doors closed, fixed by a heavy-duty padlock. Rebus came to a stop, hands in pockets, staring at the empty shop opposite. If there was no answer, he was prepared to walk the extra mile to Haymarket, drop in on Felix Storey at his hotel. He doubted they’d be at work this early. Wherever Stuart Bullen was, he wasn’t in the Nook. Despite which, Rebus crossed the road and rapped his knuckles against the shop window. He waited, looking to left and right. There was no one in the vicinity, no passing traffic, no heads at any of the windows above street level. He knocked again, then noticed a dark green van. It was parked curbside, fifty feet farther along. Rebus strolled towards it. Whoever had owned it originally, their name had been painted out, the shapes of the letters just about discernible beneath the paint job. There was no one visible inside. Around the back, the windows had been painted over. Rebus remembered the surveillance van at Knoxland, Shug Davidson ensconced within. He took another look up and down the street, then pounded his fist on the van’s back doors, placing his face to one of the windows before walking away. He didn’t look back, but did pause as if to examine the small ads in a newsagent’s window.

“You trying to endanger our operation?” Felix Storey asked. Rebus turned. Storey stood with hands in pockets. He wore green combat trousers and an olive T-shirt.

“Nice disguise,” Rebus commented. “You must be keen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Working a Sunday shift—Nook doesn’t open till two.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.”

“No, but the bolts on the door give a pretty big clue . . .”

Storey slid his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. “What do you want?”

“I’m after a favor actually.”

“And you couldn’t just leave a message at my hotel?”

Rebus shrugged. “Not my style, Felix.” He studied the Immigration man’s clothing again. “So what are you supposed to be? Urban guerrilla or something?”

“A clubber at repose,” Storey admitted.

Rebus snorted. “Still . . . the van’s not a bad idea. I dare say the shop’s too risky of a daytime—people might spot someone sitting atop a step-ladder.” Rebus looked to left and right. “Shame the street’s so quiet: you stick out like a sore thumb.”

Storey just glowered. “And you thumping the van doors . . . that was supposed to look natural, was it?”

Rebus shrugged again. “It got your attention.”

“That it did. So go ahead and ask your favor.”

“Let’s do it over coffee.” Rebus gestured with his head. “There’s a place not two minutes’ walk away.” Storey thought for a moment, glancing towards the van. “I’m assuming you’ve got someone covering for you,” Rebus said.

“I just need to tell them . . .”

“On you go, then.”

Storey pointed down the street. “You walk on ahead, I’ll catch you up.”

Rebus nodded. He turned and started to leave, turned back to see that Storey was watching over his shoulder as he made his way to the van.

“What do you want me to order?” Rebus called.

“Americano,” the Immigration man called back. Then, when Rebus had turned to face the other way, he quickly opened the van doors and jumped in, closing them after him.

“He wants a favor,” he said to the person within.

“I wonder what it is.”

“I’m going with him to find out. Will you be all right here?”

“Bored to tears, but I’ll manage somehow.”

“I’ll be ten minutes at most . . .” Storey broke off as the door was yanked open from outside. Rebus’s head appeared.

“Hiya, Phyl,” he said with a smile. “Want us to fetch you anything . . . ?”

Rebus felt better for knowing. Ever since he’d been clocked going into the Nook, he’d wondered who Storey’s source was. Had to be someone who knew him; knew Siobhan, too.

“So Phyllida Hawes is working with you,” he said as the two men sat down with their coffees. The café was on the corner of Lothian Road. They got the table only because a couple were leaving as they arrived. People were immersed in reading: newspapers and books. A woman nursed a small baby as she sipped from her mug. Storey busied himself peeling open the sandwich he’d bought.

“It’s none of your business,” he growled, working hard at keeping his voice low, not wanting to be overheard. Rebus was trying to place the background music: sixties-style, California-style. He doubted very much it was original; plenty of bands out there trying to sound like the past.

“None of my business,” Rebus agreed.

Storey slurped from his mug, wincing at the near-molten temperature. He bit into the refrigerated sandwich to ease the shock.

“Making any headway?” Rebus was asking.

“Some,” Storey said through a mouthful of lettuce.

“But nothing you’d care to share?” Rebus blew across the surface of his own mug: he’d been here before, knew the contents would be super-heated.

“What do you think?”

“I’m thinking this whole operation of yours must be costing a fortune. If I was blowing money like that on a surveillance, I’d be sweating a result.”

“Do I look like I’m sweating?”

“That’s what interests me. Someone somewhere is either desperate for a conviction, or else scarily confident of getting one.” Storey was ready with a comeback, but Rebus held up a hand. “I know, I know . . . it’s none of my business.”

“And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

“Scout’s honor.” Rebus raised three fingers in mock salute. “Which brings me to my favor . . .”

“A favor I’m not inclined to help with.”

“Not even in a spirit of cross-border cooperation?”

Storey pretended to be interested only in his sandwich, flecks of which he was brushing from his trousers.

“You suit those combats, by the way,” Rebus flattered him. Finally, this produced the ghost of a smile.

“Ask your favor,” the Immigration man said.

“The murder I’m working on . . . the one in Knoxland.”

“What of it?”

“Looks like there was a girlfriend, and I’ve got word she’s from Senegal.”

“So?”

“So I’d like to find her.”

“Do you have a name?”

Rebus shook his head. “I don’t even know if she’s here legally.” He paused. “That’s where I thought you could help.”

“Help how?”

“The Immigration Service must know how many Senegalese there are in the UK. If they’re here legally, you’ll know how many of them live in Scotland . . .”

“I think, Inspector, you may be mistaking us for a fascist state.”

“You’re telling me you don’t keep records?”

“Oh, there are records all right, but only of registered migrants. They wouldn’t show up an illegal, or even a refugee.”

“The thing is, if she’s here illegally, she’d probably try to find other people from her home country. They’d be most likely to help her, and those are the ones you’d have records of.”

“Yes, I can see that, but all the same . . .”

“You’ve got better things to occupy your time?”

Storey took a tentative sip of his drink, brushed the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. “I’m not even sure the information exists, not in a form you’d find useful.”

“Right now I’d settle for anything.”

“You think this girlfriend is involved in the murder?”

“I think she’s running scared.”

“Because she knows something?”

“I won’t know that until I ask her.”

The Immigration man went quiet, making milky circles on the tabletop with the bottom of his mug. Rebus bided his time, watched the world outside the window. People were heading down to Princes Street; maybe with shopping in mind. There was a queue now at the counter, people looking around for a table they could share. There was a spare chair between Rebus and Storey, which he hoped no one would ask to use: refusal could often offend . . .

“I can authorize an initial search of the database,” Storey said at last.

“That would be great.”

“I’m not promising anything, mind.”

Rebus nodded his understanding.

“Have you tried students?” Storey added.

“Students?”

“Overseas students. There may be some around town from Senegal.”

“That’s a thought,” Rebus said.

“Glad to be of service.” The two men sat in silence until their drinks were finished. Afterwards, Rebus said he’d walk back to the van with Storey. He asked how Stuart Bullen had first appeared on Immigration’s radar.

“I thought I already told you.”

“My memory’s not what it was,” Rebus apologized.

“It was a tip-off—anonymous. That’s how it often starts: they want to stay anonymous until we get a result. After that, they want paying.”

“So what was the tip-off?”

“Just that Bullen’s dirty. People-smuggling.”

“And you set this whole thing in motion on the evidence of one phone call?”

“This same tipster, he’s come good before—a cargo of illegals coming into Dover in the back of a lorry.”

“I thought you had all this high-tech stuff at the ports these days.”

Storey nodded. “We do. Sensors that can pick up body heat . . . electronic sniffer dogs . . .”

“So you’d have picked these illegals up anyway?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Storey stopped and faced Rebus. “What exactly is it you’re implying, Inspector?”

“Nothing at all. What is it you
think
I’m implying?”

“Nothing at all,” Storey echoed. But his eyes gave the lie to his words.

That evening, Rebus sat by his window with the telephone in his hand, telling himself there was still time for Caro to call. He’d gone through his record collection, pulling out albums he hadn’t played in years: Montrose, Blue Oyster Cult, Rush, Alex Harvey . . . None of them lasted more than a couple of tracks until he reached
Goat’s Head Soup.
It was a stew of sounds, ideas stirred into the pot with only half the ingredients improving the flavor. Still, it was better—more melancholy—than he remembered. Ian Stewart played on a couple of tracks. Poor Stu, who’d grown up not far from Rebus in Fife and been a fully fledged member of the Stones until the manager decided he didn’t have the right image, the band keeping him around for sessions and touring.

Stu hanging in there, even though his face didn’t fit.

Rebus could sympathize.