Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t need less sleep; you just take it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Mortality closing in, I suppose.’

‘And you can sleep all you like when you’re dead?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to keep you up so late, old-timer.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Not too long now till there’s a younger cop sitting opposite you .’

‘Now there’s a thought to end the night with...’

‘I’ll call you a cab, unless you want to crash here — there’s a spare bedroom.’

She started putting on her coat. ‘We don’t want tongues wagging, do we? But I’ll walk down to the Meadows, bound to find one there.’

‘Out on your own at this time of night?’

Siobhan picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’m a big girl, John. I think I can manage.’

He shrugged and showed her out, then returned to the living-room window, watching her walk down the pavement.

I’m a big girl ...

A big girl afraid of wagging tongues.

‘I’ve got a lecture,’ Kate said.

Rebus had been waiting for her outside her hall of residence. She’d given him a look and kept walking, heading for the bicycle rack.

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said. She didn’t respond, unlocking the chain from her bike. ‘We need to talk,’ Rebus persisted.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘That’s true, I suppose...’ She looked up at him. ‘But only if we choose to ignore Barney Grant and Howie Slowther.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you about Barney.’

‘Warned you off, has he?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘So you said. And Howie Slowther?’

‘I don’t know who he is.’

‘No?’

She shook her head defiantly, hands gripping her bike’s handlebars. ‘Now, please... I’m going to be late.’

‘Just one more name then.’ Rebus held up a forefinger. He took her sigh as permission to ask. ‘Chantal Rendille... I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.’

‘It’s not a name I know.’

Rebus smiled. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Kate — your eyes start fluttering. I noticed it before when I was asking about Chantal. Of course, I didn’t have her name then, but I have it now. With Stuart Bullen locked up, she doesn’t need to hide any more.’

‘Stuart did not kill that man.’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘All the same, I’d like to hear her say it for herself.’ He slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Too many people running scared recently, Kate. Time for it to stop, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘It’s not my decision,’ she said quietly.

‘You mean it’s Chantal’s? Then have a word with her, tell her she doesn’t have to be scared. It’s all coming to an end.’

‘I wish I had your confidence, Inspector.’

‘Maybe I know things you don’t... things Chantal should hear.’

Kate looked around. Her fellow students were heading off to classes, some with the glazed eyes of the newly roused, others curious about the man she was talking to — so obviously neither student nor friend.

‘Kate?’ he prompted.

‘I need to speak to her alone first.’

‘That’s fine.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do we need the car, or is it walking distance?’

‘That depends on how much you like walking.’

‘Seriously now, do I look the type?’

‘Not really.’ She was almost smiling, but still edgy.

‘Then we’ll take the car.’

Even having been coaxed into the passenger seat, it took Kate a while to pull the door closed, and longer still to fasten her seatbelt, Rebus fearing that she might bale out at any time.

‘Where to?’ he asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

‘Bedlam,’ she said, just audibly. Rebus wasn’t sure he’d heard her. ‘Bedlam Theatre,’ she explained. ‘It’s a disused church.’

‘Across the road from Greyfriars Kirk?’ Rebus said. She nodded, and he started to drive. On the way, she explained that Marcus, the student across the corridor from her, was active in the university’s theatre group, and that they used Bedlam as their base. Rebus said he’d seen the playbills on Marcus’s walls, then asked how she had first met Chantal.

‘This city can seem like a village sometimes,’ she told him. ‘I was walking towards her along the street one day, and I just knew when I looked at her.’

‘You knew what?’

‘Where she came from, who she was... It’s hard to explain. Two Senegalese women in the middle of Edinburgh.’ She shrugged. ‘We just laughed and started talking.’

‘And when she came to you for help?’ She looked at him as if she didn’t understand. ‘What did you think? Did she tell you what had happened?’

‘A little...’ Kate stared from the passenger-side window. ‘This is for her to tell you, if she decides to.’

‘You realise I’m on her side? Yours, too, if it comes to it.’

‘I know this.’

Bedlam Theatre stood at the junction of two diagonals — Forrest Road and Bristo Place — and facing the wider expanse of George IV Bridge. Years back, this had been Rebus’s favourite part of town, with its weird bookshops and second-hand record market. Now Subway and Starbucks had moved in and the record market was a theme bar. Parking had not improved either, and Rebus ended up on a double yellow, trusting to luck that he’d be back before the tow truck could be called.

The main doors were locked tight, but Kate led him around the side and produced a key from her pocket.

‘Marcus?’ he guessed. She nodded and opened the small side door, then turned towards him. ‘You want me to wait here?’ he guessed. But she stared deep into his eyes and then sighed.

‘No,’ she said, decided. ‘You might as well come up.’

Inside, the place was gloomy. They climbed a flight of creaky steps and emerged into an upstairs auditorium, looking down on to the makeshift stage. There were rows of former pews, mostly stacked with empty cardboard boxes, props, and pieces of lighting rig.

‘Chantal?’ Kate called out. ‘ C’est moi . Are you there?’

A face appeared above one row of seats. She’d been lying in a sleeping-bag, and was now blinking, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw that there was someone with Kate, her mouth and eyes opened wide.

‘ Calme-toi , Chantal. Il est policier .’

‘Why you bring?’ Chantal’s voice sounded shrill, frantic. As she stood up, sloughing off the sleeping-bag, Rebus saw that she was already dressed.

‘I’m a police officer, Chantal,’ Rebus said slowly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘No! This will not be!’ She waved her hands in front of her, as though he were smoke to be wafted away. Her arms were thin, hair cropped close to her skull. Her head seemed out of proportion to the slender neck atop which it sat.

‘You know we’ve arrested the men?’ Rebus said. ‘The men we think killed Stef. They are going to prison.’

‘They will kill me.’

Rebus kept his eyes on her as he shook his head. ‘They’re going to be spending a lot of time in jail, Chantal. They’ve done a lot of bad things. But if we’re going to punish them for what they did to Stef... well, I’m not sure we can do it without your help.’

‘Stef was good man.’ Her face twisted with the pain of memory.

‘Yes, he was,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And his death needs to be paid for.’ He’d been moving towards her by degrees. Now they stood within arm’s reach. ‘Stef needs you, Chantal, this one final time.’

‘No,’ she said. But her eyes were telling him a different story.