Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (37 page)

“Things must be bad,” she said.

“When are they not? That’s pretty much Van’s message to the world.” He lowered the volume a little. She lifted a bottle of red from the bag.

“Corkscrew?”

“I’ll fetch one.” He started heading for the kitchen. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a glass, too?”

“Sorry to be fussy.”

She took off her coat and was resting on the arm of the sofa when he returned. “A quiet night in, eh?” she said, taking the corkscrew from him. He held the glass for her while she poured. “You having any?”

He shook his head. “I’m three whiskies in, and you know what they say about the grape and the grain.” She took the glass from him, made herself comfortable on the sofa.

“Been having a quiet night yourself?” he asked.

“On the contrary—up until forty minutes ago, I was hard at it.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Managed to persuade Ray Duff to burn the midnight oil.”

Rebus nodded. He knew Ray Duff worked forensics at the police lab in Howdenhall; by now they owed him a world of favors.

“Ray finds it hard to say no,” he agreed. “Anything I should know about?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure . . . So how’s your day been?”

“You heard about Alan Traynor?”

“No.”

Rebus let the silence lie for a moment between them; picked up his glass and took a couple of sips. Took his time appreciating the aroma, the aftertaste.

“Nice to sit and talk, isn’t it?” he commented at last.

“All right, I give in . . . You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Rebus smiled, went to the table where the bottle of Bowmore sat. Refilled his glass and returned to his chair.

Started talking.

After which, Siobhan told him her own story. Van Morrison was swapped for Hobotalk and Hobotalk for James Yorkston. Midnight had come and gone. Slices of toast had been made, buttered, and consumed. The wine was down to its last quarter, the whiskey to its final inch. When Rebus checked that she wouldn’t be trying to drive home, Siobhan admitted that she’d come by cab.

“Meaning you assumed we were going to do this?” Rebus teased.

“I suppose.”

“And what if Caro Quinn had been here?”

Siobhan just shrugged.

“Not that that’s going to happen,” Rebus added. He looked at her. “I think I may have blown it with the Lady of the Vigils.”

“The what?”

He shook his head. “It’s what Mo Dirwan calls her.”

Siobhan was staring at her glass. It looked to Rebus as though she had a dozen questions waiting, a dozen things to say to him. But in the end, all she said was: “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Of my company?”

She shook her head. “The wine. Any chance of a coffee?”

“Kitchen’s where it’s always been.”

“The perfect host.” She got to her feet.

“I’ll have one, too, if you’re offering.”

“I’m not.”

But she brought him a mug anyway. “The milk in your fridge is still usable,” she told him.

“So?”

“So that’s a first, isn’t it?”

“Listen to the ingratitude!” Rebus put the mug on the floor. Siobhan returned to the sofa, cupping hers between her hands. While she’d been out of the room, he’d opened the window a little, so she wouldn’t complain about his smoke. He saw her notice what he’d done; watched her decide to make no comment.

“Know what I’m wondering, Shiv? I’m wondering how those skeletons ended up in Stuart Bullen’s hands. Could he have been Pippa Greenlaw’s date that night?”

“I doubt it. She said his name was Barry or Gary, and he played football—I think that’s how they met.” She broke off as a smile started spreading across Rebus’s face.

“Remember when I grazed my leg at the Nook?” he said. “That Aussie barman told me he could sympathize.”

Siobhan nodded. “Typical football injury . . .”

“And his name’s Barney, isn’t it? Not quite Barry, but close enough.”

Siobhan was still nodding. She’d reached into her bag for her mobile and notebook, flicked through it for the number.

“It’s one in the morning,” Rebus warned her. She ignored him. Pushed buttons and held the phone to her ear.

When it was answered, she started talking. “Pippa? It’s DS Clarke here, remember me? You out clubbing or something?” Her eyes were on Rebus as she relayed the answers to him. “Just waiting for a taxi home . . .” She nodded. “Been to the Opal Lounge or somewhere? Well, I’m sorry to bother you so late at night.” Rebus was walking towards the sofa, leaning down to share the earpiece. He could hear traffic sounds, drunken voices close by. A screech of
“Taxi!”
followed by swearing.

“Missed that one,” Pippa Greenlaw said. She sounded breathless rather than drunk.

“Pippa,” Siobhan said, “it’s about your partner . . . the night of Lex’s party . . .”

“Lex is here! Do you want to talk to him?”

“It’s you I want to talk to.”

Greenlaw’s voice grew muffled, as though she were trying not to let someone hear. “I think we might be starting something.”

“You and Lex? That’s great, Pippa.” Siobhan rolled her eyes, giving the lie to her words. “Now, about the night those skeletons went missing . . .”

“You know I kissed one of them?”

“You told me.”

“Even now it makes me want to puke . . .
Taxi!
”

Siobhan held the phone farther from her ear. “Pippa, I just need to know something . . . the guy you were with that night . . . could he have been an Australian called Barney?”

“What?”

“Australian, Pippa. The guy you were with at Lex’s party.”

“Do you know . . . now you come to mention it . . .”

“And you didn’t think it worth telling me?”

“I didn’t think much of it at the time. Must’ve slipped my mind . . .” She spoke to Lex Cater, filling him in. The phone changed hands.

“Is that Little Miss Matchmaker?” Lex’s voice. “Pippa told me you set the pair of us up that night . . . it was meant to be you, but she was there instead. Female solidarity and all that, eh?”

“You didn’t tell me Pippa’s guest at your party was an Aussie.”

“Was he? Never really noticed . . . Here’s Pippa again.”

But Siobhan had ended the call. “Never really noticed,” she echoed. Rebus was heading back to his chair.

“People like that, they seldom do. Think the world revolves around
them.
” Rebus grew thoughtful. “Wonder whose idea it was.”

“What?”

“The skeletons weren’t stolen to order. So either Barney Grant had the idea of using them to scare off any uppity immigrants . . .”

“Or Stuart Bullen did.”

“But if it was our friend Barney, that means he knew what was going on—not just barman, but Bullen’s lieutenant.”

“Which might explain what he was doing with Howie Slowther. Slowther’s been working for Bullen, too.”

“Or more likely for Peter Hill, but you’re right—the end result’s the same.”

“So Barney Grant should be behind bars, too,” Siobhan stated. “Otherwise, what’s to stop the whole thing starting up again?”

“A little bit of proof might be useful right about now. All we’ve got is Barney Grant in a car with Slowther . . .”

“That and the skeletons.”

“Hardly enough to convince the Procurator Fiscal.”

Siobhan blew across the surface of her coffee. The hi-fi had gone quiet; might have been that way for some time.

“Something for another day, eh, Shiv?” Rebus eventually conceded.

“Is that me getting my marching orders?”

“I’m older than you . . . I need my sleep.”

“I thought you need less sleep as you get older?”

Rebus shook his head. “You don’t
need
less sleep; you just take it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Mortality closing in, I suppose.”

“And you can sleep all you like when you’re dead?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’m sorry to keep you up so late, old-timer.”

Rebus smiled. “Not too long now till there’s a younger cop sitting opposite
you.
”

“Now there’s a thought to end the night with . . .”

“I’ll call you a cab, unless you want to crash here—there’s a spare bedroom.”

She started putting on her coat. “We don’t want tongues wagging, do we? But I’ll walk down to the Meadows, bound to find one there.”

“Out on your own at this time of night?”

Siobhan picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. “I’m a big girl, John. I think I can manage.”

He shrugged and showed her out, then returned to the living-room window, watching her walk down the pavement.

I’m a big girl . . .

A big girl afraid of wagging tongues.

DAY TEN

Wednesday

30

I
’ve got a lecture,” Kate said. Rebus had been waiting for her outside her hall of residence. She’d given him a look and kept walking, heading for the bicycle rack.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he said. She didn’t respond, unlocking the chain from her bike. “We need to talk,” Rebus persisted.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“That’s true, I suppose . . .” She looked up at him. “But only if we choose to ignore Barney Grant and Howie Slowther.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you about Barney.”

“Warned you off, has he?”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“So you said. And Howie Slowther?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“No?”

She shook her head defiantly, hands gripping her bike’s handlebars. “Now, please . . . I’m going to be late.”

“Just one more name, then.” Rebus held up a forefinger. He took her sigh as permission to ask. “Chantal Rendille . . . I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.”

“It’s not a name I know.”

Rebus smiled. “You’re a terrible liar, Kate—your eyes start fluttering. I noticed it before when I was asking about Chantal. Of course, I didn’t have her name, then, but I have it now. With Stuart Bullen locked up, she doesn’t need to hide anymore.”

“Stuart did not kill that man.”

Rebus just shrugged. “All the same, I’d like to hear her say it for herself.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Too many people running scared recently, Kate. Time for it to stop, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s not my decision,” she said quietly.

“You mean it’s Chantal’s? Then have a word with her, tell her she doesn’t have to be scared. It’s all coming to an end.”

“I wish I had your confidence, Inspector.”

“Maybe I know things you don’t . . . things Chantal should hear.”

Kate looked around. Her fellow students were heading off to classes, some with the glazed eyes of the newly roused, others curious about the man she was talking to—so obviously neither student nor friend.

“Kate?” he prompted.

“I need to speak to her alone first.”

“That’s fine.” He gestured with his head. “Do we need the car, or is it walking distance?”

“That depends on how much you like walking.”

“Seriously now, do I look the type?”

“Not really.” She was almost smiling, but still edgy.

“Then we’ll take the car.”

Even having been coaxed into the passenger seat, it took Kate a while to pull the door closed, and longer still to fasten her seat belt, Rebus fearing that she might bail out at any time.

“Where to?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

“Bedlam,” she said, just audibly. Rebus wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “Bedlam Theatre,” she explained. “It’s a disused church.”

“Across the road from Greyfriars Kirk?” Rebus said. She nodded, and he started to drive. On the way, she explained that Marcus, the student across the corridor from her, was active in the university’s theater group, and that they used Bedlam as their base. Rebus said he’d seen the playbills on Marcus’s walls, then asked how she had first met Chantal.

“This city can seem like a village sometimes,” she told him. “I was walking towards her along the street one day, and I just knew when I looked at her.”

“You knew what?”

“Where she came from, who she was . . . It’s hard to explain. Two Senegalese women in the middle of Edinburgh.” She shrugged. “We just laughed and started talking.”

“And when she came to you for help?” She looked at him as if she didn’t understand. “What did you think? Did she tell you what had happened?”

“A little . . .” Kate stared from the passenger-side window. “This is for her to tell you, if she decides to.”

“You realize I’m on her side? Yours, too, if it comes to it.”

“I know this.”

Bedlam Theatre stood at the junction of two diagonals—Forrest Road and Bristo Place—and facing the wider expanse of George IV Bridge. Years back, this had been Rebus’s favorite part of town, with its weird bookshops and secondhand record market. Now Subway and Starbucks had moved in and the record market was a theme bar. Parking had not improved either, and Rebus ended up in a no-parking zone, trusting to luck that he’d be back before the tow truck could be called.

The main doors were locked tight, but Kate led him around the side and produced a key from her pocket.

“Marcus?” he guessed. She nodded and opened the small side door, then turned towards him. “You want me to wait here?” he guessed. But she stared deep into his eyes and then sighed.

“No,” she said, decided. “You might as well come up.”

Inside, the place was gloomy. They climbed a flight of creaky steps and emerged into an upstairs auditorium, looking down on to the makeshift stage. There were rows of former pews, mostly stacked with empty cardboard boxes, props, and pieces of lighting rig.

“Chantal?” Kate called out. “
C’est moi.
Are you there?”

A face appeared above one row of seats. She’d been lying in a sleeping bag and was now blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw that there was someone with Kate, her mouth and eyes opened wide.

“
Calmes-toi,
Chantal.
Il est policier.
”

“Why you bring?” Chantal’s voice sounded shrill, frantic. As she stood up, sloughing off the sleeping bag, Rebus saw that she was already dressed.

“I’m a police officer, Chantal,” Rebus said slowly. “I want to talk to you.”

“No! This will not be!” She waved her hands in front of her, as though he were smoke to be wafted away. Her arms were thin, hair cropped close to her skull. Her head seemed out of proportion to the slender neck atop which it sat.

“You know we’ve arrested the men?” Rebus said. “The men we think killed Stef. They are going to prison.”

“They will kill me.”

Rebus kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. “They’re going to be spending a lot of time in jail, Chantal. They’ve done a lot of bad things. But if we’re going to punish them for what they did to Stef . . . well, I’m not sure we can do it without your help.”

“Stef was good man.” Her face twisted with the pain of memory.

“Yes, he was,” Rebus agreed. “And his death needs to be paid for.” He’d been moving towards her by degrees. Now they stood within arm’s reach. “Stef needs you, Chantal, this one final time.”

“No,” she said. But her eyes were telling him a different story.

“I need to hear it from you, Chantal,” he said quietly. “I need to know what you saw.”

“No,” she said again, her eyes pleading with Kate.

“
Oui, Chantal,
” Kate told her. “It is time.”

Only Kate had eaten breakfast, so they headed for the Elephant House café, Rebus driving them the short distance, finding a parking bay on Chambers Street. Chantal wanted hot chocolate, Kate herbal tea. Rebus ordered a round of croissants and sticky cakes, plus a large black coffee for himself. And then bottles of water and orange juice—if no one else drank them, he would. And maybe a couple more aspirin to go with the three he’d swallowed before leaving his flat.

They sat at a table at the very back of the café, the window next to them giving a view of the churchyard, where a few winos were starting the day with a shared can of extra-strong lager. Only a few weeks back, some kids had desecrated a tomb, using the skull like a football. “Mad World” was playing quietly over the café’s loudspeakers, and Rebus was forced to agree.

He was biding his time, letting Chantal wolf down her breakfast. The pastries were too sweet for her, but she ate two croissants, washed down with one of the bottles of juice.

“Fresh fruit would be better for you,” Kate said, Rebus unsure of her target as he finished an apricot tart. Then it was time for a coffee refill, Chantal saying she might manage more hot chocolate. Kate poured herself more raspberry-colored tea. As Rebus queued at the counter, he watched the two women. They were talking conversationally: nothing heated. Chantal seemed calm enough. That was why he’d chosen the Elephant House: a police station would not have had the same effect. When he returned with the drinks, she actually smiled and thanked him.

“So,” he said, lifting his own mug, “finally I get to meet you, Chantal.”

“You very persistent.”

“It may be my only strength. Do you want to tell me what happened that night? I think I know some of it. Stef was a journalist, he knew a story when he saw one. I’m guessing it was you who told him about Stevenson House?”

“He knew already a little,” Chantal said haltingly.

“How did you meet him?”

“In Knoxland. He . . .” She turned to Kate and let out a volley of French, which Kate translated.

“He’d been questioning some of the immigrants he met in the city center. This made him realize something bad was happening.”

“And Chantal filled in the gaps?” Rebus guessed. “And became his friend in the process?” Chantal understood, nodding with her eyes. “And then Stuart Bullen caught him snooping . . .”

“It was not Bullen,” she said.

“Peter Hill, then.” Rebus described the Irishman, and Chantal sat back a little in her seat, as though recoiling from his words.

“Yes, that is him. He chased . . . and stabbed . . .” She lowered her eyes again, placing her hands on her lap. Kate reached out and covered the nearest hand with her own.

“You ran away,” Rebus said quietly. Chantal started speaking French again.

“She had to,” Kate told Rebus. “They would have buried her in the cellar, with all the other people.”

“There weren’t any other people,” Rebus said. “It was just a trick.”

“She was terrified,” Kate said.

“But she went back once . . . to place flowers at the scene.”

Kate translated for Chantal, who gave another nod.

“She traveled across a continent to reach somewhere she’d feel safe,” Kate told Rebus. “She’s been here almost a year, and still she does not understand this place.”

“Tell her she’s not the only one. I’ve been trying for over half a century.” As Kate translated this, Chantal managed a weak smile. Rebus was wondering about her . . . wondering at her relationship with Stef. Had she been anything other than a source to him, or had he simply used her, the way many journalists did?

“Anyone else involved, Chantal?” Rebus asked. “Anyone there that night?”

“A young man . . . bad skin . . . and this tooth . . .” She tapped at the center of her own immaculate teeth. “Not there.” Rebus reckoned she meant Howie Slowther, might even pick him out from a lineup.

“How do you think they found out about Stef, Chantal? How did they know he was about to go to the newspapers with the story?”

She looked up at him. “Because he tell them.”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “He
told
them?”

She nodded. “He want his family brought to him. He know they can do this.”

“You mean bailing them out of Whitemire?” More nodding. Rebus found himself leaning across the table towards her. “He was trying to
blackmail
the whole lot of them?”

“He will not tell what he know . . . but only in return for his family.”

Rebus sat back again and stared from the window. Right now, that extra-strong lager looked pretty good to him. A mad, mad world. Stef Yurgii might as well have penned himself a suicide note. He hadn’t met with the
Scotsman
journalist because it had been a bluff, letting Bullen know what he was capable of. All of it for his family . . . Chantal just a friend, if that. A desperate man—husband and father—taking a fatal gamble.

Killed for his insolence.

Killed because of the threat he posed. No skeletons were going to put
him
off.

“You saw it happen?” Rebus asked quietly. “You saw Stef die?”

“I could do nothing.”

“You phoned . . . did what you could.”

“It was not enough . . . not enough . . .” She had started crying, Kate comforting her. Two elderly women watched from a corner table. Their faces powdered, coats still buttoned almost to the chin. Edinburgh ladies, who probably had never known any life but this: the taking of tea, and a serving of gossip on the side. Rebus glared at them till they averted their eyes, going back to the spreading of butter on scones.

“Kate,” he said, “she’ll have to tell the story again, make it official.”

“In a police station?” Kate guessed. Rebus nodded.

“It would help,” he said, “if you were there with her.”

“Yes, of course.”

“The man you’ll talk to will be another inspector. His name’s Shug Davidson. He’s a good guy, does the sympathy thing even better than me.”

“You will not be there?”

“I don’t think so. Shug’s the man in charge.” Rebus took a mouthful of coffee and savored it, then swallowed. “I was never supposed to be here,” he said, almost to himself, staring out of the window again.

He called Davidson from his mobile, explained the setup, said he’d bring both women to Torphichen.

In the car, Chantal was silent, staring at the passing world. But Rebus had a few more questions for her companion in the backseat.

“How did your talk with Barney Grant go?”

“It was all right.”

“You reckon he’ll keep the Nook going?”

“Until Stuart comes back, yes. Why do you smile?”

“Because I don’t know if that’s what Barney wants . . . or expects.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Doesn’t matter. That description I gave Chantal . . . the man’s called Peter Hill. He’s Irish, probably with paramilitary connections. We reckon he was helping Bullen out, on the understanding that Bullen would then back him up when it came to dealing drugs on the estate.”

“What has this got to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing. The younger man, the one with the missing tooth . . . his name’s Howie Slowther.”

“You said his name this morning. ”

“That’s right, I did. Because after your little chinwag with Barney Grant in the pub, Barney climbed into a car. Howie Slowther was in that car.” In the rearview mirror, his eyes connected with hers. “Barney’s in this up to his neck, Kate . . . maybe even a little further. So if you were planning on relying on him . . .”