Rebus considered this. ‘Well, good luck to you — and thanks again.’ He shook the proffered hand, unsure how far he trusted Dirwan. The man was a lawyer, after all; added to which, he had his own agenda.
Someone was walking towards them. They had to move to let him past. Rebus recognised the youth from yesterday, the one with the rock. The youth just stared at the two men, unsure as to who deserved his scorn more. He stopped at the lifts and jabbed the button.
‘I hear you like tattoos,’ Rebus called out. He nodded to Dirwan to let the lawyer know they were finished. Then he walked over to join the youth, who backed away as if fearing contamination. Like the youth, Rebus kept his eyes on the lift doors. Dirwan meantime was getting no answer at 203; moved further away to try 204.
‘What do you want?’ the youth muttered.
‘Just passing the time of day. It’s what humans do, you know: communicate with each other.’
‘Fuck that.’
‘Something else we do: accept the opinions of others. We’re all different, after all.’ There was a dull ping as the doors on the left-hand lift shuddered open. Rebus made to step in, then saw that the youth was going to stay behind. Rebus grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him inside, held him till the doors had closed again. The youth pushed him away, tried the ‘Door Open’ button, but too late. The lift was starting its creeping descent.
‘You like the paramilitaries?’ Rebus went on. ‘UVF, all that lot?’
The youth clamped his mouth shut, lips sucked in behind his teeth.
‘Gives you something to hide behind, I suppose,’ Rebus said, as if to himself. ‘Every coward needs some sort of shield... They’ll look lovely later on, too, those tattoos, when you’re married with kids... Catholic neighbours and a Muslim boss...’
‘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 fraternising 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 are 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
Siobhan 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 Close. 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 apologising 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 smouldered 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 centre 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 realised 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 recognise 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...’