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

allow for any lewd jokes in the vicinity. Wylie cleared her throat in warning. “The one to the throat probably ended his life. Nicked the carotid artery. Blood in the lungs suggests he may have choked on the stuff.”
    “Any defense wounds?” Davidson asked.
    Curt nodded. “Palm, fingertips, and wrists. Whoever they were, he was fighting them off.”
    “But you think just the one attacker?”
    “Just the one knife,” Curt corrected Davidson. “Not quite the same thing.”
    “Time of death?” Wylie asked. She was jotting down as much information as she could.
    “Deep-body temperature was taken at the scene. He probably died half an hour before you were alerted.”
    “Incidentally,” Rebus asked, “just who did alert us?”
    “Anonymous call at thirteen-fifty,” Wylie replied.
    “Or ten to two in old money. Male caller?”
    Wylie shook her head. “Female, calling from a phone box.”
    “And we’ve got the number?”
    More nodding. “Plus the conversation was recorded. We’ll trace the caller, given time.”
    Curt studied his watch, wanting to be on his way.
    “Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?” Davidson asked.
    “Victim seems to have been in general good health. Slightly undernourished, but with good teeth—either didn’t grow up here or never succumbed to the Scottish diet. A specimen of the stomach contents—what there was of it—will go to the lab today. His last meal would seem to have been less than hearty: mostly rice and veg.”
    “Any idea of his race?”
    “I’m not an expert.”
    “We appreciate that, but all the same . . .”
    “Middle Eastern? Mediterranean . . . ?” Curt’s voice drifted off.
    “Well, that narrows things down,” Rebus said.
    “No tattoos or distinguishing features?” Wylie asked, still writing furiously.
    “None.” Curt paused. “This will all be typed up for you, DS Wylie.”
    “Just gives us something to work with in the interim, sir.”
    “Such dedication is rare these days.” Curt offered her a smile. It did not fit well on his gaunt face. “You know where to find me if any other questions arise . . .”
    “Thank you, Doctor,” Davidson said. Curt turned towards Rebus.
    “John, a quick word if I may . . . ?” His eyes met Davidson’s. “Personal rather than business,” he explained. He steered Rebus by the elbow towards the far door, and through it into the mortuary’s main holding area. There was no one around; at least, no one with a pulse. A wall of metal drawers faced them; opposite it was the loading bay where the fleet of gray vans would drop off the unceasing roll call of the dead. The only sound was the background hum of refrigeration. Despite this, Curt looked to left and right, as if fearing they might be overheard.
    “About Siobhan’s little request,” he said.
    “Yes?”
    “Perhaps you could let her know that I’m willing to accede.” Curt’s face came close to Rebus’s. “But only on the understanding that Gates never finds out.”
    “Reckon he’s got too much ammo on you as it is?”
    A nerve twitched in Curt’s left eye. “I’m sure he’s already blurted out the story to anyone who’ll listen.”
    “We were all taken in by those bones, Doc. It wasn’t just you.”
    But Curt seemed lost. “Look, just tell Siobhan it’s being done on the quiet. I’m the only one she should talk to about it, understood?”
    “It’ll be our secret,” Rebus assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Curt stared at the hand forlornly.
    “Why is it you remind me of one of Job’s comforters?”
    “I hear what you’re saying, Doc.”
    Curt looked at him. “But you don’t understand a word, am I right?”
    “Right as usual, Doc. Right as usual.”
    Siobhan realized that she’d been staring at her computer screen for the past few minutes, without really seeing what was written there. She got up and walked over to the table with the kettle on it, the one where Rebus should have been sitting. DCI Macrae had been