Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (28 page)

“Tattoo all across his neck.” He touched his own throat to indicate the area. “A spider’s web . . .”

Not wanting to be overheard by Roy Brinkley, they sat in Siobhan’s car.

“Spider’s-web tattoo,” she commented.

“Not the first time it’s come up,” Les Young informed her. “One of the drinkers at the Bane mentioned it. Barman admitted he’d served the guy once, didn’t like the look of him.”

“No name?”

Young shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll get one.”

“Someone he met in jail?”

Young didn’t answer; he had a question for her. “So what’s this about the Albatross?”

“Don’t tell me you know the place, too?”

“When I was a teenager in Livingston, if you didn’t go to Lothian Road for your kicks, you might get lucky at the Albatross.”

“It had a reputation, then?”

“A bad sound system, watered beer, and sticky dance floor.”

“But people still went?”

“For a while it was the only game in town . . . some nights, there were more women there than men—women old enough to’ve known better.”

“So it was a knocking-shop?”

He shrugged. “I never got the chance to find out.”

“Too busy playing bridge,” she teased.

He ignored this. “But I’m intrigued that you know about it.”

“Did you read in the paper about those skeletons?”

He smiled. “I didn’t need to: plenty of gossip flying around the station. It’s not often Dr. Curt screws up.”

“He didn’t screw up.” She paused. “And even if he did, they fooled me, too.”

“How so?”

“I covered the baby with my jacket.”

“The plastic baby?”

“Half covered in earth and cement . . .”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I still don’t see the connection.”

“It’s thin,” she agreed. “The man who runs the pub, he used to own the Albatross.”

“Coincidence?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“But you’ll talk to him again, in case he knew Ishbel?”

“Might do.”

Young sighed. “Leaving us with the tattooed man and not much else.”

“It’s more than we had an hour ago.”

“I suppose so.” He stared out across the car park. “How come Banehall doesn’t have a decent café?”

“We could nip up the M8 to Harthill.”

“Why? What’s at Harthill.”

“Motorway services.”

“I did say decent, didn’t I?”

“Just a suggestion . . .” Siobhan decided to stare out through the windscreen, too.

“All right, then,” Young eventually conceded. “You drive, and the drinks are on me.”

“Deal,” she said, starting the car.

23

R
ebus was back at George Square, standing outside Dr. Maybury’s office. He could hear voices within, which didn’t stop him knocking.

“Enter!”

He opened the door and peered in. It was a tutorial, eight sleepy-looking faces arranged around the table. He smiled at Maybury. “Mind if I speak to you for a minute?”

She let her spectacles slip from her nose, to dangle from a cord just above her chest. Stood up without saying anything, managed to squeeze through what gaps there were between chairs and wall. She closed the door behind her and exhaled loudly.

“I’m really sorry to bother you again,” Rebus began to apologize.

“No, it’s not that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Bit of a dippy group?”

“I’ll never know why we bother to hold tutorials this early on a Monday.” She stretched her neck to left and right. “Sorry—not your problem. Any luck tracing the woman from Senegal?”

“Well, that’s why I’m here . . .”

“Yes?”

“Our latest theory is that she might know some of the students.” Rebus paused. “Actually, she could even
be
a student.”

“Oh?”

“Well, what I was wondering was . . . how do I go about finding out for sure? I know it’s not your territory, but if you could point me in the right direction . . .”

Maybury thought for a moment. “Registry office would be your best bet.”

“And where’s that?”

“Old College.”

“Opposite Thin’s Bookshop?”

She smiled. “Been a while since you bought any books, Inspector? Thin’s went bust; it’s run by Blackwell’s now.”

“But that’s where Old College is?”

She nodded. “Sorry for the pedantry.”

“Will they talk to me, do you think?”

“The only people they ever see down there are students who’ve lost their ID cards. You’ll be like some exotic new species to them. Walk across Bristo Square and take the underpass. You can get into Old College from West College Street.”

“I think I knew that, but thanks anyway.”

“You know what I’m doing?” she seemed to realize. “I’m yacking away to postpone the inevitable.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Forty minutes still to go . . .”

Rebus made a show of listening at the door. “Sounds like they’ve dropped off anyway. Be a shame to wake them.”

“Linguistics waits for no man, Inspector,” Maybury said, stiffening her spine. “Once more to the fray.” She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Disappeared inside.

As he walked, Rebus called Whitemire and asked to be put through to Traynor.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Traynor’s not available.”

“Is that you, Janet?” There was silence for a moment.

“Speaking,” Janet Eylot said.

“Janet, it’s DI Rebus here. Look, I’m sorry you’ve had my colleagues bothering you. If I can help at all, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

“So what’s up with your boss? Don’t tell me he’s off with stress.”

“He just doesn’t want any interruptions this morning.”

“Fine, but can you try him for me? Tell him I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

She took her time replying. “Very well,” she said at last. A few moments later, Traynor picked up.

“Look, I’m up to my eyes . . .”

“Aren’t we all?” Rebus sympathized. “I was just wondering if you’d run those checks for me.”

“What checks?”

“Kurds and French-speaking Africans, bailed from Whitemire.”

Traynor sighed. “There aren’t any.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Now, was that all you were wanting?”

“For now,” Rebus said. The call was disconnected before the final word had died away. Rebus stared at his mobile, decided it wasn’t worth making a nuisance of himself. He had his answer after all.

He just wasn’t sure he believed it.

“Highly unusual,” the woman at the registry said, not for the first time. She had led Rebus across the quadrangle to another set of offices in Old College. Rebus seemed to remember that this had once been the medical faculty, a place grave robbers brought their wares to sell to inquisitive surgeons. And hadn’t the serial killer William Burke been dissected here after his hanging? He made the mistake of asking his guide. She peered at him over her half-moon glasses. If she thought him exotic, she was hiding it well.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she trilled. Her walk was brisk, feet kept close together. Rebus reckoned she was around the same age as him, but it was hard to imagine her ever having been younger. “Highly irregular,” she said now, as if to herself, stretching her vocabulary.

“Any help you can give would be appreciated.” It was the same line he’d used during their initial conversation. She’d listened closely, then made a call to someone higher up the admin ladder. Assent had been given, but with a caution—personal data was a confidential matter. There would need to be a written request, a discussion, a good reason for the handing over of any information.

Rebus had agreed to all of this, adding that it would be irrelevant should there turn out to be no Senegalese students registered at the university.

As a result of which, Mrs. Scrimgour was going to make a search of the database.

“You could have waited in the office, you know,” she said now. Rebus just nodded as they turned into an open doorway. A younger woman was working at a computer. “I’ll need to relieve you, Nancy,” Mrs. Scrimgour said, managing to make it sound like admonishment rather than request. Nancy almost tipped over the chair in her rush to comply. Mrs. Scrimgour nodded to the other side of the desk, meaning for Rebus to stand there, where he couldn’t see the screen. He complied up to a point, leaning forward so his elbows rested against the edge of the desk, eyes at a level with Mrs. Scrimgour’s own. She frowned at this, but Rebus just smiled.

“Anything?” he asked.

She was tapping keys. “Africa’s divided into five zones,” she informed him.

“Senegal’s in the northwest.”

She peered at him. “North or west?”

“One or the other,” he said with a shrug. She gave a little sniff and kept typing, eventually pausing with her hand on the mouse.

“Well,” she said, “we do have one student from Senegal . . . so that’s that.”

“But I’m not allowed to know name and whereabouts?”

“Not without the procedures we discussed.”

“Which just end up taking more time.”

“Proper procedures,” she intoned, “as laid down by
law,
if you need reminding.”

Rebus nodded slowly. His face had inched closer to hers. She pulled back in her seat.

“Well,” she said, “I think that’s as much as we can do today.”

“And it’s unlikely that you’d absentmindedly leave the screen showing when you walked away . . . ?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, Inspector.” Saying which, she clicked twice with the mouse. Rebus knew that the information had disappeared, but that was all right. He’d seen just about enough from the reflection in her lenses. A smiling photo of a young woman with dark curly hair. He was pretty sure her name was Kawake, with an address at the university’s halls of residence on Dalkeith Road.

“You’ve been very helpful,” he told Mrs. Scrimgour.

She tried not to look too disappointed at this news.

Pollock Halls was situated at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, on the edge of Holyrood Park. A sprawling, mazelike compound which mixed old architecture with new, crow-stepped gables and turrets with boxy modernity. Rebus stopped his car at the gatehouse, getting out to meet the uniformed guard.

“Hiya, John,” the man said.

“You’re looking well, Andy,” Rebus offered, shaking the proffered hand.

Andy Edmunds had been a police constable from the age of eighteen, meaning he’d been able to retire on a full pension while still well shy of his fiftieth birthday. The guard’s job was part-time, a way of filling some of the hours in a day. The two men had been useful to each other in the past: Andy feeding Rebus info on any dealers attempting to sell to the students at Pollock; Andy feeling still part of the force as a result.

“What brings you here?” he asked now.

“A bit of a favor. I’ve got a name—could be her first or last—and I know this is her most recent address.”

“What’s she done?”

Rebus looked around, as if to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. Edmunds took the bait, moved a step closer.

“That murder at Knoxland,” Rebus said under his breath. “There may be a tie-in.” He placed his finger to his mouth, Edmunds nodding his understanding.

“What’s said to me stays with me, John, you know that.”

“I know, Andy. So . . . is there any way we can track her down?”

The “we” seemed to galvanize Edmunds. He retreated to his glass box and made a call, then returned to Rebus. “We’ll go talk to Maureen,” he said. Then he winked. “Wee thing going on between the two of us, but she’s married . . .” It was his turn to place a finger to his mouth.

Rebus just nodded. He had shared a confidence with Edmunds, so a confidence had to be traded in return. Together, they walked the ten yards or so to the main admin building. This was the oldest structure on the site, built in the Scots baronial style, the interior dominated by a vast wooden staircase, the walls paneled with more slabs of dark-stained wood. Maureen’s office was on the ground floor, boasting an ornate green marble fireplace and a paneled ceiling. She wasn’t quite what Rebus had been expecting—small and plump, almost mousy. Hard to imagine her carrying on an illicit affair with a man in uniform. Edmunds was staring at Rebus, as though seeking some sort of appraisal. Rebus raised an eyebrow and gave a little nod, which seemed to satisfy the ex-cop.

Having shaken Maureen’s hand, Rebus spelled the name for her. “I might have the odd letter in the wrong place,” he cautioned.

“Kawame Mana,” Maureen corrected him. “I’ve got her here.” Her screen was showing the identical information to Mrs. Scrimgour’s. “She’s got a room in Fergusson Hall . . . studying psychology.”

Rebus had flipped open his notebook. “Date of birth?”

Maureen tapped the screen and Rebus jotted down what was printed there. Kawame was a second-year student, aged twenty.

“Calls herself Kate,” Maureen added. “Room two-ten.”

Rebus turned to Andy Edmunds, who was already nodding. “I’ll show you,” he said.

The narrow, cream-colored corridor was quieter than Rebus had expected.

“Nobody playing hip-hop full blast?” he queried. Edmunds snorted.

“They’ve all got earphones these days, John, shuts them right away from the world.”

“So even if we knock, she won’t hear us?”

“Time to find out.” They paused at the door marked 210. It boasted stickers of flowers and smiley faces, plus the name
Kate
picked out in tiny silver stars. Rebus made a fist and gave three hard thumps. The door across the corridor opened a fraction, male eyes gazing at them. The door closed again quickly and Edmunds made a show of sniffing the air.

“One hundred percent herbal,” he said. Rebus’s mouth twitched.

When there was still no answer at the second attempt, he kicked the other door, causing it to rattle in its frame. By the time it opened, he already had his warrant card out. He reached forward and plucked at the tiny earphones, dislodging them. The student was in his late teens, dressed in baggy green combats and a shrunken gray T-shirt. A breeze was coming from a just-opened window.

“What’s up?” the boy asked in a lazy drawl.

“You are, by the look of things.” Rebus walked to the window and angled his head out. A thin wisp of smoke was coming from the bush immediately below. “Hope there wasn’t too much of it left.”

“Too much of what?” The voice was educated, Home Counties.

“Whatever it is you call it—draw, blaw, wacky baccy, weed . . .” Rebus smiled. “But the last thing I want to do is go back downstairs, retrieve the spliff, check the saliva on the cigarette papers for DNA, and come all the way back up here to arrest you.”

“Didn’t you hear? Grass has been decriminalized.”

Rebus shook his head. “Downgraded—there’s a difference. Still, you’ll be allowed a phone call to your parents—that’s one law they’ve yet to tinker with.” Rebus looked around the room: single bed, with a rumpled duvet on the floor beside it; shelves of books; a laptop computer on a desk. Posters advertising drama productions.

“You like the theater?” Rebus asked.

“I’ve done a bit of acting—student productions.”

Rebus nodded. “You know Kate?”

“Yeah.” The student was switching off the machine attached to the earphones. Siobhan, Rebus guessed, would know what it was. All
he
could tell was that it was too small to play CDs.

“Know where we could find her?”

“What’s she done?”

“She hasn’t done anything; we just need a word.”

“She’s not here much . . . probably in the library.”

“John . . .” This from Edmunds, who was holding open the door, allowing a view of the corridor. A dark-skinned young woman, her tightly curled hair held back in a band, was unlocking the door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, curious about the scene in her neighbor’s room.

“Kate?” Rebus guessed.

“Yes. What is the matter?” Her accent gave each syllable equal stress.

“I’m a police officer, Kate.” Rebus had stepped into the corridor. Edmunds let the door swing shut on the male student, dismissing him. “Mind if we have a word?”

“My God, is it my family?” Her already wide eyes grew wider still. “Has something happened to them?” The satchel slid from her shoulder to the ground.

“It’s nothing to do with your family,” Rebus assured her.

“Then what . . . ? I do not understand.”

Rebus reached into his pocket, produced the tape in its little clear box. He gave it a rattle. “Got a cassette player?” he asked.

When the tape had finished playing, she raised her eyes towards his.

“Why do you make me listen to this?” she asked, voice trembling.

Rebus was standing against the wardrobe, hands behind his back. He’d asked Andy Edmunds to wait outside, which hadn’t pleased the security man. Partly, Rebus hadn’t wanted him to hear—this was a police inquiry, and Edmunds was no longer a cop, whatever he might like to think. Partly also—and this was the argument Rebus would use to Edmunds’s face—there simply wasn’t room for the three of them. Rebus didn’t want to make things any less comfortable for Kate. The cassette radio sat on her desk. Rebus leaned towards it, hitting “stop” and then “rewind.”