Read Fleshmarket Alley (2004) for Free Online Page B

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