Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘Things must be bad,’ she said.

‘When are they not? That’s pretty much Van’s message to the world.’ He lowered the volume a little. She lifted a bottle of red from the bag.

‘Corkscrew?’

‘I’ll fetch one.’ He started heading for the kitchen. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a glass, too?’

‘Sorry to be fussy.’

She took off her coat, was resting on the arm of the sofa when he returned. ‘A quiet night in, eh?’ she said, taking the corkscrew from him. He held the glass for her while she poured. ‘You having any?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m three whiskies in, and you know what they say about the grape and the grain.’ She took the glass from him, made herself comfortable on the sofa.

‘Been having a quiet night yourself?’ he asked.

‘On the contrary — up until forty minutes ago, I was hard at it.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Managed to persuade Ray Duff to burn the midnight oil.’

Rebus nodded. He knew Ray Duff worked forensics at the police lab in Howdenhall; by now they owed him a world of favours.

‘Ray finds it hard to say no,’ he agreed. ‘Anything I should know about?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure... So how’s your day been?’

‘You heard about Alan Traynor?’

‘No.’

Rebus let the silence lie for a moment between them; picked up his glass and took a couple of sips. Took his time appreciating the aroma, the aftertaste.

‘Nice to sit and talk, isn’t it?’ he commented at last.

‘All right, I give in... You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

Rebus smiled, went to the table where the bottle of Bowmore sat. Refilled his glass and returned to his chair.

Started talking.

After which, Siobhan told him her own story. Van Morrison was swapped for Hobotalk and Hobotalk for James Yorkston. Midnight had come and gone. Slices of toast had been made, buttered, and consumed. The wine was down to its last quarter, the whisky to its final inch. When Rebus checked that she wouldn’t be trying to drive home, Siobhan admitted that she’d come by cab.

‘Meaning you assumed we were going to do this?’ Rebus teased.

‘I suppose.’

‘And what if Caro Quinn had been here?’

Siobhan just shrugged.

‘Not that that’s going to happen,’ Rebus added. He looked at her. ‘I think I may have blown it with the Lady of the Vigils.’

‘The what?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s what Mo Dirwan calls her.’

Siobhan was staring at her glass. It looked to Rebus as though she had a dozen questions waiting, a dozen things to say to him. But in the end, all she said was: ‘I think I’ve had enough.’

‘Of my company?’

She shook her head. ‘The wine. Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Kitchen’s where it’s always been.’

‘The perfect host.’ She got to her feet.

‘I’ll have one too, if you’re offering.’

‘I’m not.’

But she brought him a mug anyway. ‘The milk in your fridge is still useable,’ she told him.

‘So?’

‘So that’s a first, isn’t it?’

‘Listen to the ingratitude!’ Rebus put the mug on the floor. Siobhan returned to the sofa, cupping hers between her hands. While she’d been out of the room, he’d opened the window a little, so she wouldn’t complain about his smoke. He saw her notice what he’d done; watched her decide to make no comment.

‘Know what I’m wondering, Shiv? I’m wondering how those skeletons ended up in Stuart Bullen’s hands. Could he have been Pippa Greenlaw’s date that night?’

‘I doubt it. She said his name was Barry or Gary, and he played football — I think that’s how they met...’ She broke off as a smile started spreading across Rebus’s face.

‘Remember when I grazed my leg at the Nook?’ he said. ‘That Aussie barman told me he could sympathise.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Typical football injury...’

‘And his name’s Barney, isn’t it? Not quite Barry, but close enough.’

Siobhan was still nodding. She’d reached into her bag for her mobile and notebook, flicked through it for the number.

‘It’s one in the morning,’ Rebus warned her. She ignored him. Pushed buttons and held the phone to her ear.

When it was answered, she started talking. ‘Pippa? It’s DS Clarke here, remember me? You out clubbing or something?’ Her eyes were on Rebus as she relayed the answers to him. ‘Just waiting for a taxi home...’ She nodded. ‘Been to the Opal Lounge or somewhere? Well, I’m sorry to bother you so late at night.’ Rebus was walking towards the sofa, leaning down to share the earpiece. He could hear traffic sounds, drunken voices close by. A screech of ‘ Taxi! ’ followed by swearing.

‘Missed that one,’ Pippa Greenlaw said. She sounded breathless rather than drunk.

‘Pippa,’ Siobhan said, ‘it’s about your partner... the night of Lex’s party...’

‘Lex is here! Do you want to talk to him?’

‘It’s you I want to talk to.’

Greenlaw’s voice grew muffled, as though she were trying not to let someone hear. ‘I think we might be starting something.’

‘You and Lex? That’s great, Pippa.’ Siobhan rolled her eyes, giving the lie to her words. ‘Now, about the night those skeletons went missing...’

‘You know I kissed one of them?’

‘You told me.’

‘Even now it makes me want to puke... Taxi! ’

Siobhan held the phone further from her ear. ‘Pippa, I just need to know something... the guy you were with that night... could he have been an Australian called Barney?’

‘What?’

‘Australian, Pippa. The guy you were with at Lex’s party.’

‘Do you know... now you come to mention it...’

‘And you didn’t think it worth telling me?’

‘I didn’t think much of it at the time. Must’ve slipped my mind...’ She spoke to Lex Cater, filling him in. The phone changed hands.

‘Is that Little Miss Matchmaker?’ Lex’s voice. ‘Pippa told me you set the pair of us up that night... it was meant to be you, but she was there instead. Female solidarity and all that, eh?’

‘You didn’t tell me Pippa’s guest at your party was an Aussie.’

‘Was he? Never really noticed... Here’s Pippa again.’

But Siobhan had ended the call. ‘Never really noticed,’ she echoed. Rebus was heading back to his chair.

‘People like that, they seldom do. Think the world revolves around them .’ Rebus grew thoughtful. ‘Wonder whose idea it was.’

‘What?’

‘The skeletons weren’t stolen to order. So either Barney Grant had the idea of using them to scare off any uppity immigrants...’

‘Or Stuart Bullen did.’

‘But if it was our friend Barney, that means he knew what was going on — not just barman, but Bullen’s lieutenant.’

‘Which might explain what he was doing with Howie Slowther. Slowther’s been working for Bullen too.’

‘Or more likely for Peter Hill, but you’re right — the end result’s the same.’

‘So Barney Grant should be behind bars, too,’ Siobhan stated. ‘Otherwise, what’s to stop the whole thing starting up again?’

‘A little bit of proof might be useful right about now. All we’ve got is Barney Grant in a car with Slowther...’

‘That and the skeletons.’

‘Hardly enough to convince the Procurator Fiscal.’

Siobhan blew across the surface of her coffee. The hi-fi had gone quiet; might have been that way for some time.

‘Something for another day, eh, Shiv?’ Rebus eventually conceded.

‘Is that me getting my marching orders?’

‘I’m older than you... I need my sleep.’

‘I thought you need less sleep as you get older?’