Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (31 page)

“That’s whose house the film was found in,” Les Young added.

“I still don’t see how I’m supposed to help.” Bullen turned to Rebus, as if for advice.

“Did you know Donny Cruikshank?” Siobhan asked.

Bullen turned back to her. “Never heard of him till I saw the murder in the paper.”

“He couldn’t have visited your club?”

“Course he could—there are times I’m not around . . . Barney’s the one to ask.”

“The barman?” Siobhan said.

Bullen nodded. “Or you could always ask Immigration . . . they seem to’ve been keeping a pretty close watch.” He smiled unconvincingly. “Hope they took care to catch my good side.”

“You mean you’ve got one?” Siobhan asked. Bullen’s smile vanished. He glanced at his watch. It looked expensive: chunky and gold.

“We about done here?”

“Not by a long chalk,” Les Young commented. But the door was opening, Felix Storey entering the room, followed by Shug Davidson.

“The gang’s all here!” Bullen exclaimed. “If the Nook was this busy, I’d be retiring to Gran Canaria . . .”

“Time’s up,” Storey was telling Young. “We need him again.”

Les Young looked to Siobhan. She was producing some Polaroids from her pocket, spreading them across the table in front of Bullen.

“You know
her,
” she said, stabbing one with her finger. “What about the others?”

“Faces don’t always mean a lot to me,” he said, looking her up and down. “It’s bodies I tend to remember.”

“She’s one of your dancers.”

“Yeah,” he admitted at last. “She is. What of it?”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“She’s got a shift this evening, as it happens . . .” He looked at his watch again. “Always supposing Barney can open up.”

Storey was shaking his head. “Not until we’ve searched the place.”

Bullen gave a sigh. “In that case,” he told Siobhan, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You must have an address for her . . . a phone number.”

“The girls like to be discreet . . . I might have a mobile somewhere.” He nodded towards Storey. “Ask nicely and he might find it for you when he’s ransacking the premises.”

“Not necessary,” Rebus said. He’d walked over to the table to study the photos. Now he picked up the one of the dancer. “I know her,” he said. “Know where she lives, too.” Siobhan stared at him in disbelief. “Name’s Kate.” He looked down at Bullen. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Kate, yeah,” Bullen admitted grudgingly. “Likes to dance a bit, does Kate.”

He said it almost wistfully.

“You handled him well,” Rebus said. He was in the passenger seat, Siobhan driving. Les Young had left them to it, needing to get back to Banehall. Rebus was sifting through the Polaroids again.

“How so?” she eventually asked.

“Someone like Bullen, you have to be straight with them. They clam shut otherwise.”

“He didn’t give us much.”

“He’d have given young Leslie a lot less.”

“Maybe.”

“Christ, Shiv, accept some praise for once in your life!”

“I’m looking for the ulterior motive.”

“You won’t find one.”

“That would be a first . . .”

They were heading for Pollock Halls. On the way out to the car, Rebus had filled her in on how he knew Kate.

“Should have recognized her,” he’d said, shaking his head. “All that music in her room.”

“Call yourself a detective,” Siobhan had teased him. Then: “Might have helped if she’d just been wearing a thong.”

They were on Dalkeith Road now, a stone’s throw from St. Leonard’s with its cells full of mollusk-pickers. Nothing as yet had come of the questioning—or nothing that Felix Storey was willing to share. Siobhan signaled left into Holyrood Park Road, and right into Pollock. Andy Edmunds was still manning the barrier. He crouched down by the open window.

“Back again so soon?” he asked.

“A few more questions for Kate,” Rebus explained.

“You’re too late—saw her heading out on her bike.”

“How long ago?”

“No more than five minutes . . .”

Rebus turned to Siobhan. “She’s on her way to her shift.”

Siobhan nodded. No way Kate could know they’d pulled in Stuart Bullen. Rebus gave Edmunds a wave as Siobhan executed a three-point turn. She ignored the red light at Dalkeith Road, horns sounding all around her.

“I need to fix a siren to this car,” she muttered. “Reckon we’ll beat her to the Nook?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean we won’t catch her—she’s going to want an explanation.”

“Are any of Storey’s men there?”

“No idea,” Rebus admitted. They had passed St. Leonard’s and were heading for the Cowgate and the Grassmarket. It took Rebus some moments to work out what Siobhan already knew: this was the quickest route.

But also prone to backups. More horns sounded, headlights alerting them to several illegal and bad-mannered maneuvers.

“What was it like in that tunnel?” Siobhan asked.

“Grim.”

“No sign of any immigrants, though?”

“No,” Rebus admitted.

“See, if I was in charge of a surveillance, it would be
them
I’d want to watch.”

Rebus tended to agree. “But what if Bullen never goes near them? He doesn’t need to, after all—he’s got the Irishman working as go-between.”

“The same Irishman you saw at Knoxland?”

Rebus nodded. Then he saw what she was getting at. “That’s where they are, isn’t it? I mean, that’s the best place to stash them.”

“I thought the place had been searched high and low?” Siobhan said, playing devil’s advocate.

“But we were looking for a killer, looking for witnesses . . .” He broke off.

“What is it?” Siobhan asked.

“Mo Dirwan was beaten up when he went snooping . . . beaten up in Stevenson House.” He was reaching for his mobile and punched in Caro Quinn’s number. “Caro? It’s John, I’ve got a question for you—where were you exactly when you were chased off Knoxland?” His eyes were on Siobhan as he listened. “You’re sure of that? No, no real reason . . . I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” He ended the call. “She’d just arrived at Stevenson House,” he told Siobhan.

“Now there’s a coincidence.”

Rebus was staring at his mobile. “I need to tell Storey.” Instead of which, he turned the mobile over and over in his hand.

“You’re not calling him,” she commented.

“I’m not sure I trust him,” Rebus admitted. “He gets all these useful anonymous tip-offs. That’s how he knew about Bullen, the Nook, the mollusk-pickers . . .”

“And?”

Rebus shrugged. “And he got this sudden inspiration about the BMW . . . exactly what was needed to connect it to Bullen.”

“Another tip-off?” Siobhan guessed.

“So who’s making the calls?”

“Has to be someone close to Bullen.”

“Could just be someone who knows a lot about him. But if Storey
is
being fed all this info . . . surely he must have suspicions of his own?”

“You mean: ‘Why am I being fed all this great stuff?’ Maybe he just isn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Rebus pondered this for a moment. “Gift horse or Trojan horse?”

“Is that her?” Siobhan said abruptly. She was pointing to an approaching cyclist. The bike passed them, heading downhill to the Grassmarket.

“I didn’t really see,” Rebus admitted. Siobhan bit her lip.

“Hang on,” she said, hitting the brake hard, executing another three-point turn, this time with traffic backing up in both directions. Rebus waved and shrugged by way of apology, then, when one driver started yelling from his window, resorted to less conciliatory gestures. Siobhan was driving them back into Grassmarket, the angry driver on her tail, lights on full beam, horn sounding a tattoo.

Rebus turned in his seat and glared at the man, who kept shouting and waving a fist.

“He’s got a hard-on for us,” Siobhan said.

Rebus tutted. “Language, please.” Then, leaning out of the window, he yelled “We’re fucking police officers!” at the top of his voice, keenly aware that the man couldn’t hear him. Siobhan burst out laughing, then turned the steering wheel sharply.

“She’s stopped,” she said. The cyclist was getting off her bike, preparing to chain it to a lamppost. They were in the heart of the Grassmarket, all smart bistros and tourist pubs. Siobhan pulled up in a no-parking zone and jogged from the car. From this distance, Rebus recognized Kate. She was dressed in a frayed denim jacket and cut-off jeans, long black boots, and a silky pink neck scarf. She was looking confused as Siobhan introduced herself. Rebus undid his seat belt and was about to open the door when an arm snaked through the window and caught his head in its vicelike grip.

“What’s your game, then, pal?” the voice roared. “Think you own the bloody highway, do you?”

Rebus’s mouth and nose were muffled by the padded sleeve of the man’s oily jacket. He fumbled for the door handle and pushed with all his might, tumbling from the car onto his knees, sending a fresh jolt of pain through both legs. The man was still on the opposite side of the car door from Rebus and showed no sign of releasing his prey. The door acted as a shield, protecting him from Rebus’s swipes and punches.

“Think you’re the big guy, eh? Giving me the finger . . .”

“He
is
the big guy,” Rebus heard Siobhan saying. “He’s police, same as me. Now let him go.”

“He’s what?”

“I said let him go!” The pressure eased on Rebus and he pulled his head free, standing up straight and feeling the blood singing in his ears, the world swirling around him. Siobhan had wrenched the man’s free arm halfway up his back and was now forcing him down onto his knees, head stooped. Rebus brought out his warrant card and held in front of the man’s nose.

“Try that again and I’ll do you,” he gasped.

Siobhan released her hold and took a step back. She, too, had her ID out by the time the man straightened up.

“How was I supposed to know?” was all the man said. But Siobhan had already dismissed him. She was walking back towards Kate, who had watched the performance wide-eyed. Rebus made a show of noting the man’s registration as he retreated to his car. Then he turned and joined Siobhan and Kate.

“Kate was just stopping off for a drink,” Siobhan explained. “I’ve asked if we might join her.”

Rebus could think of nothing better.

“I’m meeting someone in half an hour,” Kate cautioned.

“Half an hour’s all we need,” Rebus assured her.

They made for the nearest place, found a table. The jukebox was loud, but Rebus got the barman to turn it down. A pint for himself, soft drinks for the two women.

“I was just telling Kate,” Siobhan said, “how good a dancer she is.” Rebus nodded agreement, feeling a jolt of pain in his neck. “I thought it the first time I saw you at the Nook,” Siobhan went on, making the place sound like an upmarket disco. Smart girl, thought Rebus: no moralizing, no making the witness nervous or embarrassed . . . He took a gulp from his glass.

“That’s all it is, you know . . . dancing.” Kate’s eyes flitted between Siobhan and Rebus. “All these things they are saying about Stuart—that he is a people-smuggler—I did not know anything about it.” She paused, as if about to say something more, but instead sipped her drink.

“You’re putting yourself through uni?” Rebus guessed. She nodded.

“I saw an advertisement in the newspaper: ‘Dancers wanted.’” She smiled. “I’m not stupid, I knew straightaway what sort of place the Nook would be, but the girls there are great . . . and all I ever do is dance.”

“Albeit with no clothes on.” The sentence came out almost without thinking. Siobhan glared at Rebus, but too late.

Kate’s face hardened. “Are you not listening? I said I do not do any of the other things.”

“We know that, Kate,” Siobhan said quietly. “We’ve seen the film.”

Kate looked at her. “What film?”

“The one where you’re dancing beside a fireplace.” Siobhan placed the Polaroid on the tabletop. Kate snatched at it, not wanting it seen.

“That happened the one time,” she said, refusing to make eye contact. “One of the girls told me it was easy money. I told her I wouldn’t do anything . . .”

“And you didn’t,” Siobhan agreed. “I’ve seen the film, so we know that’s true. You put on some music and you danced.”

“Yeah, and then they wouldn’t pay me. Alberta offered me part of her money, but I would not take it from her. She had worked for that money.” She took another sip of her drink, Siobhan following suit. Both women placed their glasses down at the same time.

“The guy behind the camera,” Siobhan said, “did you know him?”

“I had never met him until we walked into the house.”

“And where was the house?”

Kate shrugged. “Somewhere outside Edinburgh. Alberta was driving . . . I did not really pay much attention.” She looked at Siobhan. “Who else saw this film?”

“Just me,” Siobhan lied. Kate turned her attention to Rebus, who shook his head, letting her know he hadn’t viewed it.

“I’m looking into a murder,” Siobhan continued.

“I know . . . the immigrant in Knoxland.”

“Actually, that’s DI Rebus’s case. The one I’m involved in happened in a town called Banehall. The man behind the camera . . .” She broke off. “Do you happen to remember his name?”

Kate looked thoughtful. “Mark?” she eventually offered.

Siobhan nodded slowly. “No surname?”

“He had a big tattoo on his neck . . .”

“A spider’s web,” Siobhan agreed. “At one point, another man came in, and Mark handed him the camera.” Siobhan produced another Polaroid, this time a blurred image of Donny Cruikshank. “Do you remember him?”

“To be honest with you, I had my eyes closed most of the time. I was trying to concentrate on the music . . . it’s how I do the job—by thinking of nothing but the music.”

Siobhan nodded again, to show she understood. “He’s the one who got murdered, Kate. Is there anything you can tell me about him?”

She shook her head. “I just got the feeling the two of them were enjoying themselves. Like schoolkids, you know? They had that feverish look to them.”

“Feverish?”

“Almost as if they were trembling. In a room with three naked women: I got the feeling it was new to them, new and exciting . . .”