Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (27 page)

DAY EIGHT

Monday

22

M
onday morning, Banehall Library. Beakers of instant coffee, sugar doughnuts from a bakery. Les Young was wearing a three-button gray suit, white shirt, dark blue tie. There was a faint aroma of shoe polish. His team sat at desks and on desks, some scratching at bleary faces; others sucking on the bitter coffee as though it were elixir. There were posters on the walls advertising children’s authors: Michael Morpurgo; Francesca Simon; Eoin Colfer. Another poster depicted a cartoon hero called Captain Underpants, and for some reason this had become Young’s nickname, Siobhan overhearing an exchange to that effect. She didn’t think he would be flattered.

Having somehow run out of sensible trousers, Siobhan was wearing a skirt and tights—a rare outfit for her. The skirt came to her knees, but she kept tugging at it in the hope that it might magically transform into something a few inches longer. She’d no idea whether her legs were “good” or “bad”—she just didn’t like the idea that people were studying them, maybe even judging her by them. Moreover, she knew that before the end of the day the tights would have contrived to run. As a precaution, she’d stuffed a second pair into her bag.

Laundry had failed to be part of her weekend. She’d driven to Dundee on Saturday, spending the day with Liz Hetherington, the two of them swapping work stories as they sat in a wine bar, then hitting a restaurant, the flicks, and a couple of clubs, Siobhan sleeping on Liz’s sofa, then driving home again in the afternoon, still groggy.

She was now on her third cup of coffee.

One reason she’d gone to Dundee was to escape Edinburgh and the possibility that she might bump into or be cornered by Rebus. She hadn’t been so drunk on Friday night; didn’t regret the stance she’d taken or the ensuing shouting match. It was barroom politics, that was all. But even so, she doubted Rebus would have forgotten, and she knew whose side he’d be on. She was conscious, too, that Whitemire was less than two miles away, and that Caro Quinn was probably back on sentry duty there, struggling to become the conscience of the place.

Sunday night she’d drifted into the city center, climbing Cockburn Street, passing through Fleshmarket Alley. On the High Street, a group of tourists had huddled around their guide, Siobhan recognizing her by her hair and voice—Judith Lennox.

“. . . in Knox’s day, of course, rules were much stricter. You could be punished for plucking a chicken on the Sabbath. No dancing, no theater or gambling. Adultery carried a death sentence, while lesser crimes could be punished by the likes of the branks. This was a padlocked helmet which forced a metal bar into the mouth of liars and blasphemers . . . At the end of the tour, there’ll be a chance for you to enjoy a drink in the Warlock, a traditional inn celebrating the grisly end of Major Weir . . .”

Siobhan had wondered whether Lennox was being paid for her endorsement.

“. . . and in conclusion,” Les Young was saying now, “blunt trauma’s what we’re looking at. A couple of good whacks, fracturing the skull and causing bleeding in the brainpan. Death almost certainly instantaneous . . .” He was reading from the autopsy notes. “And according to the pathologist, circular indentations would indicate that something like an everyday hammer was used . . . sort of thing you’d find in DIY stores, diameter of two-point-nine centimeters.”

“What about the force of the blow, sir?” one of the team asked.

Young gave a wry smile. “The notes are a bit coy, but reading between the lines I think we can safely say we’re dealing with a male attacker . . . and more likely to be right- than left-handed. The pattern of the indents makes it look as though the victim was struck from behind.” Young walked over to where a room divider had become a makeshift notice-board, crime-scene photos pinned to it. “We’ll be getting close-ups from the autopsy later today.” He was pointing to a photo from Cruikshank’s bedroom, the head helmeted in blood. “It was the back of the skull that took most damage . . . that’s hard to do if you’re standing in front of the person you’re attacking.”

“It definitely happened in the bedroom?” someone else asked. “He wasn’t moved afterwards?”

“He died where he fell, best as we can tell.” Young looked around the room. “Any more questions?” There were none. “Right, then . . .” He turned to a roster of the day’s workload, started assigning tasks. The onus seemed to be on Cruikshank’s porn collection, its provenance and who might have been party to it. Officers were being sent to Barlinnie to ask the wardens about any friends Cruikshank had made while serving his sentence. Siobhan knew that sex offenders were kept in a separate wing from other prisoners. This stopped them being attacked on a daily basis, but also meant that they tended to form friendships with one another, which only made matters worse on release: a lone offender might be introduced to a whole network of similar-minded individuals, completing a circle which led to further offending and future brushes with the law.

“Siobhan?” She focused her eyes on Young, realizing he’d been speaking to her.

“Yes?” She looked down, saw her cup was once again empty, craved another refill.

“Did you get round to interviewing Ishbel Jardine’s boyfriend?”

“You mean her ex?” Siobhan cleared her throat. “No, not yet.”

“You didn’t think he might know something?”

“They’d split amicably.”

“Yes, but all the same . . .”

Siobhan could feel her face reddening. Yes, she’d been too preoccupied elsewhere, concentrating her efforts on Donny Cruikshank.

“He was on my list,” was all she could think to say.

“Well, would you like to see him now?” Young checked his watch. “I’m due to talk to him as soon as we’re finished here.”

Siobhan nodded her agreement. She could feel eyes on her, knew there were some ill-disguised grins around the room, too. In the team’s collective mind, she and Young were already linked, the DI smitten with this interloper.

Captain Underpants now had a sidekick.

“Roy Brinkley’s his name,” Young told her. “All I know is, he dated Ishbel for seven or eight months, then a couple of months back they split up.” They were alone in the murder room, the others having set out with their assignments.

“You see him as a suspect?”

“There’s a link there we need to ask him about. Cruikshank does time for attacking Tracy Jardine . . . Tracy tops herself and her sister does a runner . . .” Young gave a shrug, arms folded.

“But he was Ishbel’s boyfriend, not Tracy’s . . . surely if anyone was going to have a go at Cruikshank, it’s more likely to’ve been one of Tracy’s boyfriends than one of Ishbel’s . . .” Siobhan broke off, fixing her eyes on Young’s. “But then Roy Brinkley’s not the suspect, is he? You’re wondering what he knows about Ishbel’s disappearance . . . You think
she
did it!”

“I don’t recall saying that.”

“But it’s what you’re thinking. Didn’t I just hear you say the blows came from a man?”

“And you’ll keep hearing me saying that.”

Siobhan nodded slowly. “Because you don’t want her to know. You’re scared she’d become even more invisible . . .” Siobhan paused. “You think she’s close, don’t you?”

“I’ve no proof of it.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing all weekend, mulling it over?”

“Actually, it came to me on Friday night.” He unfolded his arms, started walking towards the door, Siobhan following.

“While you were playing bridge?”

Young nodded. “Unfair on my partner—we hardly won a hand.”

They’d left the murder room now and were in the main library. Siobhan reminded him that he hadn’t locked the door.

“Not necessary,” he said, giving a half smile.

“I thought we were going to talk to Roy Brinkley.”

Young just nodded, making to pass the reception desk, where the morning’s first batch of returns were being run through a scanner by the male librarian. Siobhan had taken a few more steps before she realized Young had stopped. He was standing directly in front of the librarian.

“Roy Brinkley?” he said. The young man looked up.

“That’s right.”

“Any chance we could have a word?” Young gestured towards the murder room.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing to worry about, Roy. We just need a little bit of background . . .”

As Brinkley emerged from behind his desk, Siobhan stepped up next to Les Young and poked him in the side with her finger.

“Sorry,” Young apologized to the librarian, “there’s nowhere else we can do this . . .”

He’d pulled out a chair for Brinkley. It gave a direct line of sight to the murder-scene photos. Siobhan knew he was lying; knew the interview was being conducted here because of those very photos. Try as he might to ignore them, the young man’s eyes were drawn towards them anyway. The look of horror on his face would have been defense enough in most juries’ minds.

Roy Brinkley was in his early twenties. He wore an open-necked denim shirt, his wavy mop of brown hair reaching the collar. There were thin threaded bracelets on his wrists but no watch. Siobhan would have called him pretty rather than handsome. He could pass for seventeen or eighteen. She could see the attraction for Ishbel but wondered how he had coped with her noisy ladette friends . . .

“Did you know him?” Young was asking. Neither detective was seated. Young leaned against a table, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. Siobhan stood at a distance to Brinkley’s left, so that he would be aware of her from the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t so much know him as knew
of
him.”

“Two of you at school together?”

“But different years. He was never really a bully . . . more the class joker. I got the feeling he never found a way to fit in.”

Siobhan was reminded for a moment of Alf McAteer, playing jester for Alexis Cater.

“But this is a small town, Roy,” Young was protesting. “You must have known him to speak to, at the very least?”

“If we happened to meet, I suppose we’d say hello.”

“Maybe you always had your head in a book, eh?”

“I like books . . .”

“So what about you and Ishbel Jardine? How did that start?”

“First time we met was at a club . . .”

“You didn’t know her at school?”

Brinkley shrugged. “She was three years below me.”

“So you met at this club and started going out?”

“Not straightaway . . . we had a few dances, but then I danced with her mates, too.”

“And who were her mates, Roy?” Siobhan asked. Brinkley looked from Young to Siobhan and back again.

“I thought this was about Donny Cruikshank?”

Young made a noncommittal gesture. “Background, Roy,” was all he said.

Brinkley turned to Siobhan. “There were two of them—Janet and Susie.”

“Janet from Whitemire, Susie from the Salon?” Siobhan clarified. The young man just nodded. “And which club was this?”

“Somewhere in Falkirk . . . I think it closed down . . .” He wrinkled his brow in concentration.

“The Albatross?” Siobhan guessed.

“That’s the one, yes.” Brinkley was nodding enthusiastically.

“You know it?” Les Young asked Siobhan.

“It came up in connection with a recent case,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Afterwards,” she said in warning, nodding towards Brinkley, letting Young know this wasn’t the time. He twitched his head in agreement.

“Ishbel and her friends were pretty close, weren’t they, Roy?” Siobhan asked.

“Sure.”

“So why would she run off without so much as a word to them?”

He shrugged. “Have you asked them that?”

“I’m asking you.”

“I don’t have an answer.”

“Well, what about this, then: why did the two of you split up?”

“Just drifted apart, I suppose.”

“Had to be a reason, though,” Les Young added, taking a step towards Brinkley. “I mean, did she dump you, or was it the other way round?”

“It was more a mutual thing.”

“Which is why you stayed friends?” Siobhan guessed. “So what was your first thought when you heard she’d run off?”

He twisted in his chair, making it creak. “Her mum and dad turned up at my place, wanted to know if I’d seen her. To be honest . . .”

“Yes?”

“I thought it might be
their
fault. They never really got over Tracy’s suicide. Always talking about her, telling stories from the past . . .”

“And Ishbel? Are you telling me she
did
get over it?”

“She seemed to.”

“So why did she dye her hair, style it so she looked more like Tracy?”

“Look, I’m not saying they’re bad people . . .” He squeezed his hands together.

“Who? John and Alice?”

He nodded. “It’s just that Ishbel got the idea . . . the notion they really wanted Tracy back. I mean, Tracy rather than her.”

“And that’s why she tried to look like Tracy?”

He nodded again. “I mean, it’s a lot to take on, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why she left . . .” His head dropped disconsolately. Siobhan looked across to Les Young, whose lips formed a thoughtful pout. The silence lasted the best part of a minute, until broken by Siobhan.

“Do you know where Ishbel is, Roy?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Donny Cruikshank?”

“Part of me wishes I had.”

“Who do you think did it? Has Ishbel’s dad crossed your mind?”

Brinkley raised his head. “Crossed my mind . . . yes. But only for a moment.”

She nodded as if in agreement.

Les Young had a question of his own. “Did you see Cruikshank after his release, Roy?”

“I saw him.”

“To speak to?”

He shook his head. “Saw him with a guy a couple of times, though.”

“What guy?”

“Must’ve been a mate of his.”

“But you didn’t know him?”

“No.”

“Probably not local, then.”

“Might’ve been . . . I don’t know every single person in Banehall. Like you said yourself, too often I’ve got my head stuck in a book.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“You’ll know him if you see him,” Brinkley said, half his mouth forming the beginnings of a smile.

“How’s that, then?”