Read Online Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Rankin
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Reilly!!!
Sluts unite!
Bane Bunnies Rool
Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.
Donny Cruikshank—Dead Man Walking
Donny Pervo
Fry the fucker
Cook the Cruik
Claimed in blood, sisters!!!
God bless Tracy Jardine
There was more—much more—by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker, blue ballpoint, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realized her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glove box. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the domino players would think.
Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.
Three lines on the right cheek—scar tissue.
Donny Cruikshank.
Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him look so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.
“All right, darling?” he called. She walked towards him.
“Don’t call me that,” she said icily.
“Ooh! ‘Don’t call me that.’” The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. “I like a doll with balls.”
“Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.”
Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.
“Did you ever hear the like, Malky?”
“Pack it in, Donny,” Malky the barman warned.
“Or what? You’ll red-card me again?” He looked around. “Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.” His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. “Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately . . .”
Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.
Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.
“The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!”
Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenaline had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard, she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard . . . She glanced at the glove box. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.
“What’s up, John?” she asked.
“Siobhan? What’s up with you ?”
“How do you mean?”
“You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.”
“Just dashed back to the car.” She looked out at the pale blue sky. “It’s raining here.”
“Raining?
Sluts unite!
Bane Bunnies Rool
Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.
Donny Cruikshank—Dead Man Walking
Donny Pervo
Fry the fucker
Cook the Cruik
Claimed in blood, sisters!!!
God bless Tracy Jardine
There was more—much more—by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker, blue ballpoint, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realized her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glove box. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the domino players would think.
Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.
Three lines on the right cheek—scar tissue.
Donny Cruikshank.
Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him look so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.
“All right, darling?” he called. She walked towards him.
“Don’t call me that,” she said icily.
“Ooh! ‘Don’t call me that.’” The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. “I like a doll with balls.”
“Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.”
Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.
“Did you ever hear the like, Malky?”
“Pack it in, Donny,” Malky the barman warned.
“Or what? You’ll red-card me again?” He looked around. “Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.” His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. “Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately . . .”
Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.
Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.
“The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!”
Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenaline had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard, she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard . . . She glanced at the glove box. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.
“What’s up, John?” she asked.
“Siobhan? What’s up with you ?”
“How do you mean?”
“You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.”
“Just dashed back to the car.” She looked out at the pale blue sky. “It’s raining here.”
“Raining?
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