Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘I need to hear it from you, Chantal,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to know what you saw.’

‘No,’ she said again, her eyes pleading with Kate.

‘ Oui, Chantal ,’ Kate told her. ‘It is time.’

Only Kate had eaten breakfast, so they headed for the Elephant House café, Rebus driving them the short distance, finding a parking bay on Chambers Street. Chantal wanted hot chocolate, Kate herbal tea. Rebus ordered a round of croissants and sticky cakes, plus a large black coffee for himself. And then bottles of water and orange juice — if no one else drank them, he would. And maybe a couple more aspirin to go with the three he’d swallowed before leaving his flat.

They sat at a table at the very back of the café, the window next to them giving a view of the kirkyard, where a few winos were starting the day with a shared can of extra-strong lager. Only a few weeks back, some kids had desecrated a tomb, using a skull like a football. ‘Mad World’ was playing quietly over the café’s loudspeakers, and Rebus was forced to agree.

He was biding his time, letting Chantal wolf down her breakfast. The pastries were too sweet for her, but she ate two croissants, washed down with one of the bottles of juice.

‘Fresh fruit would be better for you,’ Kate said, Rebus unsure of her target as he finished an apricot tart. Then it was time for a coffee refill, Chantal saying she might manage more hot chocolate. Kate poured herself more raspberry-coloured tea. As Rebus queued at the counter, he watched the two women. They were talking conversationally: nothing heated. Chantal seemed calm enough. That was why he’d chosen the Elephant House: a police station would not have had the same effect. When he returned with the drinks, she actually smiled and thanked him.

‘So,’ he said, lifting his own mug, ‘finally I get to meet you, Chantal.’

‘You very persistent.’

‘It may be my only strength. Do you want to tell me what happened that day? I think I know some of it. Stef was a journalist, he knew a story when he saw one. I’m guessing it was you who told him about Stevenson House?’

‘He knew already a little,’ Chantal said haltingly.

‘How did you meet him?’

‘In Knoxland. He...’ She turned to Kate and let out a volley of French, which Kate translated.

‘He’d been questioning some of the immigrants he met in the city centre. This made him realise something bad was happening.’

‘And Chantal filled in the gaps?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And became his friend in the process?’ Chantal understood, nodding with her eyes. ‘And then Stuart Bullen caught him snooping...’

‘It was not Bullen,’ she said.

‘Peter Hill then.’ Rebus described the Irishman, and Chantal sat back a little in her seat, as though recoiling from his words.

‘Yes, that is him. He chased... and stabbed...’ She lowered her eyes again, placing her hands on her lap. Kate reached out and covered the nearest hand with her own.

‘You ran away,’ Rebus said quietly. Chantal started speaking French again.

‘She had to,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘They would have buried her in the cellar, with all the other people.’

‘There weren’t any other people,’ Rebus said. ‘It was just a trick.’

‘She was terrified,’ Kate said.

‘But she went back once... to place flowers at the scene.’

Kate translated for Chantal, who gave another nod.

‘She travelled across a continent to reach somewhere she’d feel safe,’ Kate told Rebus. ‘She’s been here almost a year, and still she does not understand this place.’

‘Tell her she’s not the only one. I’ve been trying for over half a century.’ As Kate translated this, Chantal managed a weak smile. Rebus was wondering about her... wondering at her relationship with Stef. Had she been something other than a source to him, or had he simply used her, the way many journalists did?

‘Anyone else involved, Chantal?’ Rebus asked. ‘Anyone there that day?’

‘A young man... bad skin... and this tooth...’ She tapped at the centre of her own immaculate teeth. ‘Not there.’ Rebus reckoned she meant Howie Slowther, might even pick him out from a line-up.

‘How do you think they found out about Stef, Chantal? How did they know he was about to go to the newspapers with the story?’

She looked up at him. ‘Because he tell them.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘He told them?’

She nodded. ‘He want his family brought to him. He know they can do this.’

‘You mean bailing them out of Whitemire?’ More nodding. Rebus found himself leaning across the table towards her. ‘He was trying to blackmail the whole lot of them?’

‘He will not tell what he know... but only in return for his family.’

Rebus sat back again and stared from the window. Right now, that extra-strong lager looked pretty good to him. A mad, mad world. Stef Yurgii might as well have penned himself a suicide note. He hadn’t met with the Scotsman journalist because it had been a bluff, letting Bullen know what he was capable of. All of it for his family... Chantal just a friend, if that. A desperate man — husband and father — taking a fatal gamble.

Killed for his insolence.

Killed because of the threat he posed. No skeletons were going to put him off.

‘You saw it happen?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘You saw Stef die?’

‘I could do nothing.’

‘You phoned... did what you could.’

‘It was not enough... not enough...’ She had started crying, Kate comforting her. Two elderly women watched from a corner table. Their faces powdered, coats still buttoned almost to the chin. Edinburgh ladies, who probably had never known any life but this: the taking of tea, and a serving of gossip on the side. Rebus glared at them till they averted their eyes, going back to the spreading of butter on scones.

‘Kate,’ he said, ‘she’ll have to tell the story again, make it official.’

‘In a police station?’ Kate guessed. Rebus nodded.

‘It would help,’ he said, ‘if you were there with her.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘The man you’ll talk to will be another inspector. His name’s Shug Davidson. He’s a good guy, does the sympathy thing even better than me.’

‘You will not be there?’

‘I don’t think so. Shug’s the man in charge.’ Rebus took a mouthful of coffee and savoured it, then swallowed. ‘I was never supposed to be here,’ he said, almost to himself, staring out of the window again.

He called Davidson from his mobile, explained the set-up, said he’d bring both women to Torphichen.

In the car, Chantal was silent, staring at the passing world. But Rebus had a few more questions for her companion in the back seat.

‘How did your talk with Barney Grant go?’

‘It was all right.’

‘You reckon he’ll keep the Nook going?’

‘Until Stuart comes back, yes. Why do you smile?’

‘Because I don’t know if that’s what Barney wants... or expects.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Doesn’t matter. That description I gave Chantal... the man’s called Peter Hill. He’s Irish, probably with paramilitary connections. We reckon he was helping Bullen out, on the understanding that Bullen would then back him up when it came to dealing drugs on the estate.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’

‘Maybe nothing. The younger man, the one with the missing tooth... his name’s Howie Slowther.’

‘You said his name this morning.’

‘That’s right, I did. Because after your little chinwag with Barney Grant in the pub, Barney climbed into a car. Howie Slowther was in that car.’ In the rearview mirror, his eyes connected with hers. ‘Barney’s in this up to his neck, Kate... maybe even a little further. So if you were planning on relying on him...’