Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (4 page)

Rebus gestured towards a slot machine, which was being played by a heavy-set man in dusty blue overalls. An empty brandy glass was perched on top of the machine.

“Get you another?” Rebus asked the man. The face which turned towards him was as spectral as Major Weir’s in the mural, the thick dark hair peppered with plaster. “I’m DI Rebus, by the way. Hoping you might answer a few questions. This is my colleague, DS Clarke. Now, about that drink—brandy, am I right?”

The man nodded. “I’ve got the van though . . . it’s got to go back to the yard.”

“We’ll get someone to drive you, don’t worry.” Rebus turned to Siobhan. “Usual for me, large brandy for Mr. . . .”

“Evans. Joe Evans.”

Siobhan left without a fuss. “Having any luck?” Rebus asked. Evans looked at the slot machine’s four unforgiving wheels.

“I’m down three quid.”

“Not your day, is it?”

The man smiled. “I got the shock of my bloody life. First thought was, they’re Roman or something. Or maybe some old burying ground.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Whoever laid that concrete must’ve known they were there.”

“You’d make a good detective, Mr. Evans.” Rebus glanced towards the bar, where Siobhan was being served. “How long have you been working down there?”

“Just started this week.”

“Using a pickax rather than a drill?”

“Can’t use a drill in a space like that.”

Rebus nodded as if he understood perfectly. “Doing the work by yourself?”

“Reckoned one man would do it.”

“Been down there before?”

Evans shook his head. Almost without thinking, he’d slid another coin into the machine, pushed the start button. Plenty of flashing lights and sound effects, but no payout. He hit the button again.

“Any idea who laid the concrete?”

Another shake of the head; another coin deposited in the slot. “Owners should have a record.” He paused. “I don’t mean a criminal record—a note of who did the work, an invoice or something.”

“Good point,” Rebus said. Siobhan returned with the drinks, handed them out. She was back on the lime and soda.

“Spoke to the barman,” she said. “It’s a tied pub.” Meaning it was owned by one of the breweries. “Landlord’s been out to a cash-and-carry, but he’s on his way back.”

“He knows what’s happened?”

She nodded. “Barman called him. Should be here in a few minutes.”

“Anything else you want to tell us, Mr. Evans?”

“Just that you should bring in the Fraud Squad. This machine’s robbing me blind.”

“There are some crimes we’re powerless to prevent.” Rebus thought for a moment. “Any idea why the landlord wanted the floor dug up in the first place?”

“He’ll tell you himself,” Evans said, draining his glass. “That’s him just coming in now.” The landlord had seen them and was making his way towards the machine. He had his hands buried deep in the pockets of a full-length black leather coat. A cream-colored V-neck jumper left his throat bare, displaying a single medallion on a thin gold chain. His hair was short, spiked with gel at the front. He was wearing spectacles with rectangular orange lenses.

“You all right, Joe?” he asked, squeezing Evans’s arm.

“Bearing up, Mr. Mangold. These two are detectives.”

“I’m the landlord here. Name’s Ray Mangold.” Rebus and Siobhan introduced themselves. “So far, I’m a bit in the dark, officers. Skeletons in the cellar—can’t decide if that’s good for business or not.” He gave a grin, showing too-white teeth.

“I’m sure the victims would be touched by your concern, sir.” Rebus wasn’t sure why he’d taken against the man so rapidly. Maybe it was the tinted glasses. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t see someone’s eyes. As if reading his thoughts, Mangold slipped the glasses from his nose and started cleaning them with a white handkerchief.

“Sorry if I sounded a bit callous, Inspector. It’s just a bit much to take in.”

“I’m sure it is, sir. Have you been the landlord here for long?”

“First anniversary coming up.” He’d narrowed his eyes to slits.

“Do you remember the floor being laid?”

Mangold thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think it was going in just as I was taking over.”

“Where were you before?”

“I had a club in Falkirk.”

“Went bust, did it?”

Mangold shook his head. “Just got fed up with the hassle: staff problems, local gangs trying to rip the place up . . .”

“Too many responsibilities?” Rebus suggested.

Mangold put the glasses back on again. “I suppose that’s what it boils down to. The glasses aren’t just for show, by the way.” Again it was as if he could read Rebus’s thoughts. “My retinas are oversensitive; can’t take the bright lights.”

“Is that why you started a club in Falkirk?”

Mangold grinned, showing more teeth. Rebus considered getting some of those orange glasses for himself. Right then, he thought, if you can read my mind, ask me if I’d like a drink.

But the barman called over, something he needed his boss to deal with. Evans checked the time and said he’d be going, if there were no more questions. Rebus asked if he needed a driver, but he declined.

“DS Clarke will just take your details then, in case we need to get in touch.” While Siobhan rummaged in her bag for a notebook, Rebus walked over to where Mangold was leaning over the bar, so that the barman didn’t have to raise his voice. A party of four—American tourists, Rebus guessed, was standing in the middle of the room, beaming overfriendly smiles. Otherwise the place was dead. Before Rebus had reached him, Mangold ended his conversation: eyes in the back of his head, perhaps, to go with the telepathy.

“We hadn’t quite finished,” was all Rebus said, resting his elbows against the bar.

“I thought we had.”

“Sorry if I gave that impression. I wanted to ask about the work in the cellar. What’s it for exactly?”

“The plan is to open it up as an extension to this place.”

“It’s tiny.”

“That’s the point: give people a taste of what Edinburgh’s traditional drinking dens used to be like. It’ll be snug and cozy, a few squashy seats . . . no music or anything, the dimmest lighting we can get. I did think about candles, but Health and Safety snuffed that idea out.” He smiled at his own joke. “Available for private hire: like having your own period apartment in the heart of the Old Town.”

“Was this your own idea or the brewery’s?”

“All my own work.” Mangold almost gave a little bow.

“And you hired Mr. Evans?”

“He’s a good worker. I’ve used him before.”

“What about the concrete floor: any idea who laid that?”

“As I said, it was all in hand before I moved in.”

“But completed after you arrived—that’s what you said, isn’t it? Which means you’ll have some documentation somewhere . . . an invoice at the very least?” Rebus offered a smile of his own. “Or was it cash in hand and no questions asked?”

Mangold bristled. “There’ll be paperwork, yes.” He paused. “Of course, it might have been thrown out, or the brewery could have filed it away somewhere . . .”

“And who was in charge here before you took over, Mr. Mangold?”

“I can’t remember.”

“He didn’t show you the ropes? I thought there was usually a crossover period?”

“There probably was . . . I just can’t recall his name.”

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you, with a bit of effort.” He took out one of his business cards from the breast pocket of his jacket. “And you’ll give me a call when it does.”

“Fair enough.” Mangold accepted the card and made a show of studying it. Rebus saw that Evans was leaving.

“One last thing for the moment, Mr. Mangold . . . ?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector?”

Siobhan was now standing by Rebus’s side. “I just wondered what the name of your club was.”

“My club?”

“The one in Falkirk . . . unless you had more than one?”

“It was called Albatross. After the Fleetwood Mac song.”

“You didn’t know the poem then?” Siobhan asked.

“Not until later,” Mangold said through gritted teeth.

Rebus thanked him but didn’t shake hands. Outside, he looked up and down the street, as if debating where to have his next drink. “What poem?” he asked.

“
Rime of the Ancient Mariner
. The sailor shoots an albatross, and it puts a curse on the boat.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Like an albatross around your neck?”

“I supppose so . . .” Her voice tailed off. “What did you think of him?”

“Fancies himself.”

“Reckon he was trying for a
Matrix
look with that coat?”

“God knows. But we need to keep hassling him. I want to know who laid that concrete and when.”

“It couldn’t be a setup, could it? To get some publicity for the bar?”

“Planned well in advance if it is.”

“Maybe the concrete’s not as old as anyone says.”

Rebus stared at her. “Been reading any good conspiracy thrillers lately? The Royals bumping off Princess Di? The mafia and JFK . . . ?”

“Who let Mr. Grumpy out to play?”

His face was just beginning to soften when he heard a roar from Fleshmarket Alley. A uniform had been posted to stop any passersby using the passage. But he knew Rebus and Siobhan and nodded them through. As Rebus went to step over the threshhold into the cellar, a figure barged into him from within. It was dressed in a business suit and bow tie.

“Evening, Professor Gates,” Rebus said, once he’d caught his breath. The pathologist stopped and scowled. It was the sort of look which could shrivel an undergraduate at twenty paces, but Rebus was made of stronger stuff.

“John . . .” Finally recognizing him. “Are you part of this bloody charade?”

“I will be, once you tell me what it is.”

Dr. Curt was angling his body sheepishly into the passageway.

“This bugger,” Gates glowered, indicating his colleague, “has made me miss the first act of
La Bohème
—and all for some bloody student prank!”

Rebus looked to Curt for an explanation.

“They’re fake?” Siobhan guessed.

“That they are,” Gates said, calming by degrees. “No doubt my esteemed friend here will fill you in on the details . . . unless that, too, proves beyond him. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He marched to the top of the passageway, the uniform at the top giving him all the room he needed. Curt gestured for Rebus and Siobhan to follow him back into the cellar. A couple of the SOCOs were still there, trying to hide their embarrassment.

“If we’re looking for excuses,” Curt began, “we might mention the initial inadequate lighting. Or the fact that we were dealing with skeletons rather than flesh and blood, the latter potentially far more interesting . . .”

“What’s with the ‘we’?” Rebus teased. “So are they plastic or what?” He crouched down by the skeletons. Siobhan’s jacket had been tossed aside by the Professor. Rebus handed it back to her.

“The infant is, yes. Plastic or some kind of composite. I’d have noticed the moment I touched any part of it.”

“Course you would,” Rebus said. He saw that Siobhan was trying to show not the least scintilla of pleasure at Curt’s downfall.

“The adult, on the other hand, is an actual skeleton,” Curt continued. “But probably very old, and used for teaching purposes.” The pathologist crouched down beside Rebus, Siobhan joining them.

“How do you mean?”

“Holes drilled in the bones . . . do you see them?”

“Not easy, even in this light.”

“Quite.”

“And the point of the holes is . . . ?”

“There would have been connecting devices of some kind, screws or wires. To join one bone to its neighbor.” He lifted a femur and pointed to the two neatly drilled holes. “You find them in museum exhibits.”

“Or teaching hospitals?” Siobhan guessed.

“Quite right, DS Clarke. It’s a lost art these days. Used to be done by specialists called articulators.” Curt got to his feet, brushing his hands together as though to wipe away all trace of his earlier mistake. “We used to use them a lot with students. Not so much now. Certainly not real ones. Skeletons can be realistic without being real.”

“As has just been demonstrated,” Rebus couldn’t help saying. “So where does that leave us? You reckon the Prof’s right, it’s some sort of practical joke?”

“If so, someone’s gone to an inordinate amount of trouble. Removing the screws and any bits of wire and the like would have taken hours.”

“Has anyone reported skeletons going missing from the university?” Siobhan asked.

Curt seemed to hesitate. “Not that I’m aware.”

“But they’re a specialist item, right? You don’t just walk into your local Safeway and pick one up?”

“I would presume that to be the case . . . I’ve not been to a Safeway recently.”

“Bloody weird all the same,” Rebus muttered, standing up. Siobhan, however, stayed crouched over the infant.

“It’s sick,” she said.

“Maybe you were right, Shiv.” Rebus turned to Curt. “Only five minutes ago, she was wondering if it might be a publicity stunt.”

Siobhan shook her head. “But like you said, it’s a lot of trouble to take. There’s got to be more to it.” She was clutching her coat to her, as though cradling a baby. “Any chance you could examine the adult skeleton?” She stared up at Curt, who offered a shrug.

“Looking for what, exactly?”

“Anything that might give us a clue who it is, where it came from . . . some idea of how old it is.”

“To what end?” Curt had narrowed his eyes, showing he was intrigued.

Siobhan stood up. “Maybe Professor Gates isn’t the only one who likes a puzzle with a bit of history attached.”

“You’d best give in, Doc,” Rebus said with a smile. “It’s the only way to shake her off.”

Curt looked at him. “Now who does that remind me of?”

Rebus opened his arms wide and gave a shrug.

DAY TWO

Tuesday

3

F
or want of anything better to do, Rebus found himself at the mortuary next morning, where the autopsy of the as yet unidentified Knoxland corpse was already under way. The viewing gallery comprised three tiers of benches, separated by a wall of glass from the autopsy suite. The place made some visitors queasy. Maybe it was the clinical efficiency of it all: the stainless steel tables with their drainage outlets; the jars and specimen bottles. Or the way the entire operation resembled too closely the skills seen in any butcher’s shop—the carving and filleting by men in aprons and Wellingtons. A reminder not only of mortality but of the body’s animal engineering, the human spirit reduced to meat on a slab.

There were two other spectators present—a man and a woman. They nodded a greeting at Rebus, the woman shifting slightly as he sat down next to her.

“Morning,” he said, waving through the glass to where Curt and Gates were busy at work. The rules of corroboration meant that two pathologists had to attend every autopsy, stretching a service that was already past snapping point.

“What brings you here?” the man asked. His name was Hugh Davidson, known to all by the nickname “Shug.” He was a detective inspector at the West End police station in Torphichen Place.

“Apparently you do, Shug. Something to do with a shortage of high-flying officers.”

Davidson’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. “And when did you get your pilot’s license, John?”

Rebus ignored this, choosing to focus on Davidson’s companion instead. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Ellen.”

Ellen Wylie was a detective sergeant, Davidson her boss. She had a box file open on her lap. It looked brand-new, and contained only a few sheets of paper as yet. A case number was written at the top of the first page. Rebus knew that it would soon swell to bursting with reports, photographs, lists of staff rotas. It was the Murder Book: the “bible” for the forthcoming investigation.

“I heard you were out at Knoxland yesterday,” Wylie said, eyes fixed ahead of her as if watching a film which would stop making sense the moment her attention lapsed. “Having a nice long chat with a representative from the fourth estate.”

“And for the benefit of our English-speaking viewers . . . ?”

“Steve Holly,” she stated. “And in the context of this current inquiry, the phrase ‘English-speaking’ could be construed as racist.”

“That’s because everything’s racist or sexist these days, sweetheart.” Rebus paused for a reaction, but she wasn’t about to oblige. “Last I heard, we’re not allowed to say ‘accident blackspot’ or ‘Indian summer.’”

“Or ‘manhole cover,’” Davidson added, leaning forward to make eye contact with Rebus, who shook his head at the madness of it all before sitting back to take in the scene through the glass.

“So how’s Gayfield Square?” Wylie asked.

“Moments away from having its name changed for being politically incorrect.”

This got a laugh from Davidson, loud enough to have the faces through the glass turning towards him. He held up a hand in apology, covering his mouth with the other one. Wylie scribbled something into the Murder Book.

“Looks like detention for you, Shug,” Rebus offered. “So how are things shaping up? Got any idea who he is yet?”

It was Wylie who answered. “Loose change in his pockets . . . not even as much as a set of house keys.”

“And nobody coming forward to claim him,” Davidson added.

“Door-to-door?”

“John, this is Knoxland we’re talking about.” Meaning no one was talking. It was a tribal thing, handed down from parent to child. Whatever happened, you didn’t give the police anything.

“And the media?”

Davidson handed Rebus a folded tabloid. The killing hadn’t made the front page; the byline on page five was Steve Holly’s: ASYLUM DEATH RIDDLE. As Rebus skimmed down the paragraphs, Wylie turned to him.

“I wonder who it was that mentioned asylum seekers.”

“Not me,” Rebus answered. “Holly just makes this stuff up. ‘Sources close to the investigation.’” He snorted. “Which one of you does he mean by that? Or maybe he means both?”

“You’re not making any friends here, John.”

Rebus handed back the newspaper. “How many warm bodies have you got working the case?”

“Not enough,” Davidson conceded.

“Yourself and Ellen?”

“Plus Charlie Reynolds.”

“And yourself apparently,” Wylie added.

“I’m not sure I like the odds.”

“There are some keen uniforms working door-to-door,” Davidson said, defensively.

“No problem then—case solved.” Rebus saw that the autopsy was reaching its conclusion. The corpse would be sewn back together by one of the assistants. Curt motioned that he’d meet the detectives downstairs, then disappeared through a door to change out of his scrubs.

The pathologists had no office of their own. Curt was waiting in a gloomy corridor. There were sounds from inside the staff room: a kettle coming to the boil, a game of cards reaching some sort of climax.

“The Prof’s done a runner?” Rebus guessed.

“He has a class in ten minutes.”

“So what have you got for us, Doctor?” Ellen Wylie asked. If she’d ever possessed a gift for small talk, it had been annihilated some time ago.

“Twelve separate wounds in total, almost certainly the work of the same blade. A kitchen knife perhaps, serrated edge, only a centimeter wide. Deepest penetration was five centimeters.” He paused, as if to allow for any lewd jokes in the vicinity. Wylie cleared her throat in warning. “The one to the throat probably ended his life. Nicked the carotid artery. Blood in the lungs suggests he may have choked on the stuff.”

“Any defense wounds?” Davidson asked.

Curt nodded. “Palm, fingertips, and wrists. Whoever they were, he was fighting them off.”

“But you think just the one attacker?”

“Just the one knife,” Curt corrected Davidson. “Not quite the same thing.”

“Time of death?” Wylie asked. She was jotting down as much information as she could.

“Deep-body temperature was taken at the scene. He probably died half an hour before you were alerted.”

“Incidentally,” Rebus asked, “just who did alert us?”

“Anonymous call at thirteen-fifty,” Wylie replied.

“Or ten to two in old money. Male caller?”

Wylie shook her head. “Female, calling from a phone box.”

“And we’ve got the number?”

More nodding. “Plus the conversation was recorded. We’ll trace the caller, given time.”

Curt studied his watch, wanting to be on his way.

“Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?” Davidson asked.

“Victim seems to have been in general good health. Slightly undernourished, but with good teeth—either didn’t grow up here or never succumbed to the Scottish diet. A specimen of the stomach contents—what there was of it—will go to the lab today. His last meal would seem to have been less than hearty: mostly rice and veg.”

“Any idea of his race?”

“I’m not an expert.”

“We appreciate that, but all the same . . .”

“Middle Eastern? Mediterranean . . . ?” Curt’s voice drifted off.

“Well, that narrows things down,” Rebus said.

“No tattoos or distinguishing features?” Wylie asked, still writing furiously.

“None.” Curt paused. “This will all be typed up for you, DS Wylie.”

“Just gives us something to work with in the interim, sir.”

“Such dedication is rare these days.” Curt offered her a smile. It did not fit well on his gaunt face. “You know where to find me if any other questions arise . . .”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Davidson said. Curt turned towards Rebus.

“John, a quick word if I may . . . ?” His eyes met Davidson’s. “Personal rather than business,” he explained. He steered Rebus by the elbow towards the far door, and through it into the mortuary’s main holding area. There was no one around; at least, no one with a pulse. A wall of metal drawers faced them; opposite it was the loading bay where the fleet of gray vans would drop off the unceasing roll call of the dead. The only sound was the background hum of refrigeration. Despite this, Curt looked to left and right, as if fearing they might be overheard.

“About Siobhan’s little request,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you could let her know that I’m willing to accede.” Curt’s face came close to Rebus’s. “But only on the understanding that Gates never finds out.”

“Reckon he’s got too much ammo on you as it is?”

A nerve twitched in Curt’s left eye. “I’m sure he’s already blurted out the story to anyone who’ll listen.”

“We were all taken in by those bones, Doc. It wasn’t just you.”

But Curt seemed lost. “Look, just tell Siobhan it’s being done on the quiet. I’m the only one she should talk to about it, understood?”

“It’ll be our secret,” Rebus assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Curt stared at the hand forlornly.

“Why is it you remind me of one of Job’s comforters?”

“I hear what you’re saying, Doc.”

Curt looked at him. “But you don’t understand a word, am I right?”

“Right as usual, Doc. Right as usual.”

Siobhan realized that she’d been staring at her computer screen for the past few minutes, without really seeing what was written there. She got up and walked over to the table with the kettle on it, the one where Rebus should have been sitting. DCI Macrae had been into the room a couple of times, on both occasions seeming almost satisfied that Rebus was nowhere to be seen. Derek Starr was in his own office, discussing a case with someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s department.

“Want a coffee, Col?” Siobhan asked.

“No, thanks,” Tibbet replied. He was stroking his throat, fingers lingering on what looked like a patch of razor burn. His eyes never left his computer screen, and his voice when he’d spoken had been otherworldly, as though he were barely connected to the here and now.

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really. Trying to work out if there’s any connection between recent shoplifting sprees. I reckon they might tie in with train times . . .”

“How?”

He realized he’d said too much. If you wanted to be sure of grabbing all the glory, you had to keep information to yourself. It was the bane of Siobhan’s working life. Cops were loath to share; any cooperation was usually accompanied by mistrust. Tibbet was ignoring her question. She tapped the coffee spoon against her teeth.

“Let me guess,” she said. “A spree probably means one or more organized gangs . . . The fact that you’re looking at train times suggests they’re coming in from outside the city . . . So the spree can’t start until the train arrives, and it’ll stop as soon as they head back home?” She nodded to herself. “How am I doing?”

“It’s where they’re coming
from
that’s important,” Tibbet said testily.

“Newcastle?” Siobhan guessed. Tibbet’s body language told her she’d scored a bull’s-eye and won the match. The kettle boiled and she filled her mug, taking it back to her desk.

“Newcastle,” she repeated, sitting back down.

“At least I’m doing something constructive—not just surfing the Web.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“It’s what it
looks
like you’re doing.”

“Well, for your information I’m working a missing person . . . accessing any sites that might help.”

“I don’t remember a MisPer coming in.”

Siobhan gave a silent curse: she’d fallen into her own trap, coaxed into saying too much.

“Well, I’m working it anyway. And can I just remind you that I’m the ranking officer here?”

“You’re telling me to mind my own business?”

“That’s right, DC Tibbet, I am. And don’t worry—Newcastle’s yours and yours alone.”

“I might need to talk to the CID down there, see what they’ve got on the local gangs.”

Siobhan nodded. “Do whatever you need to do, Col.”

“Fair enough, Shiv. Thanks.”

“And never call me that again or I’ll rip your head off.”

“Everyone else calls you Shiv,” Tibbet protested.

“That’s true, but you’re going to break the pattern. You’re going to call me Siobhan.”

Tibbet was quiet for a moment, and Siobhan thought he’d gone back to testing his timetable theory. But then he spoke again.

“You don’t like being called Shiv . . . but you’ve never told anyone. Interesting . . .”

Siobhan wanted to ask him what he meant, but decided it would only prolong the conflict. She reckoned she knew anyway: as far as Tibbet was concerned, this fresh information gave him some power: a little incendiary he could tuck away for later. No use worrying about it until the time came. She concentrated on her screen, deciding on a fresh search. She’d been visiting sites maintained by groups who looked out for missing persons. Often these MisPers didn’t want to be found by their immediate families, but wanted nevertheless for them to know they were fine. Messages could be exchanged with the groups as intermediaries. Siobhan had a text which she’d worked out over the course of three drafts, and had now sent to the various noticeboards.

Ishbel—Mum and Dad miss you, and so do the girls at the salon. Get in touch to let us know you’re all right. We need you to know that we love you and miss you.

Siobhan reckoned this would do. It was neither too impersonal nor too gushingly frantic. It didn’t hint that someone from outside Ishbel’s immediate circle was doing the seeking. And even if the Jardines had been lying and there
had
been friction at home, the mention of the girls at the salon might make Ishbel feel guilty about having cast off friends such as Susie. Siobhan had placed the photo next to her keyboard.

“Friends of yours?” Tibbet had asked earlier, sounding interested. They were good-looking girls, fun at parties and in the pub. Life a bit of a laugh for them . . . Siobhan knew she could never hope to understand what might motivate them, but that wouldn’t stop her trying. She sent more e-mails: to police divisions this time. She knew detectives in Dundee and Glasgow, and flagged Ishbel up for them—just the name and general description, along with a note saying she’d owe them big-time if they were able to help. Almost immediately, her mobile sounded. It was Liz Hetherington, her contact in Dundee, a detective sergeant with Tayside Police.