Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘You do not have to worry about me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

Chantal said something in French. Kate spoke back to her in the same language, Rebus picking up only a couple of words.

‘She’s asking about being deported,’ he guessed, then watched in the rearview as Kate nodded. ‘Tell her I’ll pull every string I can. Tell her it’s carved in stone.’

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was Chantal’s.

‘I believe you,’ was all she said.

Siobhan and Les Young watched as Ray Mangold got out of his Jag. They were sitting in Young’s car, parked across the road from the Market Street lock-up. Mangold unlocked the garage doors and started pulling them open. Ishbel Jardine sat in the passenger seat, applying make-up as she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Having lifted the lipstick to her mouth, she hesitated a fraction too long.

‘She’s clocked us,’ Siobhan said.

‘You sure?’

‘Not a thousand per cent.’

‘Let’s wait and see.’

Young wanted the car garaged. That way, he could drive up in front of it, blocking any exit. They’d been sitting there the best part of forty minutes, Young going into too much detail about the rudiments of contract bridge. The ignition was off, but Young’s hand was on the key, ready for action.

With the garage doors wide open, Mangold had returned to the idling Jag. Siobhan watched as he got in, but couldn’t tell whether Ishbel had said anything. When she saw Mangold’s eyes meet hers in one of the side mirrors, she had her answer.

‘We need to move,’ she told Young. Then she opened her passenger door — no time to waste. But the Jag’s reversing lights were on. It moved past her at speed, heading for New Street, engine whining with the effort. Siobhan got back into the passenger seat, the door closing of its own accord as Young’s car surged forward. The Jag meantime had reached the New Street junction and was braking into a slide, facing uphill towards the Canongate.

‘Get on the radio!’ Young shouted. ‘Call in a description!’

Siobhan called it in. There was a queue of traffic heading up the Canongate, so the Jag turned left, downhill towards Holyrood.

‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Young.

‘You know the city better than I do,’ he admitted.

‘I think he’ll head for the park. If he stays on the streets, he’ll hit a snarl-up sooner or later. In the park, there’s a chance he can put his foot down, maybe lose us.’

‘Are you besmirching my car?’

‘Last time I looked, Daewoos didn’t sport four-litre engines.’

The Jag had pulled out to overtake an open-topped tourist bus. The street was at its narrowest, and Mangold clipped the wing mirror of a stationary delivery van, the driver emerging from a shop and shouting after him. Oncoming traffic stopped Young passing the bus as it continued its slow descent.

‘Try using your horn,’ Siobhan suggested. He did, but the bus paid no heed until it came to a temporary stop outside the Tolbooth. Drivers coming the opposite way protested as Young swept into their lane and past the obstruction. Mangold’s car was way ahead. As it reached the roundabout outside Holyrood Palace, it took a right, making for Horse Wynd.

‘You were right,’ Young admitted, while Siobhan called in this new information. Holyrood Park was crown property, and as such had its own police force, but Siobhan knew protocol could wait for later. For now, the Jag was racing away, rounding Salisbury Crags.

‘Where next?’ Young asked.

‘Well, he either circles the park all day, or else he comes off. That means Dalkeith Road or Duddingston. My money’s on Duddingston. Once he’s past there, he’s within a gear-change of the A1 — and he’ll definitely outrun us there, all the way to Newcastle if need be.’

There were a couple of roundabouts to be negotiated first, however, Mangold nearly losing control on the second, the Jaguar mounting the kerb. He was passing the back of Pollock Halls, engine roaring.

‘Duddingston,’ Siobhan commented, calling it in again. This part of the road was all twists and turns and they finally lost sight of Mangold completely. Then, from just past a stone outcrop, Siobhan could see dust billowing upwards.

‘Oh, hell,’ she said. As they rounded the bend, they saw tyre tracks veering crazily across the carriageway. There were iron railings on the right-hand side of the road, and the Jaguar had crashed through these, rolling down the steep slope towards Duddingston Loch. Ducks and geese were flapping out of harm’s way, while swans glided across the water’s surface, seemingly unworried. The Jaguar kicked up stones and old feathers as it bounced downhill. The brake lights glowed red, but the car seemed to have other ideas. Finally it slewed sideways and then another ninety degrees, its back half plunging into the water, resting there, the front wheels hanging in the air, spinning slowly.

There were people further along the water’s edge: parents and their offspring, feeding bread crusts to the birds. Some of them started running towards the car. Young had pulled the Daewoo up on to what pavement there was, so as not to block the carriageway. Siobhan skidded down the slope. The doors of the Jaguar were open, figures emerging from either side. But then the car jerked backwards again and started to sink. Mangold was out, up to his chest in water, but Ishbel had been thrown back into her seat, and the pressure was pushing her door closed again as the interior started to fill with water. Mangold saw what was happening and reached inside, starting to haul her across to the driver’s side. But she was caught somehow, and now only the windscreen and roof were showing. Siobhan waded into the foul-smelling water. Steam was rising from the submerged and superheated engine.

‘Give me a hand!’ Mangold was yelling. He had hold of both Ishbel’s arms. Siobhan took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface. The water was murky and bubbling, but she could see the problem: Ishbel’s foot was wedged between the passenger seat and the handbrake. And the harder Mangold pulled, the faster it would hold. She surfaced again.

‘Let go!’ she told him. ‘Let her go or she’ll drown!’ Then she took another breath and ducked back beneath the surface, where she came face to face with Ishbel, whose features had taken on an unexpected calmness, surrounded by the loch’s flotsam and jetsam. There were tiny bubbles escaping from her nostrils and the sides of her mouth. Siobhan reached past her to release the foot, and felt arms wrap around her. Ishbel was drawing her closer, as if determined that the two of them should stay there. Siobhan tried wriggling free, all the time working on the trapped foot.

But it was no longer trapped.

And still Ishbel stayed there.

And held her.

Siobhan tried grabbing at the hands, but it was difficult: they were locked behind her back. The last of her air was leaving her lungs. Movement was growing almost impossible, Ishbel trying to draw her further into the car.

Until Siobhan kneed her in the solar plexus, and felt the embrace loosen. This time she was able to wrench herself free. She grabbed Ishbel by the hair and kicked upwards, hands immediately finding her — not Ishbel’s this time, but Mangold’s. With her face above water, Siobhan’s mouth opened to suck in air. Then she spat water from her mouth, wiped it from her eyes and nose. Pushed the hair back out of her face.

‘You stupid bloody bitch!’ she screamed, as Ishbel, gasping and spluttering, was led to the bank by Ray Mangold. Then, to a gawping Les Young: ‘She was going to take me with her!’

He helped her out of the water. Ishbel was lying a few yards away, a group of onlookers gathering around her. One of them had a video camera out, recording the event for posterity. When he pointed it at Siobhan, she slapped it away and bore down on the prone, drenched figure.