Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (40 page)
Read Fleshmarket Alley (2004) Online
Authors: Ian Rankin
T
he Oxford Bar. Harry poured Rebus a pint of IPA, then told him there was a “journo” in the back room. “Fair warning,” Harry said. Rebus nodded and took his drink through. It was Steve Holly. He was perusing what looked like the next morning’s paper and folded it closed at Rebus’s approach.
“Jungle drums are going mental,” he said.
“I never listen to them,” Rebus replied. “Try never to read the tabloids either.”
“Whitemire’s approaching meltdown, you’ve got a strip-club owner in custody, and there’s a story the paramilitaries have been muscling in on Knoxland.” Holly raised his hands. “I hardly know where to start.” He laughed and hoisted his glass. “Actually, that’s not strictly true . . . want to know why?”
“Why?”
He wiped foam from his top lip. “Because everywhere I look, I come across your dabs.”
“Do you?”
Holly nodded slowly. “Given the inside scoop, I could make you the hero of the piece. That would put you on the fast track out of Gayfield Square.”
“My savior,” Rebus offered, concentrating on his beer. “But tell me this . . . Remember that story you wrote about Knoxland? The way you twisted it so the refugees became the problem?”
“They
are
a problem.”
Rebus ignored this. “You wrote it that way because Stuart Bullen told you to.” It sounded like a statement, and when Rebus looked into the reporter’s eyes, he knew it was true. “What did he do—phone you? Ask a favor? Pair of you scratching each other’s backs again, just like when he used to give you tip-offs on any celebs leaving his club . . .”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Rebus leaned forward on his chair. “Didn’t you wonder why he was asking?”
“He said it was a matter of balance, giving the locals a voice.”
“But
why
?”
Holly shrugged. “I just reckoned he was your everyday racist. I’d no idea he had something he was trying to hide.”
“You know now, though, don’t you? He wanted us focusing on Stef Yurgii as a race crime. And all the time, it was him and his men . . . with slime like you at their beck and call.” Though Rebus was staring at Holly, he was thinking of Cafferty and Felix Storey, of the many and various ways in which people could be used and abused, conned and manipulated. He knew he could unload it all on Holly, and maybe the reporter would even do something with it. But where was the proof? All Rebus had was the queasy feeling in his gut. That, and a few embers of rage.
“I only report the stuff, Rebus,” the reporter said. “I don’t make it happen.”
Rebus nodded to himself. “And people like me try to clean up afterwards.”
Holly’s nostrils twitched. “Speaking of which, you’ve not been swimming, have you?”
“Do I look the type?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. All the same, I can definitely smell chlorine . . .”
Siobhan was parked outside his flat. As she emerged from the driver’s side, he could hear bottles chiming in her carrier bag.
“We can’t be working you hard enough,” Rebus told her. “I heard you’d taken time off for a dip in Duddingston Loch.” She managed a smile. “You’re okay, though?”
“I will be after a couple of glasses . . . Always supposing you’re not expecting different company.”
“You mean Caro?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets and gave a shrug.
“Was it my fault?” Siobhan asked into the silence.
“No . . . but don’t let that stop you taking the blame. How’s Major Underpants?”
“He’s fine.”
Rebus nodded slowly, then brought the key from his pocket. “No cheap plonk in that bag, I hope.”
“The finest bin ends in town,” she assured him. They climbed the two flights together, finding comfort in the silence. But at Rebus’s landing, he stopped short and uttered a curse. His door was ajar, the jamb splintered.
“Bloody hell,” Siobhan said, following him inside.
Straight to the living room. “TV’s gone,” she stated.
“And the stereo.”
“Want me to phone it in?”
“And provide punch lines for Gayfield all next week?” He shook his head.
“I’m assuming you’re insured?”
“I’ll need to check I kept the payments up . . .” Rebus broke off as he noticed something. A scrap of paper on his chair by the bay window. He crouched down to peer at it. Nothing but a seven-digit number. He picked up his phone and made the call, staying in a crouch as he listened. An answering machine, telling him all he needed to know. He ended the call, stood back up.
“Well?” Siobhan asked.
“A pawnshop on Queen Street.”
She looked puzzled, even more so when he smiled.
“Bloody Drugs Squad,” he told her. “Pawned the stuff for the price of that bloody flashlight.” Despite himself, he laughed, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. “Go fetch the corkscrew, will you? It’s in the kitchen drawer . . .”
He picked up the scrap of paper and fell into his chair, staring at it, the laughter subsiding by degrees. And then Siobhan was standing in the doorway, holding another note.
“Not the corkscrew?” he said, face dropping.
“The corkscrew,” she confirmed.
“Now
that’s
vicious. That’s more than flesh and blood can stand!”
“Maybe you could borrow one from the neighbors?”
“I don’t know any of the neighbors.”
“Then this is your chance to get acquainted. It’s either that or no booze.” Siobhan shrugged. “Your decision.”
“Not to be taken lightly,” Rebus drawled. “You better sit yourself down . . . this might take a while.”
M
y thanks to Senay Boztas and all the other journalists who helped me research the issues of asylum seekers and immigration, and to Robina Qureshi of Positive Action In Housing (PAIH) for information on the plight of asylum seekers in Glasgow and in the Dungavel detention center.
The village of Banehall doesn’t exist, so please don’t pore over maps looking for it. Nor will you find a detention center called Whitemire in any part of West Lothian, or an estate called Knoxland on the western outskirts of Edinburgh. In fact, I stole my fictitious estate from my friend the writer Brian McCabe. He once wrote a brilliant short story called “Knoxland.”
For further information on some of the issues in this book, see the following:
I
an Rankin is the #1 bestselling mystery writer in the United Kingdom. He is the winner of an Edgar Award for
Resurrection Men,
and he is the recipient of a Gold Dagger Award for Fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.
Table of Contents