Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘A spree probably means one or more organised gangs... The fact that you’re looking at train times suggests they’re coming in from outside the city... So the spree can’t start until the train arrives, and it’ll stop as soon as they head back home?’ She nodded to herself. ‘How am I doing?’

‘It’s where they’re coming from that’s important,’ Tibbet said testily.

‘Newcastle?’ Siobhan guessed. Tibbet’s body language told her she’d scored a bull and won the match. The kettle boiled and she filled her mug, taking it back to her desk.

‘Newcastle,’ she repeated, sitting back down.

‘At least I’m doing something constructive — not just surfing the Web.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘It’s what it looks like you’re doing.’

‘Well, for your information I’m working a missing person... accessing any sites that might help.’

‘I don’t remember a MisPer coming in.’

Siobhan gave a silent curse: she’d fallen into her own trap, coaxed into saying too much.

‘Well, I’m working it anyway. And can I just remind you that I’m the ranking officer here?’

‘You’re telling me to mind my own business?’

‘That’s right, DC Tibbet, I am. And don’t worry — Newcastle’s yours and yours alone.’

‘I might need to talk to the CID down there, see what they’ve got on the local gangs.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Do whatever you need to do, Col.’

‘Fair enough, Shiv. Thanks.’

‘And never call me that again or I’ll rip your head off.’

‘Everyone else calls you Shiv,’ Tibbet protested.

‘That’s true, but you’re going to break the pattern. You’re going to call me Siobhan.’

Tibbet was quiet for a moment, and Siobhan thought he’d gone back to testing his timetable theory. But then he spoke again.

‘You don’t like being called Shiv... but you’ve never told anyone. Interesting...’

Siobhan wanted to ask him what he meant, but decided it would only prolong the conflict. She reckoned she knew anyway: as far as Tibbet was concerned, this fresh information gave him some power: a little incendiary he could tuck away for later. No use worrying about it until the time came. She concentrated on her screen, deciding on a fresh search. She’d been visiting sites maintained by groups who looked out for missing persons. Often these MisPers didn’t want to be found by their immediate families, but wanted nevertheless for them to know they were fine. Messages could be exchanged with the groups as intermediaries. Siobhan had a text which she’d worked out over the course of three drafts, and had now sent to the various noticeboards.

Ishbel — Mum and Dad miss you, and so do the girls at the salon. Get in touch to let us know you’re all right. We need you to know that we love you and miss you .

Siobhan reckoned this would do. It was neither too impersonal nor too gushingly frantic. It didn’t hint that someone from outside Ishbel’s immediate circle was doing the seeking. And even if the Jardines had been lying and there had been friction at home, the mention of the girls at the salon might make Ishbel feel guilty about having cast off friends such as Susie. Siobhan had placed the photo next to her keyboard.

‘Friends of yours?’ Tibbet had asked earlier, sounding interested. They were good-looking girls, fun at parties and in the pub. Life a bit of a laugh for them... Siobhan knew she could never hope to understand what might motivate them, but that wouldn’t stop her trying. She sent more e-mails: to police divisions this time. She knew detectives in Dundee and Glasgow, and flagged Ishbel up for them — just the name and general description, along with a note saying she’d owe them big time if they were able to help. Almost immediately, her mobile sounded. It was Liz Hetherington, her contact in Dundee, a detective sergeant with Tayside Police.

‘Long time no hear,’ Hetherington said. ‘What’s so special about this one?’

‘I know the family,’ Siobhan said. There was no way she could keep her voice quiet enough for Tibbet not to hear, so she rose from her desk and went out into the hallway. The odour was out here, too, as if the station was rotting from within. ‘They live in a village in West Lothian.’

‘Well, I’ll circulate the details. What makes you think she’d head this way?’

‘Call it an exercise in straw-grasping. I promised her parents I’d do what I could.’

‘You don’t think she could have gone on the game?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Girl leaves village, heads for the bright lights... you’d be surprised.’

‘She’s a hairdresser.’

‘Plenty of vacancies for those,’ Hetherington conceded. ‘It’s almost as portable a career as street-walking.’

‘It’s funny though,’ Siobhan said. ‘There was some guy she’d been seeing. One of her friends said he looked like a pimp.’

‘There you are then. Has she any friends she could be crashing with?’

‘I’ve not got that far yet.’

‘Well, if any of them live up this way, let me know and I’ll pay a visit.’

‘Thanks, Liz.’

‘And come see us some time, Siobhan. I’ll show you Dundee’s not the ghetto you southerners think it is.’

‘One of these weekends, Liz.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’ Siobhan ended the conversation. Yes, she’d go to Dundee... when it appealed more than a weekend slouched on the sofa, chocolate and old movies for company; breakfast in bed with a good book and Gold-frapp’s first album on the hi-fi... lunch out, and then maybe a film at the Dominion or the Filmhouse, a bottle of cold white wine waiting for her at home.

She found herself standing by her desk. Tibbet was looking up at her.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ she said.

He glanced at his watch, as if about to make a note of her time of departure. ‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’

‘Couple of hours, if that’s all right with you, DC Tibbet.’

‘Just in case anyone asks,’ he explained sniffily.

‘Right then,’ Siobhan said, picking up jacket and bag. ‘There’s a coffee there if you want it.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

She headed out without another word, walked downhill to her street and unlocked her Peugeot. The cars in front and behind hadn’t left much room. It took her half a dozen manoeuvres to squeeze out of the space. Though she was in a residents’ zone, she noticed that the car in front was an interloper, and had already been given a parking ticket. She stopped the Peugeot and scribbled the words POLICE NOTIFIED on a page from her notebook. Then she got out and stuck it beneath the BMW’s wiper-blade. Feeling better, she got back into the Peugeot and drove off.

Traffic was busy in town, and there was no clever route to the M8. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to Jackie Leven: a birthday present from Rebus, who’d told her Leven came from the same part of the world as him.

‘And that’s supposed to be a recommendation?’ she’d replied. She liked the album well enough, but couldn’t concentrate on the lyrics. She was thinking of the skeletons in Fleshmarket Close. It annoyed her that she couldn’t work out an explanation for them; annoyed her, too, that she’d placed her own coat so carefully over a fake...

Banehall was halfway between Livingston and Whitburn, just to the north of the motorway. The slip-road was past the village, the signpost bearing the legend ‘Local Services’, with drawings representing a petrol pump and a knife and fork. Siobhan doubted many travellers would bother to make a diversion, having had view of Banehall from their carriageway. The place looked bleak: rows of houses dating back to the early 1900s, a boarded-up church, and a forlorn industrial estate, which showed no sign of having been a going concern at any point in its existence. The petrol station — now no longer in operation, weeds pushing up through the forecourt — was the first thing she passed after the ‘Welcome to Banehall’ sign. This sign had been defaced to read ‘We are the Bane’. Locals, not just teenagers, called the place ‘the Bane’ with no sense of irony. A sign further on had been altered from ‘Children — aware!’ to ‘Children — a war!’ She smiled at this, checking either side of the street for the hair salon. So few businesses were still active, this presented few problems. The shop was called just that — The Salon. Siobhan decided to drive past it, until she’d reached the far end of Main Street. Then she turned the car and retraced her route, this time turning into a side street which led to a housing scheme.