Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

She pushed open the black wooden door and was confronted by pockmarked red linoleum and matching flock wallpaper. A design mag would call it ‘kitsch’ and enthuse over its revival of seventies naff... but this was the real, unreconstructed thing. There were horse brasses on the walls, and framed cartoons showing dogs urinating, bloke-style, against a wall. Horse-racing on the TV and a haze of cigarette smoke between her and the bar. Three men stared up from their dominoes game. One of them got up and walked behind the bar.

‘What can I get you, love?’

‘Lime juice and soda,’ she said, resting on a bar stool. There was a Glasgow Rangers scarf draped over the dartboard, a pool table alongside with ripped and patched baize. And nothing to justify the knife and fork on the motorway exit sign.

‘Eighty-five pence,’ the barman said, placing the drink in front of her. At this point, she knew she had only one gambit — Does Ishbel Jardine ever come in? — and couldn’t see what she’d gain from it. For one thing, the bar would be alerted to the fact that she was a cop. For another, she doubted these men would add anything to her sum of knowledge, even if they had known Ishbel. She raised the glass to her lips, and knew there was too much cordial in it. The drink was sickly sweet, and not gassy enough.

‘All right?’ the barman said. It was challenge more than query.

‘Fine,’ she replied.

Satisfied, he came back out from behind the bar and resumed his game. There was a pot of small change on the table, ten- and twenty-pence pieces. The men he was playing with looked like pensioners. They slapped each domino down with exaggerated force, tapped three times if they couldn’t go. Already, they’d lost interest in her. She looked around for a ladies’ loo, spotted it to the left of the dartboard and headed inside. Now they’d think she’d only come in for a pee, the soft drink conscience-money. The toilet was clean, though the mirror above the sink had gone, pen-written graffiti replacing it.

Sean’s a shag

The buns on Kenny Reilly!!!

Sluts unite!

Bane Bunnies Rool

Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.

Donny Cruikshank — Dead Man Walking

Donny Pervo

Fry the fucker

Cook the Cruik

Claimed in blood, sisters!!!

God bless Tracy Jardine

There was more — much more — by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker pen, blue biro, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realised her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glovebox. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the dominoplayers would think.

Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.

Three lines on the right cheek — scar tissue.

Donny Cruikshank.

Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him looking so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.

‘All right, darling?’ he called. She walked towards him.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said icily.

‘Ooh! “Don’t call me that”.’ The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. ‘I like a doll with balls.’

‘Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.’

Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.

‘Did you ever hear the like, Malky?’

‘Pack it in, Donny,’ Malky the barman warned.

‘Or what? You’ll red-card me again?’ He looked around. ‘Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.’ His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. ‘Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately...’

Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.

Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.

‘The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!’

Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenalin had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard , she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard ... She glanced at the glovebox. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.

‘What’s up, John?’ she asked.

‘Siobhan? What’s up with you? ’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.’

‘Just dashed back to the car.’ She looked out at the pale blue sky. ‘It’s raining here.’

‘Raining? Where the hell are you?’

‘Banehall.’

‘And where’s that when it’s at home?’

‘West Lothian, just off the motorway before you get to Whitburn.’

‘I know it — pub called The Bane?’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘That’s the place,’ she said.

‘What takes you out there?’

‘It’s a long story. What are you up to?’

‘Nothing that can’t be shoved to one side if a long story’s on offer. Are you heading back to town?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ll practically be passing Knoxland.’

‘And that’s where I’ll find you?’

‘You can’t miss me — we’ve got the wagons circled to keep the natives at bay.’

Siobhan saw that the door to the pub was opening from within, Donny Cruikshank throwing curses back into the place. A two-fingered salute followed by a volley of saliva. Looked like Malky had had enough of him. Siobhan turned the ignition.

‘I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.’

‘Bring ammunition, will you? Forty Bensons Gold.’

‘I draw the line at cigarettes, John.’

‘The last request of a dying man, Shiv,’ Rebus pleaded.

Watching the mix of anger and despair on Donny Cruikshank’s face, Siobhan couldn’t help breaking into a smile.

Rebus’s ‘circled wagons’ actually consisted of a single-roomed Portakabin, placed in the car park next to the nearest tower block. It was dark green on the outside, with a grille protecting the only window and a reinforced door. When he’d parked his car, the ubiquitous draggle of kids had asked for money to look after it. He’d pointed a finger at them.