Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘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 pavement.

The pub boasted a tiny car park, already full. Siobhan parked on the street and headed in. The drinkers all looked seasoned and comfortable: sign 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 starlet 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 each other how they’d done.

‘It’s the bloody arithmetic ones that get me...’

‘And you a book-keeper!’

‘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 favour.’

‘What sort of favour?’

‘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 .