Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (16 page)

There was no sign of Traynor, but that didn’t matter. Rebus and the guard took the toys inside.

“They’ll have to be checked,” the guard said.

“Checked?”

“We can’t have people just bring anything in here . . .”

“You think there are drugs hidden inside the doll?”

“It’s standard procedure, Inspector.” The guard lowered his voice. “You and I know it’s completely bloody stupid, but it still has to be done.”

The two men shared a look. Rebus nodded eventually. “But they
will
get to the kids?” he asked.

“By the end of the day, if I’ve got anything to do with it.”

“Thanks.” Rebus shook the guard’s hand, then looked around. “How do you stand it here?”

“Would you rather have the place staffed by people different from me? God knows there are enough of them . . .”

Rebus managed a smile. “You’ve got a point.” He thanked the man again. The guard just shrugged.

Driving out, Rebus noticed that the tent had gone. Its owner was now trudging down the side of the road, a rucksack on her back. He stopped, winding down his window.

“Need a lift?” he asked. “I’m headed for Edinburgh.”

“You were here yesterday,” she stated. He nodded. “Who are you?”

“I’m a police officer.”

“The murder in Knoxland?” she guessed. Rebus nodded again. She peered into the back of the car.

“Plenty room for your rucksack,” he told her.

“That’s not why I was looking.”

“Oh?”

“Just wondering what happened to the doll’s house. I saw a doll’s house on the backseat when you drove in.”

“Then your eyes obviously deceived you.”

“Obviously,” she said. “After all, why would a policeman bring toys to a detention center?”

“Why indeed?” Rebus agreed, getting out to help her stash her things.

They drove the first half mile in silence. Then Rebus asked her if she smoked.

“No, but you go ahead if you like.”

“I’m all right,” Rebus lied. “How often do you do that vigil thing?”

“As often as I can.”

“All by yourself?”

“There were more of us to start with.”

“I remember seeing it on the telly.”

“Others join me when they can: weekends, usually.”

“They have jobs to go to?” Rebus guessed.

“I work, too, you know,” she snapped. “It’s just that I can juggle my time.”

“You’re an acrobat?”

She smiled at this. “I’m an artist.” She paused, awaiting a response. “And thank you for not snorting.”

“Why would I snort?”

“Most people like you would.”

“People like me?”

“People who see anyone who’s different to them as a threat.”

Rebus made a show of taking this in. “So that’s what I’m like. I’d always wondered . . .”

She smiled again. “All right, I’m jumping to conclusions, but not without some grounds. You’ll have to trust me on that.” She leaned forward to operate the seat mechanism, sliding it back as far as it would go, giving her room to put her feet on the dashboard in front of her. Rebus thought she was probably in her midforties, long mousy-brown hair woven into braids. Three hooped golden earrings in either lobe. Her face was pale and freckled, and her front two teeth overlapped, giving her the look of an impish schoolgirl.

“I trust you,” he said. “I also take it you’re not a big fan of our asylum laws?”

“That’s because they stink.”

“And what do they stink of?”

She turned from the windscreen to look at him. “Hypocrisy, for starters,” she said. “This is a country where you can buy your way to a passport if you know the right politician. If you don’t, and we don’t like your skin color or your politics, then forget it.”

“You don’t think we’re a soft touch, then?”

“Give me a break,” she said dismissively, turning her attention back to the scenery.

“I’m just asking.”

“A question to which you think you already know the answer?”

“I know we’ve got better welfare than some countries.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why people pay their life savings to gangs who smuggle them over borders? That’s why they suffocate in the backs of lorries or squashed into cargo containers?”

“Don’t forget the Eurostar: don’t they cling to its undercarriage?”

“Don’t you
dare
patronize me!”

“Just making conversation.” Rebus concentrated on driving for a few moments. “So what kind of art do you do?”

It took her a few moments to answer him. “Portraits mostly . . . the occasional landscape . . .”

“Would I have heard of you?”

“You don’t look like a collector.”

“I used to have an H. R. Giger on my wall.”

“An original?”

Rebus shook his head. “LP cover—
Brain Salad Surgery.
”

“At least you remember the artist’s name.” She sniffed, running a hand across her nose. “Mine’s Caro Quinn.”

“Caro short for Caroline?” She nodded. Rebus reached out awkwardly with his right hand. “I’m John Rebus.”

Quinn slipped off a gray woolen glove, and they shook, the car creeping over the highway’s central dividing line. Rebus quickly corrected the steering.

“Promise to get us back to Edinburgh in one piece?” the artist pleaded.

“Where do you want to be dropped?”

“Are you going anywhere near Leith Walk?”

“I’m based at Gayfield.”

“Perfect . . . I’m just off Pilrig Street, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Fine by me.” They were quiet for a few minutes until Quinn spoke.

“You couldn’t move sheep around Europe the way some of these families have been moved . . . nearly two thousand of them in detention in Britain.”

“But a lot of them get to stay, right?”

“Not nearly enough. Holland’s getting ready to deport twenty-six
thousand.
”

“Seems a lot. How many are there in Scotland?”

“Eleven thousand in Glasgow alone.”

Rebus whistled.

“Go back a couple of years, we took more asylum seekers than any country in the world.”

“I thought we still did.”

“Numbers are dropping fast.”

“Because the world’s a safer place?”

She looked at him, decided he was being ironic. “Controls are tightening all the time.”

“Only so many jobs to go round,” Rebus said with a shrug.

“And that’s supposed to make us less compassionate?”

“Never found much room for compassion in my job.”

“That’s why you went to Whitemire with a car full of toys?”

“My friends call me Santa . . .”

Rebus double-parked, as directed, outside her tenement flat. “Come up for a minute,” she said.

“What for?”

“Something I’d like you to see.”

He locked his car, hoping the owner of the boxed-in Mini wouldn’t mind. Quinn lived on the top floor—in Rebus’s experience the usual haunt of student renters. Quinn had another explanation.

“I get two stories,” she said. “There’s a stair into the roof space.” She unlocked the door, Rebus lagging half a flight behind her. He thought he heard her call out something—a name maybe—but when he entered the hallway, there was no one there. Quinn had rested her rucksack against the wall and was beckoning him up the steep, narrow stairway into the eaves of the building. Rebus took a few deep breaths and started climbing again.

There was just the one room, illuminated by natural light from four large skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls, black-and-white photographs pinned to every available inch of the eaves.

“I tend to work from photos,” Quinn told him. “These are what I wanted you to see.” They were close-ups of faces, the camera seeming to focus on the eyes specifically. Rebus saw mistrust, fear, curiosity, indulgence, good humor. Surrounded by so many stares, he felt like an exhibit himself, and said as much to the artist, who seemed gratified.

“My next exhibition, I don’t want any wall space showing, just ranks of painted faces demanding we pay them some attention.”

“Staring us down,” Rebus nodded slowly. Quinn was nodding, too. “So where did you take them?”

“All over: Dundee, Glasgow, Knoxland.”

“They’re all immigrants?”

She nodded, studying her work.

“When were you in Knoxland?”

“Three or four months back. I was kicked out after a couple of days . . .”

“Kicked out?”

She turned to him. “Well, let’s say ‘made to feel unwelcome.’”

“Who by?”

“Locals . . . bigots . . . people with a grudge.”

Rebus was looking more closely at the photos. He didn’t see anyone he recognized.

“Some don’t want to be photographed, of course, and I have to respect that.”

“Do you ask their names?” He watched her nod. “No one called Stef Yurgii?”

She started to shake her head, then went rigid, her eyes widening. “You’re interrogating me!”

“Just asking a question,” he countered.

“Seeming friendly, giving me a lift . . .” She shook her head at her own stupidity. “Christ, and to think I invited you in.”

“I’m trying to solve a case here, Caro. And for what it’s worth, I gave you a lift out of natural curiosity . . . no other agenda.”

She stared at him. “Natural curiosity about what?” Folding her arms defensively.

“I don’t know . . . Maybe about why you’d hold a vigil like that. You didn’t look the type.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The type?”

He shrugged. “No matted hair or combat jacket, no ratty-looking dog on a length of clothesline . . . and not too many body piercings either, by the look of it.” He was trying to lighten the mood, and was relieved to see her shoulders relax. She gave a half twitch of a smile and unfolded her arms, sliding her hands into her pockets instead.

There was a noise from downstairs: a baby crying. “Yours?” Rebus asked.

“I’m not even married these days . . .” She turned and started down the narrow stairs again, Rebus lingering a moment before following, feeling all those eyes on him as he went.

One of the doors off the hallway was open. It led to a small bedroom. There was a single bed inside, on which sat a dark-skinned, sleepy-eyed woman, a baby suckling at her breast.

“Is she okay?” Quinn was asking the young woman.

“Okay,” came the reply.

“I’ll leave you in peace, then.” Quinn started closing the door.

“Peace,” came the quiet voice from within.

“Guess where I found her?” the artist asked Rebus.

“On the street?”

She shook her head. “At Whitemire. She’s a trained nurse, only she’s not allowed to work here. Others in Whitemire are doctors, teachers . . .” She smiled at the look on his face. “Don’t worry, I didn’t sneak her out or anything. If you offer an address and bail money, you can free any number of them.”

“Really? I didn’t know. How much does it cost?”

Her smile widened. “Someone you’re thinking of helping out, Inspector?”

“No . . . I was just wondering.”

“Plenty have been bailed already by people like me . . . Even the odd MSP has done it.” She paused. “It’s Mrs. Yurgii, isn’t it? I saw them bringing her back with her kids. Then, not much more than an hour later, you turn up with the doll’s house.” She paused again. “They won’t give her bail.”

“Why not?”

“She’s listed as an ‘abscond risk’—probably because her husband did the same thing.”

“Only now he’s dead.”

“I’m not sure that’ll change their minds.” She angled her head, as though seeking his potential as a future portrait. “You know something? Maybe I
was
too quick to judge you. Have you got time for some coffee?”

Rebus made a show of studying his watch. “Things to do,” he said. The sound of a car horn blared from below. “Plus I’ve a Mini driver downstairs to mollify.”

“Another time maybe.”

“Sure.” He handed her his card. “My mobile’s on the back.”

She held the card in the palm of her hand, as though weighing it. “Thanks for the lift,” she said.

“Let me know when the exhibition opens.”

“Just two things you’ll need to bring—your checkbook, for one . . .”

“And?”

“Your conscience,” she said, opening the door for him.

13

S
iobhan was fed up waiting. She’d called ahead to the hospital, and they’d tried paging Dr. Cater—to no effect. So she’d driven out there anyway and asked for him at reception. Again he’d been paged—again, to no effect.

“I’m sure he’s here,” a passing nurse had said. “I saw him half an hour back.”

“Where?” Siobhan had demanded.

But the nurse hadn’t been sure, offering half a dozen suggestions, so now Siobhan was prowling the wards and corridors, listening at doors, peering through the gaps in partitions, waiting outside rooms until consultations were finished and the doctor proved not to be Alexis Cater.

“Can I help?” She’d been asked this question a dozen times or more. Each time, she would ask for the whereabouts of Cater, receiving conflicting answers for her efforts.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” she muttered to herself as she entered a corridor she recognized from not ten minutes before. Stopping at a vending machine, she selected a can of Irn-Bru, sipping from it as she continued her quest. When her mobile sounded, she didn’t recognize the number on the screen: another mobile.

“Hello?” she said, turning another corner.

“Shiv? Is that you?”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Of course it’s me—you’re calling
my
phone, aren’t you?”

“Well, if that’s your attitude . . .”

“Hang on, hang on.” She gave a noisy sigh. “I’ve been trying to catch you.”

Alexis Cater chuckled. “I’d heard rumors. Nice to know I’m so popular . . .”

“But sliding down the charts as we speak. I thought you were going to get back to me.”

“Was I?”

“With your friend Pippa’s details,” Siobhan replied, not bothering to hide her exasperation. She lifted the can to her lips.

“It’ll rot your teeth,” Cater warned.

“What will . . . ?” Siobhan broke off suddenly, did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. He was watching her through the glass panel of a swing door halfway down the corridor. She started striding towards him.

“Nice hips,” his voice said.

“How long have you been following me?” she asked into her own phone.

“Not long.” He pushed open the door, closing his phone just as she closed hers. He was wearing his white coat unbuttoned, revealing a gray shirt and narrow pea-green tie.

“Maybe you’ve got time for games, but I haven’t.”

“Then why drive all the way out here? A simple call would have sufficed.”

“You weren’t answering.”

He formed his substantial lips into a pout. “You’re sure you weren’t dying to see me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Your friend Pippa,” she reminded him.

He nodded. “What about a drink after work? I’ll tell you then.”

“You’ll tell me
now.
”

“Good idea—we can have the drink without business intruding.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Pippa works for Bill Lindquist: do you know him?”

“No.”

“Hotshot PR guy. Based in London for a time, but got to like golf and fell in love with Edinburgh. He’s played a few rounds with my father . . .” He saw that Siobhan was impressed by none of this.

“Work address?”

“It’ll be in the phone book under ‘Lindquist PR.’ Down in the New Town somewhere . . . maybe India Street. I’d call first if I were you: PR isn’t PR if you’re sitting on your jacksy in the office . . .”

“Thanks for the advice . . .”

“Well, then . . . about that drink . . . ?”

Siobhan nodded. “Opal Lounge, nine o’clock?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great.” Siobhan smiled at him and started walking away. He called out to her, and she stopped.

“You’ve no intention of turning up, have you?”

“You’ll have to be there at nine to find out,” she said, waving as she headed down the corridor. Her mobile sounded and she took the call. Cater’s voice.

“You’ve still got great hips, Shiv. Shame not to give them some fresh air and exercise . . .”

She drove straight to India Street, calling ahead to make sure Pippa Greenlaw was there. She wasn’t: she was meeting some clients on Lothian Road but was expected back by the top of the hour. As Siobhan had estimated, traffic on the way back into town meant that she, too, arrived at the offices of Lindquist PR almost exactly on the hour. The office was in the basement of a traditional Georgian block, reached by a winding set of stone steps. Siobhan knew that a lot of properties in the New Town had been turned into office accommodation, but many were now reverting to their origins as private homes. There were plenty of “For Sale” signs on this and surrounding streets. The buildings in the New Town were proving unable to adapt to the needs of the new century: most had listed interiors. You couldn’t just rip walls out to put in new cabling systems or reconfigure the available space, and you couldn’t build new extensions. Local council red tape was there to ensure that the New Town’s famed “elegance” was retained, and when the local council failed, there were still plenty of local pressure groups to contend with . . .

Some of which became the topic of discussion between Siobhan and the receptionist, who was apologetic that Pippa had obviously been delayed. She poured coffee from the machine for Siobhan, offered her one of her own biscuits from the desk drawer, and chatted between answering phone calls.

“Ceiling’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she said. Siobhan agreed, staring up at the ornate cornicing. “You should see the fireplace in Mr. Lindquist’s office.” The receptionist screwed shut her eyes in rapture. “It’s absolutely . . .”

“Gorgeous?” Siobhan offered. The receptionist nodded.

“More coffee?”

Siobhan declined, having yet to start the first cup. A door opened and a male head appeared. “Pippa back?”

“She must have been delayed, Bill,” the receptionist apologized breathily. Lindquist looked at Siobhan but said nothing, then disappeared back into his room.

The receptionist smiled at Siobhan and raised her eyebrows slightly, the gesture telling Siobhan that she thought Mr. Lindquist, too, was gorgeous. Maybe everyone was gorgeous in PR, Siobhan decided—everyone and everything.

The outer door opened with some violence. “Fuckwits . . . bunch of brain-dead fuckwits.” A young woman strode in. She was slim, wearing a skirt and jacket which showed off her figure. Long red hair and glossy red lipstick. Black high heels and black stockings: something told Siobhan they were definitely stockings rather than tights. “How the hell are we supposed to help them when they’ve got gold medals in fuckwittery—answer that, Sherlock!” She slammed her briefcase down on the reception desk. “As God is my witness, Zara, if Bill sends me down there again, I’m taking an Uzi and as much bloody ammo as I can stuff into this case.” She slapped her briefcase, noticing only now that Zara’s eyes were on the line of chairs by the window.

“Pippa,” Zara said tremulously, “this lady’s been waiting to see you . . .”

“Name’s Siobhan Clarke,” Siobhan said, taking a step forward. “I’m a potential new client . . .” Seeing the look of horror on Greenlaw’s face, she held up a hand. “Only joking.”

Greenlaw rolled her eyes with relief. “Thank the sweet baby Jesus for that.”

“I’m actually a police officer.”

“I wasn’t serious about the Uzi . . .”

“Quite right—I believe they’re notorious for jamming. Much better with a Heckler and Koch . . .”

Pippa Greenlaw smiled. “Come into my office while I write that down.”

Her office was probably the maid’s room of the original multistory house, narrow and not especially long, with a barred window looking onto a cramped car park where Siobhan recognized a Maserati and a Porsche.

“I’m guessing yours is the Porsche,” she said.

“Of course it is—isn’t that why you’re here?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because that bloody speed camera near the zoo caught me again last week.”

“Nothing to do with me. Do you mind if I sit?”

Greenlaw frowned, nodding at the same time. Siobhan shifted some paperwork from a chair. “I want to ask you about one of Lex Cater’s parties,” she said.

“Which one?”

“About a year ago. It was the one with the skeletons.”

“Well . . . I was just about to say that no one ever remembers
anything
about Lex’s little gatherings—not with the amount of booze we get through—but I do remember that one. At least, I remember the skeleton.” She winced. “Bastard didn’t tell me it was real till after I’d kissed it.”

“You kissed it?”

“For a dare.” She paused. “After about ten glasses of champagne . . . There was a baby, too.” She winced again. “I remember now.”

“You remember who else was there?”

“Usual crowd probably. What’s this all about?”

“The skeletons went missing after the party.”

“Did they?”

“Lex never said?”

Pippa shook her head. Close up, her face was covered in freckles, which her tan only partially concealed. “I thought he’d just got rid of them.”

“You had a partner with you that night.”

“I’m never short of partners, darling.”

The door opened and Lindquist’s head appeared. “Pippa?” he said. “My office in five?”

“No problem, Bill.”

“And the meeting this afternoon . . . ?”

Greenlaw shrugged. “Absolutely fine, Bill, just as you said.”

He smiled and retreated again. Siobhan wondered if there was actually a body attached to the head and neck; maybe the rest of him was wires and metal. She waited a moment before speaking. “He must’ve heard you when you came in, or is his room soundproofed?”

“Bill only hears good news, that’s his golden rule . . . Why are you asking about Lex’s party?”

“The skeletons have turned up again—in a cellar in Fleshmarket Alley.”

Greenlaw’s eyes widened. “I heard about that on the radio!”

“What did you think?”

“Had to be a publicity stunt—that was my first reaction.”

“They were hidden under a concrete floor.”

“But dug up again.”

“They lay there the best part of a year . . .”

“Evidence of forward planning . . .” But Greenlaw sounded less sure. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. There was nothing else there but a slim silver laptop: no printer or trailing wires.

“You were with someone. Lex reckons he might have taken the skeletons.”

Greenlaw’s whole face creased. “Who was I with?”

“That’s what I was hoping you might tell me. Lex seems to remember he was a footballer.”

“A footballer?”

“That’s how you met him . . .”

Greenlaw was thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever . . . no, wait, there was one guy.” She angled her head towards heaven, revealing a slender neck. “He wasn’t a
real
footballer . . . played for some amateur side. Christ, what was his name?” Triumphantly, her eyes met Siobhan’s. “Barry.”

“Barry?”

“Or Gary . . . something like that.”

“You must know a lot of men.”

“Not that many at all, really. But plenty of forgettables like Barry-or-Gary.”

“Does he have a surname?”

“I probably never knew it.”

“Where did you meet him?”

Greenlaw tried to think back. “Almost certainly in a bar . . . maybe at a party or some launch for a client.” She smiled in apology. “It was a one-nighter; he was good-looking enough to be my date. Actually, I think I do remember him. I reckoned he might shock Lex.”

“Shock him how?”

“You know . . . a bit of rough.”

“And how rough was he?”

“Christ, I don’t mean he was a biker or anything. He was just a bit more . . .” She sought the right word. “More of a
prole
than I’d normally have hooked up with.”

She gave another shrug of apology and leaned back in her chair, rocking it slightly, fingertips pressed together.

“Any idea where he came from? Where he lived? How he earned a living?”

“I seem to remember he had a flat in Corstorphine . . . not that I saw it. He was . . .” She screwed shut her eyes for a moment. “No, I can’t remember what he did. Flashed the cash around, though.”

“What did he look like?”

“Bleached hair with dark highlights. Wiry, willing to show off his six-pack . . . Plenty of energy in bed, but no finesse. Not overendowed either.”

“That’s probably enough to be going on with.”

The two women shared a smile.

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” Greenlaw commented.

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

“And you don’t happen to’ve kept his phone number?”

“Every New Year, I make a little funeral pyre of all those scraps of paper . . . you know the ones—the numbers and initials, people you’ll never call again; some you’re not sure you ever knew in the first place. All those ghastly, garish fucking hypocrites who grab your bum on the dance floor or slip a hand around your tit at a party and assume that PR means Patently Rogerable . . .” Greenlaw let out a groan.

“This meeting you’ve just come from, Pippa . . . anything to drink, perchance?”

“Just champagne.”

“And you drove back here in the Porsche?”

“Oh, Christ, are you planning to breathalyze me, officer?”

“Actually, I’m quietly impressed: it’s taken me till now to notice.”

“Thing about champagne is, it always makes me so bloody thirsty.” She examined her watch. “Fancy joining me?”

“Zara’s got some coffee available,” Siobhan countered.

Greenlaw made a face. “I’ve got to talk to Bill, but that’s me finished for the day.”

“Lucky you.”

Greenlaw stuck out her bottom lip. “What about later?”

“I’ll let you into a secret: Lex is going to be at the Opal Lounge at nine.”

“Is he?”

“I’m sure he’d buy you a drink.”

“But that’s
hours
away,” Greenlaw protested.

“Tough it out,” Siobhan advised, rising to her feet. “And thanks for talking to me.”

She was ready to leave, but Greenlaw gestured for her to sit down again. She started rummaging in the desk drawers, finally producing a pad of paper and a pen.

“That gun you were talking about,” she said, “what was it called again . . . ?”