Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘Reckoned one man would do it.’

‘Been down there before?’

Evans shook his head. Almost without thinking, he’d slid another coin into the machine, pushed the start button. Plenty of flashing lights and sound effects, but no pay-out. He hit the button again.

‘Any idea who laid the concrete?’

Another shake of the head; another coin deposited in the slot. ‘Owners should have a record.’ He paused. ‘I don’t mean a criminal record — a note of who did the work, an invoice or something.’

‘Good point,’ Rebus said. Siobhan returned with the drinks, handed them out. She was back on the lime and soda.

‘Spoke to the barman,’ she said. ‘It’s a tied pub.’ Meaning it was owned by one of the breweries. ‘Landlord’s been out to a cash-and-carry, but he’s on his way back.’

‘He knows what’s happened?’

She nodded. ‘Barman called him. Should be here in a few minutes.’

‘Anything else you want to tell us, Mr Evans?’

‘Just that you should bring in the Fraud Squad. This machine’s robbing me blind.’

‘There are some crimes we’re powerless to prevent.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Any idea why the landlord wanted the floor dug up in the first place?’

‘He’ll tell you himself,’ Evans said, draining his glass. ‘That’s him just coming in now.’ The landlord had seen them and was making his way towards the machine. He had his hands buried deep in the pockets of a full-length black leather coat. A cream-coloured V-neck jumper left his throat bare, displaying a single medallion on a thin gold chain. His hair was short, spiked with gel at the front. He was wearing spectacles with rectangular orange lenses.

‘You all right, Joe?’ he asked, squeezing Evans’s arm.

‘Bearing up, Mr Mangold. These two are detectives.’

‘I’m the landlord here. Name’s Ray Mangold.’ Rebus and Siobhan introduced themselves. ‘So far, I’m a bit in the dark, officers. Skeletons in the cellar — can’t decide if that’s good for business or not.’ He gave a grin, showing too-white teeth.

‘I’m sure the victims would be touched by your concern, sir.’ Rebus wasn’t sure why he’d taken against the man so rapidly. Maybe it 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 over-sensitive; 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 over-friendly 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 cosy, 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.’ 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 suppose 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 set-up, 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...?’