Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Page B

that whether the Fleshmarket skeletons were real or not, it was possible that they had been placed in the same positions as those in Holyrood, and that someone had been mimicking those earlier burials. Siobhan snorted and went on eating. She flicked through the rest of the paper, spending most time on the TV page. It became clear to her that there were no programs to keep her occupied until bed, meaning music and a book instead. She checked her telephone for nonexistent messages, started recharging her mobile, and brought book and duvet through from the bedroom. John Martyn on the CD player: Rebus had loaned her the album. She wondered how he would be spending his evening: in the pub with Steve Holly maybe; either that or in the pub by himself. Well, she’d have a quiet night in, and be the better for it in the morning. She decided she would read two chapters before laying assault to the ice cream . . .
    When she woke up, her phone was ringing. She stumbled from the sofa and picked it up.
    “Hello?”
    “Didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Rebus.
    “What time is it?” She tried to focus on her watch.
    “Half past eleven. Sorry if you were in bed . . .”
    “I wasn’t. So where’s the fire?”
    “Not a fire exactly; more a bit of smoldering. The couple whose daughter’s walked out . . .”
    “What about them?”
    “They’ve been asking for you.”
    She rubbed a hand over her face. “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “They were picked up in Leith.”
    “Arrested, you mean?”
    “Hassling some of the street girls. The mother was hysterical . . . Taken to Leith cop shop to make sure she was all right.”
    “And how do you know all this?”
    “Leith phoned here, looking for you.”
    Siobhan frowned. “You’re still at Gayfield Square?”
    “It’s nice when it’s quiet—I can have any desk I want.”
    “You’ve got to go home some time.”
    “Actually, I was just on my way when the call came.” He chuckled. “Know what Tibbet’s up to? Nothing on his computer but train timetables.”
    “So what you’re actually doing is snooping on the rest of us?”
    “My way of getting acquainted with new surroundings, Shiv. Do you want me to come pick you up, or will I meet you at Leith?”
    “I thought you were on your way home.”
    “This sounds a lot more entertaining.”
    “Then I’ll meet you at Leith.”
    Siobhan put down the phone and went into the bathroom to get dressed. The remaining half tub of choc mint chip had turned liquid, but she put it back in the freezer.
    Leith police station was situated on Constitution Street. It was a glum stone building, hard-faced like its surroundings. Leith, once a prosperous shipping port, with a personality distinct from that of the city, had seen hard times in the past few decades: industrial decline, the drugs culture, prostitution. Parts of it had been redeveloped, and others tidied up. Newcomers were moving in, and didn’t want the old, sullied Leith. Siobhan thought it would be a pity if the area’s character was lost; then again, she didn’t have to live there . . .
    Leith had for many years provided a “tolerance zone” for prostitutes. It wasn’t that police turned a blind eye, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to interfere either. But this had come to an end, and the streetwalkers had been scattered, leading to more instances of violence against them. A few had tried to move back to their old haunt, while others headed out along Salamander Street or up Leith Walk to the city center. Siobhan thought she knew what the Jardines had been up to; all the same, she wanted to hear it from them.
    Rebus was waiting for her in the reception area. He looked tired, but then he always looked tired: dark bags under his eyes, hair unkempt. She knew he wore the same suit all week, then had it dry-cleaned each Saturday. He was chatting with the Duty Officer, but broke off when he saw her. The Duty Officer buzzed them through a locked door, which Rebus held