Read Fleshmarket Alley (2004) for Free Online Page A

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.”