by Ian Rankin
Rebus seemed satisfied with this, and headed out of the room. She could hear voices from the bar, greeting his arrival there.
“What’re you doing hiding upstairs?” one of them asked. She couldn’t hear an answer but knew it anyway. The front bar was Rebus’s domain, a place where he could hold court with his fellow drinkers—all of them men. But this part of his life had to remain distinct from any other—Siobhan wasn’t sure why, it was just something he was unwilling to share. The back room was for meetings and “guests.” She sat back and thought of the Jardines, and whether she was really willing to become involved in their search. They belonged to her past, and past cases seldom reappeared so tangibly. It was in the nature of the job that you became involved in people’s lives intimately—more intimately than many of them would like—but for a brief time only. Rebus had let slip to her once that he felt surrounded by ghosts: lapsed friendships and relationships, plus all those victims whose lives had ended before his interest in them had begun.
It can play havoc with you, Shiv . . .
She’d never forgotten those words; in vino veritas and all that. She could hear a mobile phone ringing in the front room. It prompted her to take out her own, checking for messages. But there was no signal, something she’d forgotten about this place. The Oxford Bar was only a minute’s walk from the city-center shops, yet somehow you could never pick up a signal in the back room. The bar was tucked away down a narrow lane, offices and flats above. Thick stone walls, built to survive the centuries. She angled the handset different ways, but the on-screen message remained a defiant “No Signal.” But now Rebus himself was in the doorway, no drinks in his hands. Instead, waving his own mobile at her.
“We’re wanted,” he said.
“Where?”
He ignored her question. “You got your car?”
She nodded.
“Better let you drive, then. Lucky you stuck to the soft stuff, eh?”
She put her jacket back on and picked up her bag. Rebus was purchasing cigarettes and mints from behind the bar. He popped one of the mints into his mouth.
“So is this to be a mystery tour or what?” Siobhan asked.
He shook his head, crunching down with his teeth. “Fleshmarket Alley,” he told her. “Couple of bodies we might be interested in.” He pulled open the door to the outside world. “Only not quite as fresh as the one in Knoxland . . .”
Fleshmarket Alley was a narrow, pedestrian-only lane connecting the High Street to Cockburn Street. The High Street entrance was flanked by a bar and a photographic shop. There were no parking spaces left, so Siobhan turned into Cockburn Street itself, parking outside the arcade. They crossed the road and headed into Fleshmarket Alley. This end, its entrance boasted a bookmaker’s one side, and a shop opposite selling crystals and “dream-catchers”: old and new Edinburgh, Rebus thought to himself. The Cockburn Street end of the alley was open to the elements, while the other half was covered over by five floors of what he assumed to be flats, their unlit windows casting baleful looks on the goings-on below.
There were several doorways in the lane itself. One would lead to the flats, and one, directly opposite, to the bodies. Rebus saw some of the same faces from the crime scene at Knoxland: white-suited SOCOs and police photographers. The doorway was narrow and low, dating back a few hundred years to when the locals had been a great deal shorter. Rebus ducked as he entered, Siobhan right behind him. Lighting, provided by a meager forty-watt bulb in the ceiling, was in the process of being augmented by an arc lamp, as soon as a cable could be found to stretch to the nearest socket.
Rebus had hesitated on the periphery, until one of the SOCOs told him it was all right.
“Bodies’ve been here a while; not much chance of us disturbing any evidence.”
Rebus nodded and approached the tight circle made up of white suits. There was a scuffed concrete floor under their feet. A pickax lay nearby. There was still dust in the air, clinging to the back of Rebus’s throat.
“The concrete was being taken up,” someone was explaining. “Doesn’t look as if it’s been there too long, but they wanted to lower the floor for some reason.”
“What is this place?” Rebus asked, looking around. There were packing cases, shelves filled with more boxes. Old barrels and advertising signs for beers and spirits.
“Belongs to the pub upstairs. They’ve been using it for storage. Cellar’s just through that wall.” A gloved hand pointed to the shelves. Rebus could hear floorboards creaking above them, and muffled sounds from a jukebox or TV set. “Workman starts breaking the stuff up, and here’s what he finds . . .”
Rebus turned and looked down. He was staring at a skull. There were other bones, too, and he didn’t doubt they would make up an entire skeleton, once the rest of the concrete had been removed.
“Might have been here a while,” the scene-of-crime officer offered. “Going to be a sod of a job for somebody.”
Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. In the car, she’d wondered aloud why the call had come to them, and not to Hawes or Tibbet. Rebus raised an eyebrow, indicating that he felt she now had her answer.
“A proper pig of a job,” the SOCO reiterated.
“That’s why we’re here,” Rebus said quietly, gaining a wry smile from Siobhan—more than one meaning to his words. “Where’s the owner of the pickax?”
“Upstairs. He said a snifter might help revive him.” The SOCO twitched his nose, as if only now catching a hint of mint in the stale air.
“Suppose we better have a word with him, then,” Rebus said.
“I thought it was bodies plural?” Siobhan queried.
The SOCO nodded towards a white polyethylene carrier bag lying on the floor, next to the broken-up concrete. One of his colleagues raised the bag a few inches. Siobhan sucked in her breath. There was another skeleton there, hardly any size at all. She let out a hiss.
“It was the only thing we had on hand,” the SOCO apologized. He meant the carrier bag. Rebus, too, was staring down at the tiny remains.
“Mother and baby?” he guessed.
“I’d leave that sort of speculation to the professionals,” a new voice stated. Rebus turned and found himself shaking hands with the pathologist, Dr. Curt. “Christ, John, are you still around? I heard they were putting you out to pasture.”
“You’re very much my role model, Doc. When you go, I go.”
“And the rejoicing shall be long and heartfelt. Good evening to you, Siobhan.” Curt tipped his head forward slightly. If he’d been wearing a hat, Rebus didn’t doubt he’d have removed it in a lady’s presence. He seemed to belong to another age, with his immaculate dark suit and polished brogues, the stiff shirt and striped tie, this last probably denoting membership of some venerable Edinburgh institution. His hair was gray, but this only served to make him appear even more distinguished. It was combed back from the forehead, not a strand out of place. He peered at the skeletons.
“The Prof will have a field day,” he muttered. “He does like these little puzzles.” He straightened up, examining his surroundings. “And his history, too.”
“You think they’ve been here a while then?” Siobhan made the mistake of asking. Curt’s eyes twinkled.
“Certainly they were here before the concrete was laid . . . but probably not too long before. People don’t tend to pour fresh concrete over bodies without good reason.”
“Yes, of course.” Siobhan’s blushes would have been spared had not the arc lamp suddenly lit the scene blazingly, casting huge shadows up the walls and across the low ceiling.
“That’s better,” the SOCO said.
Siobhan looked to Rebus and saw that he was rubbing his cheeks, as if she needed telling that her own face had reddened.
“I should probably get the Prof down here,” Curt was saying to himself. “I think he’d want to see them in situ . . .” He reached into an inside pocket for his mobile. “Pity to disturb the old boy when he’s heading out to the opera, but dut
y calls, does it not?” He winked at Rebus, who responded with a smile.
“Absolutely, Doc.”
The Prof was Professor Sandy Gates, Curt’s colleague and immediate boss. Both men worked at the university, teaching pathology, but were constantly on call to attend scenes of crime.
“You heard we had a stabbing in Knoxland?” Rebus asked, as Curt pushed the buttons on his phone.
“I heard,” Curt replied. “We’ll probably take a look at him tomorrow morning. Not sure yet that our clients here demand any such urgency.” He looked again at the adult skeleton. The infant had been re-covered, not by a bag this time but by Siobhan’s own jacket, which she’d placed over the remains with the utmost care.
“Wish you hadn’t done that,” Curt muttered, holding the phone to his ear. “Means we have to hang on to your coat so we can match it against any fibers we find.”
Rebus couldn’t stand to watch Siobhan start blushing again. Instead, he gestured towards the door. As they made their exit, Curt could be heard talking to Professor Gates.
“Are you all gussied up in tails and cummerbund, Sandy? Because if you’re not—and even if you are—I think I may have an alternative entertainment for you ce soir . . .”
Instead of heading up the lane, towards the pub, Siobhan started heading down.
“Where you off to?” Rebus asked.
“I’ve got a windbreaker in the car,” she explained. By the time she returned, Rebus had lit a cigarette.
“Good to see you with some color in your cheeks,” he told her.
“Gosh, did you think that up all by yourself?” She made an exasperated sound and leaned against the wall next to him, arms folded. “I just wish he wasn’t so . . .”
“What?” Rebus was examining the glowing tip of his cigarette.
“I don’t know . . .” She looked around, as if for inspiration. Revelers were on the street, weaving their way to the next hostelry. Tourists were photographing one another outside Starbucks, with the climb to the Castle as backdrop. Old and new, Rebus thought again.
“It just seems like a game to him,” Siobhan said at last. “That’s not what I mean exactly, but it’ll have to do.”
“He’s one of the most serious men I know,” Rebus told her. “It’s a way of dealing with it, that’s all. We all do it in our different ways, don’t we?”
“Do we?” She looked at him. “I suppose your way involves quantities of nicotine and alcohol?”
“It never does to mess with a winning combination.”
“Even if it’s a killing combination?”
“Remember the story of that old king? Took a little bit of poison every day to make himself immune?” Rebus blew smoke into the bruise-colored evening sky. “Think about it. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be buying a workman a drink . . . and maybe having one myself.” He pushed open the door to the bar, let it swing shut after him. Siobhan stood there for a few moments longer before joining him.
“Didn’t that king end up being killed anyway?” she asked, as they moved through the bar’s interior.
The place was called The Warlock, and it looked geared to foot-weary tourists. One wall was covered in a mural which told the story of Major Weir, who, back in the seventeenth century, had confessed to witchcraft, identifying his own sister as accomplice. The pair had been executed on Calton Hill.
“Nice,” was Siobhan’s only comment.
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?”