Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (15 page)

“Aye, right, like I’d let that happen.”

“A lot of things are going to happen to you that you can’t control, son. Take it from a veteran.”

The lift came to a stop, its doors not opening fast enough for the youth, who started trying to pull them apart, squeezing out and loping off. Rebus watched him cross the stretch of playground. Shug Davidson, too, was watching from the Portakabin’s doorway.

“Been fraternizing with the locals?” he asked.

“A bit of lifestyle advice,” Rebus acknowledged. “What’s his name, by the way?”

Davidson had to think. “Howard Slowther . . . calls himself Howie.”

“Age?”

“Nearly fifteen. Education is after him for truancy. Young Howie’s heading down the pan big time.” Davidson shrugged. “And there’s bugger-all we can do about it until he does something really stupid.”

“Which could be any day now,” Rebus said, eyes still on the rapidly retreating figure, following it as it descended the slope towards the underpass.

“Any day,” Davidson agreed. “What time’s your meeting at the mortuary?”

“Ten.” Rebus checked his watch. “Time I was going.”

“Remember: keep in touch.”

“I’ll send you a postcard, Shug: ‘Wish you were here.’”

12

S
iobhan had no reason to think that Ishbel’s “pimp” was Stuart Bullen: Bullen seemed too young. He had the leather jacket, but not a sports car. She’d looked at an X5 on the Internet, and it was anything but sporty.

Then again, she’d asked him a specific question: what car did he drive? Maybe he had more than one: the X5 for day-to-day stuff, and something else garaged for nights and weekends. Was it worth checking? Worth another visit to the Nook? Right now, she didn’t think so.

Having squeezed into a space on Cockburn Street, she was walking up Fleshmarket Alley. A couple of middle-aged tourists were gazing at the cellar door. The man held a videocam, the woman a guidebook.

“Excuse me,” the woman asked. Her accent was English Midlands, maybe Yorkshire. “Do you know if this is where the skeletons were found?”

“That’s right,” Siobhan told her.

“The tour guide told us about it,” the woman explained. “Last night.”

“One of the ghost tours?” Siobhan guessed.

“That’s it, pet. She told us it were witchcraft.”

“Is that right?”

The husband had already started filming the studded wooden door. Siobhan found herself apologizing as she brushed past. The pub wasn’t open yet, but she reckoned someone would be there, so she rattled the door with her foot. The lower half was solid, but the top half comprised green glass circles, like the bottoms of wine bottles. She watched a shadow move behind the glass, the click of a key being turned.

“We open at eleven.”

“Mr. Mangold? DS Clarke . . . remember me?”

“Christ, what is it now?”

“Any chance I can come in?”

“I’m in a meeting.”

“It won’t take long . . .”

Mangold hesitated, then pulled open the door.

“Thanks,” Siobhan said, stepping in. “What happened to your face?”

He touched the bruising on his left cheek. The eye above was swollen. “Bit of a disagreement with a punter,” he said. “One of the perils of the job.”

Siobhan looked towards the barman. He was transferring ice from one bucket to another, gave her a nod of greeting. There was a smell of disinfectant and wood polish. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the bar, a mug of coffee next to it. There was paperwork, too: the morning post by the look of things.

“Looks like you got off lightly,” she said. The barman shrugged.

“Wasn’t my shift.”

She noticed two more mugs of coffee on a corner table, a woman cupping one of them in both hands. There was a small pile of books in front of her. Siobhan could make out a couple of the titles:
Edinburgh Haunts
and
The City Above and Below.

“Make it quick, will you? I’m up to my eyes today.” Mangold seemed in no hurry to introduce his other visitor, but Siobhan offered her a smile anyway, which the woman returned. She was in her forties, with frizzy dark hair tied back with a black velvet bow. She’d kept on her Afghan coat. Siobhan could see bare ankles and leather sandals beneath. Mangold stood with arms folded, legs apart, in the center of the room.

“You were going to look out the paperwork,” Siobhan reminded him.

“Paperwork?”

“For the laying of the floor in the cellar.”

“There aren’t enough hours in the day,” Mangold complained.

“Even so, sir . . .”

“Two fake skeletons—where’s the fire?” He held his arms out in supplication.

Siobhan realized that the woman was coming towards them. “You’re interested in the burials?” she asked in a soft, sibilant voice.

“That’s right,” Siobhan said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke, and you’re Judith Lennox.” Lennox went wide-eyed. “I recognize you from your picture in the paper,” Siobhan explained.

Lennox took Siobhan’s hand, gripping rather than shaking it. “You’re so full of energy, Miss Clarke. It’s like electricity.”

“And you’re giving Mr. Mangold here a history lesson.”

“Quite right.” The woman’s eyes had widened again.

“The titles on the spines,” Siobhan explained, nodding towards the books. “Bit of a giveaway.”

Lennox looked at Mangold. “I’m helping Ray develop his new theme bar . . . it’s very exciting.”

“The cellar?” Siobhan guessed.

“He wants some idea of historical context.”

Mangold coughed an interruption. “I’m sure Detective Sergeant Clarke has better things to do with her time . . .” Hinting that he, too, was a man with things to do. Then, to Siobhan: “I did have a quick look for anything to do with the job, but came up blank. Could have been cash-in-hand. Plenty cowboys out there who’ll lay a floor, no questions asked, nothing in writing . . .”

“Nothing in writing?” Siobhan repeated.

“You were here when the skeletons were found?” Judith Lennox asked.

Siobhan tried to ignore her, focused on Mangold instead. “You’re trying to tell me . . .”

“It was Mag Lennox, wasn’t it? It was her skeleton you found.”

Siobhan stared at the woman. “What makes you say that?”

Judith Lennox squeezed shut her eyes. “I had a premonition. I’d been trying to arrange tours of the medical faculty . . . they wouldn’t let me. Wouldn’t even let me see the skeleton . . .” Her eyes burned with zeal. “I’m her descendant, you know.”

“Are you?”

“She laid a curse on this country, and on anyone who would do her harm or mischief.” Lennox nodded to herself.

Siobhan thought of Cater and McAteer: not much sign of any curse befalling them. She thought of saying as much, but remembered her promise to Curt.

“All I know is the skeletons were fake,” Siobhan stressed.

“My point exactly,” Mangold broke in. “So why are you so bloody interested?”

“It would be nice to have an explanation,” Siobhan said quietly. She thought back to the scene in the cellar, the way her whole body had contracted at sight of the infant . . . placing her coat gently over the bones.

“They found skeletons in the grounds of Holyrood,” Lennox was saying. “
Those
were real enough. And a coven in Gilmerton.”

Siobhan knew of the “coven”: a series of chambers buried beneath a bookmaker’s shop. But last she’d heard, it had been proven to belong to a blacksmith. Not a view she guessed would be shared by the historian.

“And that’s as much as you can tell me?” she asked Mangold instead.

He opened his arms again, gold bracelets sliding over his wrists.

“In which case,” said Siobhan, “I’ll let you get back to work. It was nice to meet you, Miss Lennox.”

“And you,” the historian said. She pushed a palm forward. Siobhan took a step back. Lennox had her eyes closed again, lashes fluttering. “Make use of that energy. It is replenishable.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Lennox opened her eyes, focusing on Siobhan. “We give some of our life force to our children.
They
are the true replenishment . . .”

The look Mangold gave Siobhan was mostly apologetic, partly self-pitying: his time with Judith Lennox, after all, still had a ways to run . . .

Rebus had never seen children in a mortuary before, and the sight offended him. This was a place for professionals, for adults, for the widowed. It was a place for unwelcome truths about the human body. It was the antithesis of childhood.

Then again, what was childhood to the Yurgii children but confusion and desperation?

Which didn’t stop Rebus pinning one of the guards to the wall. Not physically, of course, not using his hands. But by dint of placing himself at an intimidating proximity to the man and then inching forward, until the guard had his back to the wall of the waiting area.

“You brought kids
here
?” Rebus spat.

The guard was young; his ill-fitting uniform offered no protection against someone like Rebus. “They wouldn’t stay,” he stammered. “Bawling and grabbing on to her . . .” Rebus had turned his head to look at where the seated mother was folding the children in towards her, showing no interest in this scene, and in turn being embraced by her friend in the head scarf, the one from Whitemire. The boy, however, was watching intently. “Mr. Traynor thought it best to let them come.”

“They could have stayed in the van.” Rebus had seen it outside: custodial blue with bars on its windows, a toughened grille between the front seats and the benches in the back.

“Not without their mum . . .”

The door was opening, a second guard entering. This man was the elder. He held a clipboard. Behind him came the white-coated figure of Bill Ness, who ran the mortuary. Ness was in his fifties, with Buddy Holly glasses. As ever, he was chewing a piece of gum. He went over to the family and offered the rest of the packet to the children, who reacted by moving even closer to their mother. Left standing in the doorway was Ellen Wylie. She was there to witness the ID procedure. She hadn’t known Rebus was coming, and he’d since told her that she was welcome to the job.

“Everything all right here?” the elder guard was asking Rebus now.

“Hunky-dory,” Rebus said, taking a couple of paces back.

“Mrs. Yurgii,” Ness was coaxing, “we’re ready when you are.”

She nodded and tried rising to her feet, had to be helped up by her friend. She placed a hand on either child’s head.

“I’ll stay here with them, if you like,” Rebus said. She looked at him, then whispered something to the children, who gripped her all the harder.

“Your mum’ll just be through that door,” Ness told them, pointing. “We’ll only be a minute . . .”

Mrs. Yurgii crouched in front of son and daughter, whispered more words to them. Her eyes were glazed with tears. Then she lifted either child onto a chair, smiled at them, and backed away towards the door. Ness held it open for her. Both guards followed her, the elder glaring a warning towards Rebus:
Keep an eye on them.
Rebus didn’t even blink.

When the door closed, the girl ran towards it, placing her hands against its surface. She said nothing and wasn’t crying. Her brother went to her, put his arm around her, and led her back to where they’d been sitting. Rebus crouched down, resting his back against the wall opposite. It was a desolate spot: no posters or notices, no magazines. Nothing to pass the time because no one passed time here. Usually you waited only a minute, enough time for the body to be moved from its refrigerated shelf to the viewing room. And afterwards, you left swiftly, not wishing to spend another minute in this place. There wasn’t even a clock, for, as Ness had said once to Rebus, “Our clients are out of time.” One of countless puns which helped him and his colleagues do the job they did.

“My name’s John, by the way,” Rebus told the children. The girl was transfixed by the door, but the boy seemed to understand.

“Police bad,” he stated with passion.

“Not here,” Rebus told him. “Not in this country.”

“In Turkey, very bad.”

Rebus nodded acceptance of this. “But not here,” he repeated. “Here, police good.” The boy looked skeptical, and Rebus didn’t blame him. After all, what did he know of the police? They accompanied the Immigration officials, taking the family into custody. The Whitemire guards probably looked like police officers, too: anyone in a uniform was suspect. Anyone in authority.

They were the people who made his mother cry, his father disappear.

“You want to stay here? In this country?” Rebus asked. This concept was beyond the lad. He blinked a few times, until it was clear he wasn’t about to answer.

“What toys do you like?”

“Toys?”

“Things you play with.”

“I play with my sister.”

“You play games, read books?”

Again, the question seemed unanswerable. It was as if Rebus were quizzing him on local history or the rules of rugby.

The door opened. Mrs. Yurgii was sobbing quietly, supported by her friend, the officials behind them somber, as befitted the moment. Ellen Wylie nodded at Rebus to let him know identity had been confirmed.

“That’s us, then,” the elder guard stated. The children were clinging to their mother again. The guards started maneuvering all four figures towards the opposite door, the one leading back to the outside world, the land of the living.

The boy turned just the once, as if to gauge Rebus’s reaction. Rebus tried a smile which was not returned.

Ness headed back into the heart of the building, which left only Rebus and Wylie in the waiting area.

“Do we need to talk to her?” she asked.

“Why?”

“To establish when she last heard from her husband . . .”

Rebus shrugged. “That’s up to you, Ellen.”

She looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

Rebus shook his head slowly.

“It’s tough on the kids,” she said.

“Tell me,” he asked, “when do you reckon was the last time life
wasn’t
tough on those kids?”

She shrugged. “Nobody asked them to come here.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

She was still looking at him. “But it’s not the point you were making?” she guessed.

“I just think they deserve a childhood,” he responded. “That’s all.”

He went outside to smoke a cigarette, watched Wylie drive off in her Volvo. He paced the small car park, three of the mortuary’s unmarked vans standing there, awaiting their next call. Inside, the attendants would be playing cards and drinking tea. There was a nursery school across the street, and Rebus considered the short journey between the two, then squashed the remains of the cigarette underfoot and got into his own car. Drove towards Gayfield Square, but continued past the police station. There was a toy shop he knew: Harburn Hobbies on Elm Row. He parked outside and headed in. Didn’t bother looking at the prices, just picked out a few things: a simple train set, a couple of model kits, and a doll’s house and doll. The assistant helped him load the car. Back behind the steering wheel, he had another idea, this time driving to his flat in Arden Street. In the hall cupboard, he found a box full of old annuals and storybooks from when his daughter was twenty years younger. Why were they still there? Maybe awaiting the grandchildren who’d not yet come. Rebus put them on the backseat beside the other toys, and drove west out of town. Traffic was light, and within half an hour he was at the Whitemire turnoff. There were wisps of smoke from the campfire, but the woman was rolling up her tent, paying him no heed. A different guard was on duty at the gatehouse. Rebus had to show his ID, drive to the car park, and be met by another guard, who was reluctant to help with the haul.