Read Fleshmarket Alley (2004) for Free Online

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