Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

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.

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