Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (36 page)

“Easy, Janet, easy.” She was shaking, eyes red-rimmed and watery. There was a pulse fluttering behind her left eyelid. “It’ll soon be over, nothing for you to worry about.”

“Not even when I’m a suspect in a murder?”

“I’m sure you’re not a suspect; it’s just something that has to be done.”

“And you’ve not come here to talk to Mr. Traynor about me? Isn’t it bad enough that I had to lie to him about this morning? Told him it was a family emergency.”

“Why not just tell him the truth?”

She shook her head violently. Rebus leaned past her and peered into the office. Traynor’s door was still closed. “Look, they’ll be getting suspicious . . .”

“I want to know why this is happening! Why is it happening to
me
?”

Rebus held her by both shoulders. “Just hang in there, Janet. Not much longer.”

“I don’t know how much more I can take . . .” Her voice was dying away, eyes losing focus.

“One day at a time, Janet, that’s the best way,” Rebus offered, dropping his hands. He held eye contact for a moment. “Take it one day at a time,” he repeated, walking past her, not looking back.

He knocked on Traynor’s door, entered, and closed it behind him.

The two men were seated. Rebus lowered himself into the empty chair.

“I’ve just been telling Mr. Traynor about Stuart Bullen’s network,” Storey said.

“And I’m incredulous,” Traynor said, throwing up his hands. Rebus ignored him, met Felix Storey’s stare.

“You haven’t told him?”

“Waited for you to come back.”

“Told me what?” Traynor asked, trying for a smile. Rebus turned to him.

“Mr. Traynor, quite a few of the people we detained had come from Whitemire. They’d been bailed out by Stuart Bullen.”

“Impossible.” The smile had gone. Traynor looked at both men. “We wouldn’t have let him do it.”

Storey shrugged. “There would’ve been aliases, false addresses . . .”

“But we interview the applicants.”

“You personally, Mr. Traynor?”

“Not always, no.”

“He’d have had people fronting for him, respectable-looking people.” Storey produced a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I’ve got the Whitemire list here . . . easy enough for you to check it.”

Traynor took the piece of paper and studied it.

“Any of the names ring a bell?” Rebus asked.

Traynor just nodded slowly, thoughtfully. His phone rang, and he picked it up.

“Oh, yes, hello,” he said into the mouthpiece. “No, we can cope, it’s just going to take a bit of time. Might mean increasing the workload for the staff . . . Yes, I’m sure I could do a spreadsheet, but it might not be for a few days . . .” He listened, eyes on his two visitors. “Well, of course,” he said at last. “And if we could take on some new staff, or poach a few from one of our sister facilities . . . ? Just until the new intake’s bedded in, so to speak . . .”

The conversation lasted only another minute, Traynor jotting something down on a sheet of paper as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

“You can see what it’s like,” he told Rebus and Storey.

“Organized chaos?” Storey guessed.

“Which is why I really must cut this meeting short.”

“Must you?” Rebus said.

“Yes, I really must.”

“And that wouldn’t be because you’re scared of what we’ll say next?”

“I don’t quite catch your drift, Inspector.”

“Want me to do you a spreadsheet?” Rebus gave an ice-cold smile. “A lot easier to pull something like this off with someone on the inside.”

“What?”

“Some cash changing hands, over and above the bail money.”

“Look, I really don’t like the tone you’re taking.”

“Take another look at the list, Mr. Traynor. Couple of Kurdish names there—Turkish Kurds, same as the Yurgiis.”

“So what?”

“When I asked you, you said no Kurds had been bailed from Whitemire.”

“Then I made a mistake.”

“Another name on the list—I think it says she’s from the Ivory Coast.”

Traynor looked down at the sheet of paper. “That appears to be what it says.”

“Ivory Coast—official language: French. But when I asked you about Africans in Whitemire, you said the same thing—none had been bailed.”

“Look, I’ve had a lot on my plate . . . I really don’t remember saying that.”

“I think you do, and the only reason I can think for you to lie is that you had something to hide. You didn’t want me to know about these people, because then I might have gone looking for them and found out about their sponsors’ fake names and addresses.” It was Rebus’s turn to hold his hands up. “Unless you can think of another reason.”

Traynor slammed both hands against the desktop and rose to his feet, face darkening. “You’ve got no right to make these accusations!”

“Convince me.”

“I don’t think I need to.”

“I think you do, Mr. Traynor,” Felix Storey said quietly. “Because the allegations are serious, and they’ll have to be investigated, which means my men going through your files, checking and cross-checking. They’ll swarm all over this place. And we’ll be looking at your personal life, too—bank deposits, recent purchases . . . maybe a new car or expensive holiday. Rest assured we’ll be thorough.”

Traynor had his head bowed down. When the phone started ringing again, he swept it from his desk, sending a framed photo flying at the same time. The glass smashed, dislodging the photograph: a woman smiling, arm around her young daughter. The door opened, Janet Eylot’s head appearing.

“Get out!” Traynor roared.

Eylot squeaked as she retreated.

Silence in the room for a moment, broken eventually by Rebus. “One more thing,” he said quietly. “Bullen’s going down, no two ways about it. Reckon he’ll be keeping his mouth shut about anyone else involved? He’ll take down whoever he can. Some of them he might be scared of, but he won’t be scared of you, Traynor. Once we start doing deals with him, I’d say your name’s going to be the first one out of his mouth.”

“I can’t do this . . . not now.” Traynor’s voice was close to breaking. “I have all these new arrivals to take care of.” He looked up at Rebus, appeared to be blinking back tears. “These people need me.”

Rebus just shrugged. “And afterwards, you’ll speak to us?”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“If you
do
talk,” Storey confided, “there’s less reason for us to come crawling all over your little domain.”

Traynor gave a twisted smile. “My ‘domain’? The minute you make your allegation public, I’ll lose this place.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before.”

Traynor said nothing. He came out from behind his desk, picked up the telephone, putting the receiver back in place. Immediately, it started ringing again. Traynor ignored it, bent down to pick up the photo frame.

“Will you leave now, please? We’ll talk again later.”

“But not much later,” Storey warned him.

“I need to see to the new arrivals.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Storey prompted. “We’ll be back first thing.”

Traynor nodded. “Check with Janet that there’s nothing in my diary.”

Storey seemed content with this. He stood up, buttoning his jacket. “Then we’ll leave you to it. But remember, Mr. Traynor—this isn’t going to go away. Best that you speak to us before Bullen does.” He held out his hand, but Traynor ignored it. Storey opened the door and made his exit, Rebus staying behind an extra moment before joining him. Janet Eylot was flicking through a large desk diary. She found the relevant page.

“He’s got a meeting at ten-fifteen.”

“Cancel it,” Storey ordered. “What time does he start work?”

“Around eight-thirty.”

“Book us in for then. We’ll need a couple of hours minimum.”

“His next meeting’s at noon—should I cancel that, too?”

Storey nodded. Rebus was staring at the closed door. “John,” Storey said, “you’ll be with me tomorrow, right?”

“I thought you were keen to get back to London.”

Storey shrugged. “This ties everything into one neat bundle.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

The guard who’d escorted them from the car park was waiting to show them out. Rebus touched Storey’s arm. “Can you wait for me at the car?”

Storey stared at him. “What’s going on?”

“Just someone I want to see . . . it won’t take a minute.”

“You’re locking me out,” Storey stated.

“Maybe I am. But will you do it anyway?”

Storey took his time deciding, then agreed.

Rebus asked the guard to take him over towards the canteen. It was only when Storey was out of earshot that he refined his request.

“Actually, I want the family wing,” he said.

When he got there, he saw what he needed to: Stef Yurgii’s kids, playing with the toys Rebus had bought. They didn’t notice him; too wrapped up in their own worlds, same as any other children. There was no immediate sign of Yurgii’s widow, but Rebus decided he didn’t need to see her. Instead, he nodded to the guard, who led him back towards the courtyard.

Rebus was halfway to the car when he heard the scream. It was coming from inside the main building, coming closer. The door burst open and a woman stumbled out, falling to her knees. It was Janet Eylot, and she was still screaming.

Rebus ran towards her, conscious that Storey was heading that way, too.

“What’s the matter, Janet? What is it?”

“He’s . . . he’s . . .”

But instead of answering, she slumped to the ground and started wailing, pulling her knees up, curving her body to meet them. Lying on her side, arms locked around herself.

“Oh God,” she cried. “God have mercy . . .”

They ran inside, down the corridor, and into the outer office. The door to Traynor’s room was open, staff members filling the doorway. Rebus and Storey pushed past. A uniformed female guard was kneeling by the body on the floor. There was blood everywhere, soaking into the carpet and into Alan Traynor’s shirt. The guard was pressing the palm of her hand against a wound on Traynor’s left wrist. Another guard, male this time, was working on the slashed right wrist. Traynor was conscious, staring wide-eyed, chest rising and falling. There was more blood smeared across his face.

“Get a doctor . . .”

“An ambulance . . .”

“Keep pressing . . .”

“Towels . . .”

“Bandages . . .”

“Just keep the pressure on!” the female guard yelled to her male colleague.

Keep the pressure on indeed, Rebus thought: wasn’t that exactly what he and Storey had done?

There were shards of glass on Traynor’s shirt. Shards from the cracked photo frame. The shards he’d used to cut open his wrists. Rebus realized that Storey was looking at him. He returned the stare.

You knew, didn’t you?
Storey’s look seemed to be saying.
You knew it would come to this . . . and yet you did nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And the look Rebus gave him back, it said nothing at all.

When the ambulance arrived, Rebus was just inside the perimeter fence, finishing a cigarette. As the gates were opened, he stepped out onto the road, walking past the guardhouse and down the slope towards where Caro Quinn was standing, watching the ambulance disappear into the compound.

“Not another suicide?” she asked, appalled.

“An attempt anyway,” Rebus informed her. “But not one of the inmates.”

“Who, then?”

“Alan Traynor.”

“What?” Her whole face seemed to crease itself into the question.

“Tried slashing his wrists.”

“Is he all right?”

“I really don’t know. Good news for you, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Next few days, Caro, a lot of shit’s going to start flying. Maybe even enough to see this place shut down.”

“And you call that good news?”

Rebus frowned. “It’s what you’ve been wanting.”

“Not like this! At the cost of another man’s life!”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Rebus argued.

“I think you did.”

“Then you’re paranoid.”

She took half a step back. “Is that what I am?”

“Look, I just thought . . .”

“You don’t know me, John. You don’t know me
at all
. . .”

Rebus paused, as if considering his answer. “I can live with that,” he said at last, turning to head back to the gates.

Storey was waiting for him at the car. His only comment: “You seem to know a lot of people around here.”

Rebus gave a snort. Both men watched as one of the paramedics jogged back to the ambulance for something he’d forgotten.

“Reckon we should have made that
two
ambulances,” Storey said.

“Janet Eylot?” Rebus guessed.

Storey nodded. “Staff are worried about her. She’s in another of the offices, lying on the floor wrapped in blankets, shaking like a leaf.”

“I told her everything would be all right,” Rebus said quietly, almost to himself.

“Then I won’t go depending on you for an expert opinion.”

“No,” Rebus said, “you definitely shouldn’t do that . . .”

29

T
he train was fifteen minutes late. Siobhan and Mangold were waiting at the end of the platform, watching the doors slide open, the passengers start spilling out. There were tourists with suitcases, looking tired and bewildered. Business travelers emerged from the first-class compartments and headed briskly towards the taxi rank. Mothers with kids and buggies; elderly couples; single men swaggering, light-headed after three or four hours of drinking.

No sign of Ishbel.

It was a long platform, plenty of exit points. Siobhan craned her neck, hoping they wouldn’t miss her, aware of tuts and looks from the new arrivals as they were forced to move around her.

And then Mangold’s hand was on her arm. “There she is,” he said.

She was closer than Siobhan had realized, laden with carrier bags. Seeing Mangold, she lifted these and opened her mouth wide, excited by the day’s expedition. She hadn’t noticed Siobhan. Moreover, without Mangold’s prompting, Siobhan might have let her walk straight past.

Because she was the old Ishbel again: hair restyled and back to its natural color. No longer a copy of her dead sister.

Ishbel Jardine, large as life, throwing her arms around Mangold and planting a lingering kiss on his lips. She had her eyes screwed shut, but Mangold’s stayed open, looking over Ishbel’s shoulder towards Siobhan. Eventually Ishbel took a step back, and Mangold turned her a little by the shoulder, so she was facing Siobhan.

And recognizing her.

“Oh, Christ, it’s you.”

“Hello, Ishbel.”

“I’m not going back! You have to tell them that!”

“Why not just tell them yourself?”

But Ishbel was shaking her head. “They’d make me . . . they’d talk me into it. You don’t know what they’re like. I’ve let them control me for way too long!”

“There’s a waiting room,” Siobhan said, pointing towards the concourse. The crowd had thinned, taxis laboring up the exit ramp towards Waverley Bridge. “We can talk there.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Not even Donny Cruikshank?”

“What about him?”

“You know he’s dead?”

“And good riddance!”

Her whole attitude—voice, posture—was harder than when Siobhan had last met her. She was armored, toughened by experience. Not afraid of letting her anger show.

Probably capable of violence, too.

Siobhan turned her attention to Mangold. Mangold with his bruised face.

“We’ll talk in the waiting room,” she said, making it sound like an order.

But the waiting room was locked, so they walked across the concourse and into the station bar instead.

“We’d be better off at the Warlock,” Mangold said, examining the tired-looking decor and tireder clientele. “I need to be getting back anyway.”

Siobhan ignored him, ordered the drinks. Mangold got out a roll of notes, said he couldn’t let her pay. She didn’t argue the point. There was no conversation in the place, yet it was noisy enough to cover anything the three of them might say: TV tuned to a sports channel; piped music drifting from the ceiling; extractor fan; one-armed bandits. They took a corner table, Ishbel spreading her bags out around her.

“A good haul,” Siobhan said.

“Just some bits and pieces.” Ishbel looked at Mangold again and smiled.

“Ishbel,” Siobhan said soberly, “your parents have been worried about you, which in turn means the police have been worried.”

“That’s not my fault, is it? I didn’t ask you to stick your noses in.”

“Detective Sergeant Clarke’s only doing her job,” Mangold said, playing the peacemaker.

“And I’m saying she needn’t have bothered . . . end of story.” Ishbel lifted her glass to her lips.

“Actually,” Siobhan informed her, “that’s not strictly true. In a murder case, we need to speak to every single suspect.”

Her words had the desired effect. Ishbel stared from above the rim of her glass, then put it down untouched.

“I’m a suspect?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Can you think of anyone who had more reason to thump Donny Cruikshank?”

“But he’s the whole reason I left Banehall! I was scared of him . . .”

“I thought you said you left because of your parents?”

“Well, them, too . . . They were trying to turn me into Tracy.”

“I know, I’ve seen the photos. I thought maybe it was your idea, but Mr. Mangold put me right on that.”

Ishbel squeezed Mangold’s arm. “Ray’s my best friend in the whole world.”

“What about your other friends—Susie, Janet, and the rest? Didn’t you think they’d be worried?”

“I was planning to phone them eventually.” Ishbel’s tone was turning sullen, reminding Siobhan that despite the outward armor, she was still a teenager. Only eighteen, maybe half Mangold’s age . . .

“And meantime you’re off spending Ray’s money?”

“I want her to spend it,” Mangold countered. “She’s had a tough life . . . time she had a bit of fun.”

“Ishbel,” Siobhan said, “you say you were scared of Cruikshank?”

“That’s right.”

“Scared of what, exactly?”

Ishbel lowered her eyes. “Of what he’d see when he looked at me.”

“Because you’d remind him of Tracy?”

Ishbel nodded. “And I’d
know
that’s what he was thinking . . . remembering the things he’d done to her . . .” She placed both hands over her face, Mangold sliding an arm around her shoulders.

“And yet you wrote to him in prison,” Siobhan said. “You wrote that he’d taken your life as well as Tracy’s.”

“Because Mum and Dad were turning me
into
Tracy.” Her voice cracked.

“It’s all right, kid,” Mangold said quietly. Then, to Siobhan: “You see what I mean? It’s not been easy for her.”

“I don’t doubt it. But she still needs to speak to the investigation.”

“She needs to be left alone.”

“Left alone with you, you mean?”

Behind the tinted glasses, Mangold’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

Siobhan just shrugged, pretending to busy herself with her glass.

“It’s like I told you, Ray,” Ishbel was saying. “I’ll never be free of Banehall.” She started shaking her head slowly. “The other side of the world wouldn’t be far enough.” She was clinging to his arm now. “You said it would be all right, but it’s not.”

“A holiday’s what you need, girl. Cocktails by the pool . . . room service and a nice sandy beach.”

“What did you mean just then, Ishbel?” Siobhan interrupted. “About it not being all right?”

“She didn’t mean anything,” Mangold snapped, moving his arm further around Ishbel’s shoulders. “You want to ask any more questions, make it official, eh?” He was rising to his feet, picking up some of the bags. “Come on, Ishbel.”

She picked up the rest of the shopping, took a final look around to see if she’d missed anything.

“It
will
be made official, Mr. Mangold,” Siobhan said warningly. “Skeletons in the cellar are one thing, but murder’s quite another.”

Mangold was doing his best to ignore her. “Come on, Ishbel. We’ll take a taxi to the pub . . . no sense walking with all this lot.”

“Call your parents, Ishbel,” Siobhan said. “They came to me because they were worried about
you
. . . nothing to do with Tracy.”

Ishbel said nothing, but Siobhan called out her name, louder this time, and she turned.

“I’m glad you’re safe and well,” Siobhan told her with a smile. “Really I am.”

“Then
you
tell them.”

“I will if you want me to.”

Ishbel hesitated. Mangold was holding open the door for her. Ishbel stared at Siobhan and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then she was gone.

Siobhan watched from the window as they headed for the taxi rank. She shook her glass, enjoying the sound of the ice cubes. Mangold, she felt, really did care about Ishbel, but that didn’t make him a good man.
You said it would be all right, but it’s not . . .
Those words had spurred Mangold to his feet. Siobhan thought she knew why. Love could be an even more destructive emotion than hate. She’d seen it plenty of times: jealousy, mistrust, revenge. She considered all three as she shook her glass again. At some point, it must have started annoying the barman.

He upped the volume on the TV, by which time she’d whittled the three down to one.

Revenge.

Joe Evans was not at home. It was his wife who answered the door of their bungalow on Liberton Brae. There was no front garden as such, just a paved parking space, an empty trailer sitting there.

“What’s he done now?” his wife asked, after Siobhan had identified herself.

“Nothing,” Siobhan assured the woman. “Did he tell you what happened at the Warlock?”

“Only a couple of dozen times.”

“It’s just a few follow-up questions.” Siobhan paused. “Has he been in trouble before?”

“Did I say that?”

“As good as.” Siobhan smiled, telling the woman it didn’t matter to her in any case.

“Just a couple of fights in the pub . . . drunk and disorderly . . . but he’s been pure gold this past year.”

“That’s good to know. Any idea where I could find him, Mrs. Evans?”

“He’ll be in the gym, love. I can’t keep him away from the place.” She saw the look on Siobhan’s face and gave a snort. “Just messing with you . . . He’s same place as every Tuesday—quiz night at his local. Just up the hill, other side of the road.” Mrs. Evans gestured with her thumb. Siobhan thanked her and headed off.

“And if he’s not there,” the woman called after her, “come back and let me know—means he’s got a fancy piece tucked away somewhere!”

The hacking laugh followed Siobhan all the way back to the sidewalk.

The pub boasted a tiny car park, already full. Siobhan parked on the street and headed in. The drinkers all looked seasoned and comfortable: signs of a good local. Teams sat around every available table, one of their number writing the answers down. A question was being repeated as Siobhan walked in. The quizmaster seemed to be the landlord. He stood behind the bar with microphone in hand, the question sheet gripped in his free hand.

“Final question, teams, and here it is again: ‘Which Hollywood startlet connects a Scottish actor to the song “Yellow”?’ Moira’s coming round now to collect your answers. We’ll have a wee break, and then we’ll let you know which team’s come out top. Sandwiches are on the pool table, so help yourselves.”

Players started to rise from their tables, some handing their completed sheets to the landlady. There was a sudden blare of conversation as people asked one another how they’d done.

“It’s the bloody arithmetic ones that get me . . .”

“And you a bookkeeper!”

“That last one, did he mean ‘Yellow Submarine’?”

“Christ’s sake, Peter, there’s been music made since the Beatles, you know.”

“But nothing to come close to them, and I’ll fight any man that says otherwise.”

“So what
was
the name of Humphrey Bogart’s partner in
The Maltese Falcon
?”

Siobhan knew the answer to this one. “Miles Archer,” she told the man. He stared at her.

“I know you,” he said. He was holding the dregs of a pint in one hand, pointing at her with the other.

“We met at the Warlock,” Siobhan reminded him. “You were drinking brandies then.” She gestured towards his glass. “Get you another?”

“What’s this about?” he asked. The others were giving Siobhan and Joe Evans space to themselves, as if an invisible force field had suddenly been activated. “Not still those bloody skeletons?”

“Not really, no . . . To be honest, I’m after a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“The sort that begins with a question.”

He thought about this for a moment, then considered his empty glass. “Better get me a refill, then,” he said. Siobhan was happy to oblige. At the bar, questions flew at her—nothing to do with the quiz, but locals curious as to her identity, how she knew Evans, was she his parole officer maybe, or his social worker? Siobhan handled these deftly enough, smiling at the laughter, and handed Evans a fresh pint of best. He raised it to his mouth and took three or four long gulps, coming up for breath eventually.

“So go ahead and ask your question,” he said.

“Are you still working at the Warlock?”

He nodded. “That’s it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “What I’m wondering is, do you have a key for the place?”

“For the pub?” He snorted. “Ray Mangold wouldn’t be that daft.”

Siobhan shook her head again. “I meant the cellar,” she said. “Can you let yourself in and out of the cellar?”

Evans looked at her questioningly, then took a few more gulps of beer, wiping his top lip dry afterwards.

“Maybe you want to ask the audience?” Siobhan suggested. His face twitched in a smile.

“The answer’s yes,” he said.

“Yes, you’ve got a key?”

“Yes, I’ve got a key.”

Siobhan took a deep breath. “. . . is the correct answer,” she said. “Now, do you want to go for the star prize?”

“I don’t need to.” There was a twinkle in Evans’s eye.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I know the question. You want me to lend you my key.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering how far in the manure that would get me with my employer.”

“And?”

“I’m also wondering why you want it. You reckon there are more skeletons down there?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Siobhan admitted. “Answers to be provided at a later date.”

“If I give you the key?”

“It’s either that or I tell your wife I couldn’t find you at the quiz night.”

“That’s a hard offer to refuse,” Joe Evans said.

Late night in Arden Street. Rebus buzzed her up. He was waiting in his doorway by the time she reached his landing.

“Happened to be passing,” she said. “Saw your light was on.”

“Bloody liar,” he said. Then: “Feeling thirsty?”

She held up the carrier bag. “Great minds and all that.”

He gestured for her to enter. The living room was no messier than usual. His chair was by the window, phone, ashtray, and tumbler next to it on the floor. Music was playing: Van Morrison,
Hard Nose the Highway.