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

you in a while, Ellen.”
    Ellen Wylie was a detective sergeant, Davidson her boss. She had a box file open on her lap. It looked brand-new, and contained only a few sheets of paper as yet. A case number was written at the top of the first page. Rebus knew that it would soon swell to bursting with reports, photographs, lists of staff rotas. It was the Murder Book: the “bible” for the forthcoming investigation.
    “I heard you were out at Knoxland yesterday,” Wylie said, eyes fixed ahead of her as if watching a film which would stop making sense the moment her attention lapsed. “Having a nice long chat with a representative from the fourth estate.”
    “And for the benefit of our English-speaking viewers . . . ?”
    “Steve Holly,” she stated. “And in the context of this current inquiry, the phrase ‘English-speaking’ could be construed as racist.”
    “That’s because everything’s racist or sexist these days, sweetheart.” Rebus paused for a reaction, but she wasn’t about to oblige. “Last I heard, we’re not allowed to say ‘accident blackspot’ or ‘Indian summer.’”
    “Or ‘manhole cover,’” Davidson added, leaning forward to make eye contact with Rebus, who shook his head at the madness of it all before sitting back to take in the scene through the glass.
    “So how’s Gayfield Square?” Wylie asked.
    “Moments away from having its name changed for being politically incorrect.”
    This got a laugh from Davidson, loud enough to have the faces through the glass turning towards him. He held up a hand in apology, covering his mouth with the other one. Wylie scribbled something into the Murder Book.
    “Looks like detention for you, Shug,” Rebus offered. “So how are things shaping up? Got any idea who he is yet?”
    It was Wylie who answered. “Loose change in his pockets . . . not even as much as a set of house keys.”
    “And nobody coming forward to claim him,” Davidson added.
    “Door-to-door?”
    “John, this is Knoxland we’re talking about.” Meaning no one was talking. It was a tribal thing, handed down from parent to child. Whatever happened, you didn’t give the police anything.
    “And the media?”
    Davidson handed Rebus a folded tabloid. The killing hadn’t made the front page; the byline on page five was Steve Holly’s: ASYLUM DEATH RIDDLE. As Rebus skimmed down the paragraphs, Wylie turned to him.
    “I wonder who it was that mentioned asylum seekers.”
    “Not me,” Rebus answered. “Holly just makes this stuff up. ‘Sources close to the investigation.’” He snorted. “Which one of you does he mean by that? Or maybe he means both?”
    “You’re not making any friends here, John.”
    Rebus handed back the newspaper. “How many warm bodies have you got working the case?”
    “Not enough,” Davidson conceded.
    “Yourself and Ellen?”
    “Plus Charlie Reynolds.”
    “And yourself apparently,” Wylie added.
    “I’m not sure I like the odds.”
    “There are some keen uniforms working door-to-door,” Davidson said, defensively.
    “No problem then—case solved.” Rebus saw that the autopsy was reaching its conclusion. The corpse would be sewn back together by one of the assistants. Curt motioned that he’d meet the detectives downstairs, then disappeared through a door to change out of his scrubs.
    The pathologists had no office of their own. Curt was waiting in a gloomy corridor. There were sounds from inside the staff room: a kettle coming to the boil, a game of cards reaching some sort of climax.
    “The Prof’s done a runner?” Rebus guessed.
    “He has a class in ten minutes.”
    “So what have you got for us, Doctor?” Ellen Wylie asked. If she’d ever possessed a gift for small talk, it had been annihilated some time ago.
    “Twelve separate wounds in total, almost certainly the work of the same blade. A kitchen knife perhaps, serrated edge, only a centimeter wide. Deepest penetration was five centimeters.” He paused, as if to