Fleshmarket Close

1

‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ Detective Inspector John Rebus said. Not that anyone was listening.

Knoxland was a housing scheme on the western edge of Edinburgh, off Rebus’s patch. He was there because the West End guys were short-handed. He was also there because his own bosses couldn’t think what to do with him. It was a rainy Monday afternoon, and nothing about the day so far boded anything but ill for the rest of the working week.

Rebus’s old police station, his happy hunting ground these past eight or so years, had seen itself reorganised. As a result, it no longer boasted a CID office, meaning Rebus and his fellow detectives had been cast adrift, shipped out to other stations. He’d ended up at Gayfield Square, just off Leith Walk: a cushy number, according to some. Gayfield Square was on the periphery of the elegant New Town, behind whose eighteenth- and nineteenth-century façades anything could be happening without those outside being any the wiser. It certainly felt a long way from Knoxland, further than the three factual miles. It was another culture, another country.

Knoxland had been built in the 1960s, apparently from papier mâché and balsa wood. Walls so thin you could hear the neighbours cutting their toenails and smell their dinner on the stove. Patches of damp bloomed on its grey concrete walls. Graffiti had turned the place into ‘Hard Knox’. Other embellishments warned the ‘Pakis’ to ‘Get Out’, while a scrawl that was probably only an hour or so old bore the legend ‘One Less’.

What shops there were had resorted to metal grilles on windows and doors, not even bothering to remove them during opening hours. The place itself was contained, hemmed in by dual carriageways to north and west. The bright-eyed developers had scooped out subways beneath the roads. Probably in their original drawings, these had been clean, well-lit spaces where neighbours would stop to chat about the weather and the new curtains in the window of number 42. In reality, they’d become no-go areas for everyone but the foolhardy and suicidal, even in daytime. Rebus was forever seeing reports of bag-snatchings and muggings.

It was probably those same bright-eyed developers who’d had the idea of naming the estate’s various high-rise blocks after Scottish writers, and appending each with the word ‘House’, serving merely to rub in that these were nothing like real houses.

Barrie House.

Stevenson House.

Scott House.

Burns House.

Reaching skywards with all the subtlety of single-digit salutes.

He looked around for somewhere to deposit his half-empty coffee cup. He’d stopped at a baker’s on Gorgie Road, knowing that the further from the city centre he drove, the less likely he would be to find anything remotely drinkable. Not a good choice: the coffee had been scalding at first, quickly turning tepid, which only served to highlight its lack of anything resembling flavour. There were no bins nearby; no bins at all, in fact. The pavements and grass verges, however, were doing their best to oblige, so Rebus added his litter to the mosaic, then straightened up and pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets. He could see his breath in the air.

‘Papers are going to have a field day with this,’ someone was muttering. There were a dozen figures shuffling around in the covered walkway between two of the high-rise blocks. The place smelled faintly of urine, human or otherwise. Plenty of dogs in the vicinity, one or two even wearing collars. They would come sniffing at the entrance to the walkway, until chased off by one of the uniforms. Crime-scene tape now blocked both ends of the passage. Kids on bikes were craning their necks for a look. Police photographers were gathering evidence, vying for space with the forensic team. They were dressed in white overalls, heads covered. An anonymous grey van was parked alongside the police cars on the muddy play area outside. Its driver had complained to Rebus that some kids had demanded money from him to keep an eye on it.

‘Bloody sharks.’

Soon, this driver would take the body to the mortuary, where the post-mortem examination would take place. But already they knew they were dealing with homicide. Multiple stab wounds, including one to the throat. The trail of blood showed that the victim had been attacked ten or twelve feet further into the passage. He’d probably tried to get away, crawling towards the light, his attacker making more lunges as he faltered and fell.

‘Nothing in the pockets except some loose change,’ another detective was saying. ‘Let’s hope someone knows who he is...’

Rebus didn’t know who he was, but he knew what he was: he was a case, a statistic. More than that, he was a story, and even now the city’s journalists would be scenting it, for all the world like a pack sensing its quarry. Knoxland was not a popular estate. It tended to attract only the desperate and those with no choice in the matter. In the past, it had been used as a dumping ground for tenants the council found hard to house elsewhere: addicts and the unhinged. More recently, immigrants had been catapulted into its dankest, least welcoming corners. Asylum-seekers, refugees. People nobody really wanted to think about or have to deal with. Looking around, Rebus realised that the poor bastards must be left feeling like mice in a maze. The difference being that in laboratories, there were few predators, while out here in the real world, they were everywhere.

They carried knives. They roamed at will. They ran the streets.

And now they had killed.

Another car drew up, a figure emerging from it. Rebus knew the face: Steve Holly, local hack for a Glasgow tabloid. Overweight and bustling, hair gelled into spikes. Before locking his car, Holly tucked his laptop under his arm, ready to bring it with him. Street-savvy, that was Steve Holly. He nodded at Rebus.

‘Got anything for me?’

Rebus shook his head, and Holly started looking around for other more likely sources. ‘Heard you’d been kicked out of St Leonard’s,’ he said, as if making conversation, eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve dumped you out here?’

Rebus knew better than to rise to it, but Holly was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Dumping ground just about sums this place up. School of hard knocks, eh?’ Holly started to light a cigarette, and Rebus knew he was thinking of the story he’d be writing later on: dreaming up punning sentences and scraps of twopenny philosophy.

‘Asian bloke, I heard,’ the journalist said at last, blowing smoke and offering the packet to Rebus.

‘We don’t know yet,’ Rebus admitted: his words the price of a cigarette. Holly lit it for him. ‘Tan-skinned... could be from anywhere.’

‘Anywhere except Scotland,’ Holly said with a smile. ‘Race crime though, got to be. Only a matter of time before we had one.’ Rebus knew why he stressed the ‘we’: he meant Edinburgh. Glasgow had had at least one race murder, an asylum-seeker trying to live his life on one of that city’s thick-skinned estates. Stabbed to death, just like the victim in front of them here, who, searched and studied and photographed, was now being placed in a body-bag. There was silence during the procedure: a momentary mark of respect by professionals who would thereafter get on with the job of finding the killer. The bag was lifted on to a trolley, then wheeled beneath the cordon and past Rebus and Holly.

‘You in charge?’ Holly asked quietly. Rebus shook his head again, watching the body being loaded into the van. ‘Give me a clue then — who is it I should be speaking to?’

‘I shouldn’t even be here,’ Rebus said, turning away to make for the relative safety of his car.

I’m one of the lucky ones, Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke was thinking to herself, by which she meant that she at least had been given a desk of her own. John Rebus — senior in rank to her — hadn’t been so fortunate. Not that fortune, good or bad, had had anything to do with it. She knew Rebus saw it as a sign from on high: we’ve no place for you; time you thought of chucking it in. He’d be on the full police pension by now — officers younger than him, with fewer years on the force, were throwing in their cards and readying to cash their chips. He’d known exactly the message the bosses had wanted him to take. So had Siobhan, who’d offered him her own desk. He’d refused, of course, said he was happy to share whatever space was available, which came to mean a table by the photocopier, where mugs, coffee and sugar were kept. The kettle was on the adjacent windowledge. There was a box of copier paper under the table, and a broken-backed chair which creaked in complaint when sat upon. No telephone, not even a wall-socket for one. No computer.

‘Temporary, of course,’ Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae had explained. ‘Not easy, trying to make space for new bodies...’

To which Rebus had responded with a smile and a shrug, Siobhan realising that he daren’t speak: Rebus’s own particular form of anger management. Bottle it all up for later. The same issues of space explained why her desk was in with the detective constables. There was a separate office for the detective sergeants, who shared with the clerical assistant, but no room there for Siobhan or Rebus. The Detective Inspector, meantime, had a small office of his own, between the two. Ah, there was the rub: Gayfield already had a DI; had no need of another. His name was Derek Starr, and he was tall, blond and good-looking. Problem was, he knew it. One lunchtime, he’d taken Siobhan for a meal at his club. It was called The Hallion and was a five-minute walk away. She hadn’t dared ask how much it cost to join. Turned out he’d taken Rebus there, too.

‘Because he can,’ had been Rebus’s summing up. Starr was on the way up, and wanted both new arrivals to know it.

Her own desk was fine. She did have a computer, which Rebus was welcome to use whenever he liked. And she had a phone. Across the aisle from her sat Detective Constable Phyllida Hawes. They’d worked together on a couple of cases, even though they’d been in different divisions. Siobhan was ten years Hawes’s junior, but senior to her in rank. So far, this hadn’t seemed an issue, and Siobhan was hoping it would stay that way. There was another DC in the room. His name was Colin Tibbet: mid-twenties, Siobhan reckoned, which made him a few years younger than her. Nice smile which often showed a row of smallish, rounded teeth. Hawes had already accused her of fancying him, couching it in jokey terms, but only just.

‘I’m not in the baby-snatching business,’ Siobhan had responded.

‘So you like the more mature man?’ Hawes had teased, glancing in the direction of the photocopier.

‘Don’t be daft,’ Siobhan had said, knowing she was meaning Rebus. At the end of a case a few months back, Siobhan had found herself in Rebus’s arms, being kissed by him. Nobody else knew, and it had never been discussed between them. Yet it hung over them whenever they were alone together. Well... hung over her anyway; you could never tell with John Rebus.

Phyllida Hawes was walking to the photocopier now, asking where DI Rebus had disappeared to.

‘Got a call,’ Siobhan answered. It was as much as she knew, but the look Hawes gave indicated that she thought Siobhan was holding back. Tibbet cleared his throat.

‘There’s a body been found in Knoxland. It’s just come up on the computer.’ He tapped his screen as if to confirm this. ‘Here’s hoping it’s not a turf war.’

Siobhan nodded slowly. Less than a year back, a drugs gang had tried muscling in on the estate, leading to a series of stabbings, abductions and reprisals. The incomers had been from Northern Ireland, rumours of paramilitary connections. Most of them were in jail now.

‘Not our problem, is it?’ Hawes was saying. ‘One of the few things we’ve got going for us here... no schemes like Knoxland in the vicinity.’

Which was true enough. Gayfield Square was mostly a city centre operation: shoplifters and troublemakers on Princes Street; Saturday-night drunks; break-ins in the New Town.

‘Bit like a holiday for you, eh, Siobhan?’ Hawes added with a grin.

‘St Leonard’s had its moments,’ Siobhan was forced to agree. Back when the move was announced, word was she’d end up at HQ. She didn’t know how that rumour had started, but after a week or so it had begun to feel real. But then Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer had asked to see her, and suddenly she was going to Gayfield Square. She’d tried not to feel it as a blow, but that was what it had been. Templer herself, on the other hand, was bound for HQ. Others were dispersed as far afield as Balerno and East Lothian, a few opting for retirement. Only Siobhan and Rebus would be moving to Gayfield Square.

‘And just when we were getting the hang of the job,’ Rebus had complained, emptying the contents of his desk drawers into a large cardboard box. ‘Still, look on the bright side: longer lies for you in the morning.’

True, her flat was five minutes’ walk away. No more rush-hour drives through the centre of town. It was one of the few bonuses she could think of... maybe even the only one. They’d been a team at St Leonard’s, and the building had been in much better shape than the current drab edifice. The CID room had been larger and brighter, and here there was a... She breathed in deeply through her nostrils. Well, a smell. She couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t body odour or the packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches Tibbet brought to work with him each day. It seemed to be coming from the building itself. One morning, alone in the room, she’d even placed her nose to the walls and floor, but there seemed no specific source for the smell. There were even times when it vanished altogether, only to reappear by degrees. The radiators? The insulation? She’d given up trying to explain it, and hadn’t said anything to anyone, not even Rebus.

Her phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID,’ she said into the mouthpiece.

‘Front desk here. Got a couple who’d like a word with DS Clarke.’

Siobhan frowned. ‘Asked for me specifically?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What are their names?’ She reached for a notepad and pen.

‘Mr and Mrs Jardine. They said to tell you they’re from Banehall.’

Siobhan stopped writing. She knew who they were. ‘Tell them I’ll be right there.’ She ended the call and lifted her jacket from the back of her chair.

‘Another deserter?’ Hawes said. ‘Anybody’d think our company wasn’t wanted, Col.’ She winked at Tibbet.

‘Visitors to see me,’ Siobhan explained.

‘Bring them in,’ Hawes invited, opening her arms wide. ‘More the merrier.’

‘I’ll see,’ Siobhan said. As she left the room, Hawes was stabbing the photocopier button again, Tibbet reading something on his computer screen, lips moving silently. No way she was bringing the Jardines in here. That background odour, and the mustiness, and the view over the car park... the Jardines deserved something better.

Me too, she couldn’t help thinking.

It was three years since she’d seen them. They hadn’t aged well. John Jardine’s hair was almost all gone, and what little was left was salt-and-pepper grey. His wife Alice had some grey in her hair, too. It was tied behind her, making her face seem large and stern. She’d put on some weight, and her clothes looked as if she’d chosen them at random: a long brown corduroy skirt with dark-blue tights and green shoes; checked blouse with a red checked coat thrown over the whole. John Jardine had made a bit more effort: suit and tie, and a shirt which had seen an ironing board in recent memory. He held out his hand for Siobhan to take.

‘Mr Jardine,’ she said. ‘Still got the cats, I see.’ She plucked a couple of hairs from his lapel.

He gave a short, nervous laugh, shuffling to one side so his wife could step in and shake hands with Siobhan. But instead of shaking, she squeezed Siobhan’s hand and held it quite still in her own. Her eyes were reddened, and Siobhan felt there was something the woman was hoping she’d read in them.

‘They tell us you’re a sergeant now,’ John Jardine was saying.

‘Detective sergeant, yes.’ Siobhan was still holding Alice Jardine’s stare.

‘Congratulations on that. We went to your old place first, and they told us to come here. Something about CID being reorganised...?’ He was rubbing his hands together as though washing them. Siobhan knew he was in his mid-forties, but he looked ten years older, as did his wife. Three years ago, Siobhan had suggested family therapy. If they’d taken her advice, it hadn’t worked. They were still in shock, still dazed and confused and in mourning.

‘We’ve lost one daughter,’ Alice Jardine said quietly, finally releasing her grip. ‘We don’t want to lose another... that’s why we need your help.’

Siobhan looked from wife to husband and back again. She was aware that the Desk Sergeant was watching; aware, too, of the peeling paint on the walls, the scored graffiti and Wanted posters.

‘How about a coffee?’ she said with a smile. ‘There’s a place just round the corner.’

So that was where they went. A café which doubled as a restaurant at lunchtime. A businessman was seated at one of the window tables, finishing a late meal while talking into his mobile phone and sifting through paperwork in his briefcase. Siobhan led the couple to a booth, not too near the wall-mounted speakers. It was instrumental music, background pap to fill the silence. Probably meant to be vaguely Italian. The waiter, however, was one hundred per cent local.

‘Anythin’ to eat wi’ that?’ His vowels were flat and nasal, and there was a venerable dollop of bolognese sauce on the belly of his short-sleeved white shirt. His arms were thick and showed fading tattoos of thistles and saltires.

‘Just the coffees,’ Siobhan said. ‘Unless...?’ She looked at the couple seated opposite her, but they shook their heads. The waiter headed off in the direction of the espresso machine, only to be diverted by the businessman, who also wanted something and obviously merited a level of service which an order of three coffees couldn’t hope to match. Well, it wasn’t as if Siobhan was in any great rush to return to her desk, though she wasn’t sure she was going to take much pleasure from the conversation ahead.

‘So how are things with you?’ she felt obliged to ask.

The couple looked at one another before replying. ‘Difficult,’ Mr Jardine said. ‘Things have been... difficult.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Alice Jardine leaned forward across the table. ‘It’s not Tracy. I mean, we still miss her...’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course we do. But it’s Ishbel we’re worried about.’

‘Worried sick,’ her husband added.

‘Because she’s gone, you see. And we don’t know why or where.’ Mrs Jardine burst into tears. Siobhan looked towards the businessman, but he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than his own existence. The waiter, however, had paused by the espresso machine. Siobhan glared at him, hoping he’d take the hint and hurry up with their drinks. John Jardine had an arm around his wife’s shoulders, and it was this which took Siobhan back three years, to an almost identical scene: the terraced house in the West Lothian village of Banehall, and John Jardine comforting his wife as best he knew how. The house was neat and tidy, a place its owners could take pride in, having used the right-to-purchase scheme to buy it from the local council. Streets of near-identical houses all around, but you could tell the ones in private ownership: new doors and windows, tidied gardens with new fencing and wrought-iron gates. At one time, Banehall had thrived on coal-mining, but that industry was long gone, and with it much of the town’s spirit. Driving down Main Street for the first time, Siobhan had been aware of boarded-up shops and For Sale signs; people moving slowly under the weight of carrier bags; kids hanging around the war memorial, aiming playful high kicks at each other.

John Jardine worked as a delivery driver; Alice was on the production line at an electronics factory on the outskirts of Livingston. Striving to do well for themselves and their two daughters. But one of those daughters had been attacked during a night out in Edinburgh. Her name was Tracy. She’d been drinking and dancing with a gang of friends. Towards the end of the evening, they’d piled into taxis to go to some party. But Tracy had been a straggler, and the address of the party had slipped her mind during the wait for a cab. The battery on her mobile was flat, so she went back inside, asked one of the lads she’d been up for a dance with if he’d lend her his. He went outside with her, started walking with her, telling her the party wasn’t that far.

Started kissing her; not taking no for an answer. Slapped her and punched her, dragged her into an alley and raped her.

All of this Siobhan had already known as she’d sat in the house in Banehall. She’d worked the case, spoken with the victim and the parents. The attacker hadn’t been hard to find: he was from Banehall himself, lived only three or four roads away, the other side of Main Street. Tracy had known him at school. His defence was fairly typical: too much drink, couldn’t remember... and she’d been willing enough anyway. Rape always made for a tough prosecution, but to Siobhan’s relief, Donald Cruikshank, known to his friends as Donny, face permanently scarred by the raking of his victim’s fingernails, had been found guilty and sentenced to five years.

Which should have been the end of Siobhan’s involvement with the family, except that a few weeks after the trial had ended had come news of Tracy’s suicide, her life ending at nineteen years of age. An overdose of pills, found in her bedroom by her sister Ishbel, four years younger than her.

Siobhan had visited the parents, all too aware that nothing she could say would change anything, but still feeling the need to say something. They had been failed, not so much by the system as by life itself. The one thing Siobhan hadn’t done — the thing she’d had to grit her teeth to stop herself doing — was visit Cruikshank in jail. She’d wanted him to feel her anger. She remembered the way Tracy had given evidence in court, her voice fading away to nothing as the phrases stuttered out; not looking at anyone; almost ashamed to be there. Unwilling to touch the bagged exhibits: her torn dress and underwear. Wiping silent tears away. The judge had been sympathetic, the defendant trying not to look shamefaced, playing the role of the real victim: wounded, a large muslin patch covering one cheek; shaking his head in disbelief, raising his eyes to heaven.

And afterwards, the verdict delivered, the jury had been allowed to hear of his previous convictions: two for assault, one for attempted rape. Donny Cruikshank was nineteen years old.

‘Bastard’s got his whole life ahead of him,’ John Jardine had told Siobhan as they left the cemetery. Alice had both arms around her surviving daughter. Ishbel was crying into her mother’s shoulder. Alice looking straight ahead, something dying behind her eyes...

The coffees came, jarring Siobhan back to the present. She waited until the waiter had gone, off to fetch the businessman’s bill.

‘So tell me what’s happened,’ she said.

John Jardine poured a sachet of sugar into his cup and started stirring. ‘Ishbel left school last year. We wanted her to go to college, get some kind of qualification. But she had her heart set on hairdressing.’

‘Of course, you need a qualification to do that, too,’ his wife interrupted. ‘She’s going part-time to the college in Livingston.’

Siobhan just nodded.

‘Well, she was until she disappeared,’ John Jardine stated quietly.

‘When was this?’

‘A week ago today.’

‘She just upped and went?’

‘We thought she’d gone to work as usual — she’s at the salon on Main Street. But they phoned to see if she was sick. Some of her clothes had gone, enough to fill a backpack. Money, cards, mobile...’

‘We’ve tried phoning it umpteen times,’ his wife added, ‘but it’s always switched off.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone apart from me?’ Siobhan asked, lifting her cup to her lips.

‘Everyone we could think of — her pals, old school-friends, the girls she worked with.’

‘College?’

Alice Jardine nodded. ‘They’ve not seen her either.’

‘We went to the police station in Livingston,’ John Jardine said. He was still stirring the contents of his cup, showed no inclination to drink it. ‘They said she’s eighteen, so she’s not breaking the law. Packed a bag, so it’s not like she was abducted.’

‘That’s true, I’m afraid.’ There was more Siobhan could have added: that she saw runaways all the time; that if she herself lived in Banehall, maybe she would run away, too... ‘There hadn’t been any fights at home?’

Mr Jardine shook his head. ‘She was saving for a flat... already making lists of the stuff she’d buy for it.’

‘Any boyfriends?’

‘There was one until a couple of months back. The split was...’ Mr Jardine couldn’t find the word he was looking for. ‘They were still friends.’

‘It was amicable?’ Siobhan suggested. He smiled and nodded: she’d found his word for him.

‘We just want to know what’s going on,’ Alice Jardine said.

‘I’m sure you do, and there are people who can help... agencies who look out for people like Ishbel who’ve left home for whatever reason.’ Siobhan realised that the words were coming too easily: she’d said them so many times to anxious parents. Alice was looking to her husband.

‘Tell her what Susie told you,’ she said.

He nodded, finally placing the spoon back on its saucer. ‘Susie works with Ishbel at the salon. She told me she’d seen Ishbel getting into a flash car... she thought it might be a BMW or something.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of times... the car was always parked a bit further down the street. Older guy driving.’ He paused. ‘Well, my age at least.’

‘Did Susie ask Ishbel who he was?’

He nodded. ‘But Ishbel wouldn’t say.’

‘So maybe she’s gone to stay with this friend of hers.’ Siobhan had finished her coffee but didn’t want another.

‘But why not tell us?’ Alice asked plaintively.

‘I’m not sure I can help you answer that.’

‘Susie mentioned something else,’ John Jardine said, lowering his voice still further. ‘She said this man... she told us he looked a bit shady.’

‘Shady?’

‘What she actually said was, he looked like a pimp.’ He glanced up at Siobhan. ‘You know, like off the films and TV: sunglasses and a leather jacket... flash car.’

‘I’m not sure that gets us any further,’ Siobhan said, immediately regretting the use of ‘us’, tying her to their cause.

‘Ishbel’s a real beauty,’ Alice said. ‘You know that yourself. Why would she just run off like that without telling us? Why did she keep this man a secret from us?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘No, there’s got to be more to it.’

Silence fell on the table for a few moments. The businessman’s phone was ringing again as the waiter held the door open for him. The waiter even gave a little bow: either the man was a regular, or a decent tip had changed hands. Now there were only three customers left in the place, not the most thrilling prospect.

‘I can’t see any way of helping you,’ Siobhan told the Jardines. ‘You know I would if I could...’

John Jardine had taken his wife’s hand. ‘You were very good to us, Siobhan. Sympathetic and all that. We appreciated it at the time, and so did Ishbel... That’s why we thought of you.’ He fixed her with his milky eyes. ‘We’ve already lost Tracy. Ishbel’s all we’ve got left.’

‘Look...’ Siobhan took a deep breath. ‘I can maybe put her name into circulation, see if she turns up anywhere.’

His face softened. ‘That’d be great.’

‘“Great” is an exaggeration, but I’ll do what I can.’ She saw that Alice Jardine was about to reach out for her hand again, so started to rise from the table, checking her watch as if she had some pressing appointment awaiting her at the station. The waiter came over, John Jardine insisting on paying. As they finally made to leave, the waiter was nowhere to be seen. Siobhan pulled open the door.

‘Sometimes people just need a bit of time to themselves. You’re sure she hadn’t been having any problems?’

Husband and wife looked at one another. It was Alice who spoke up. ‘He’s out, you know. Back in Banehall, bold as brass. Maybe that’s got something to do with it.’

‘Who?’

‘Cruikshank. Three years, that’s all he served. I saw him one day when I was at the shops. I had to go down a side street so I could throw up.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘I wouldn’t even spit on him.’

Siobhan looked to John Jardine, but he was shaking his head.

‘I’d kill him,’ he said. ‘If I ever met him, I’d have to kill him.’

‘Careful who you say that to, Mr Jardine.’ Siobhan thought for a moment. ‘Ishbel knew this? Knew he was out, I mean?’

‘Whole town knew. And you know what it’s like: hairdressers are first with the gossip.’

Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘Well... like I said, I’ll make a few phone calls. A photo of Ishbel might help.’

Mrs Jardine dug in her handbag and brought out a folded sheet of paper. It was a picture blown up on to a sheet of A4 paper, printed from a computer. Ishbel on a sofa, a drink in her hand, cheeks ruddy with alcohol.

‘That’s Susie from the salon next to her,’ Alice Jardine said. ‘John took it at a party we had three weeks ago. It was my birthday.’

Siobhan nodded. Ishbel had changed since she’d last seen her: allowed her hair to grow and dyed it blonde. More make-up, too, and a hardening around the eyes, despite the grin. The hint of a double chin developing. The hair was centre-parted. It took Siobhan a second to realise who she reminded her of. It was Tracy: the long blonde hair, that parting, the blue eyeliner.

She looked just like her dead sister.

‘Thanks,’ she said, placing the photo in her pocket.

Siobhan checked that they were still at the same telephone number. John Jardine nodded. ‘We moved one street away, but didn’t need to change numbers.’

Of course they’d moved. How could they have gone on living in that house, the house where Tracy had taken the overdose? Fifteen Ishbel had been when she’d found the lifeless body. The sister she’d doted on, idolised. Her role model.

‘I’ll be in touch then,’ Siobhan said, turning and walking away.

2

‘So what were you up to all afternoon?’ Siobhan asked, placing the pint of IPA in front of Rebus. As she sat down opposite, he blew some cigarette smoke ceilingwards: his idea of a concession to any non-smoking companion. They were in the back room of the Oxford Bar, and every table was filled with office workers stopping to refuel before the trek home. Siobhan hadn’t been back in the office long when Rebus’s text message had appeared on her mobile:

fancy a drink i am in the ox

He’d finally mastered the sending and receiving of texts, but had yet to work out how to add punctuation.

Or capitals.

‘Out at Knoxland,’ he said now.

‘Col told me there’d been a body found.’

‘Homicide,’ Rebus stated. He took a gulp from his drink, frowning at Siobhan’s slender non-alcoholic glass of lime with soda.

‘So how come you ended up out there?’ she asked.

‘Got a call. Someone at HQ had alerted West End to the fact that I’m surplus to requirements at Gayfield Square.’

Siobhan put down her glass. ‘They didn’t say that?’

‘You don’t need a magnifying glass to read between the lines, Shiv.’

Siobhan had long since given up trying to get people to use her full name rather than this shortened form. Likewise, Phyllida Hawes was ‘Phyl’, and Colin Tibbet ‘Col’. Apparently, Derek Starr could sometimes be referred to as ‘Deek’, but she’d never heard it used. Even DCI James Macrae had asked her to call him ‘Jim’, unless they were in some formal meeting. But John Rebus... for as long as she’d known him, he’d been ‘John’: not Jock or Johnny. It was as if people knew, just by looking at him, that he wasn’t the sort to endure a nickname. Nicknames made you seem friendly, more approachable, more likely to play along. When DCI Macrae said something like, ‘Shiv, have you got a minute?’ it meant he had some favour to ask. If this became, ‘Siobhan, my office, please’, then she was no longer in his good books; some misdemeanour had occurred.

‘Penny for them,’ Rebus said now. He’d already demolished most of the pint she’d just bought him.

She shook her head. ‘Just wondering about the victim.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Asian-looking, or whatever the politically correct term of the week is.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Could have been Mediterranean or Arabic... I didn’t really get that close. Surplus to requirements again.’ He shook his cigarette packet. Finding it empty, he crushed it and finished his beer. ‘Same again?’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘I’ve hardly started this one.’

‘Then put it to one side and have a proper drink. Not got anything else on tonight, have you?’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m ready to spend the evening helping you get hammered.’ He stood his ground, giving her time to reconsider. ‘Go on then: gin and tonic.’

Rebus seemed satisfied with this, and headed out of the room. She could hear voices from the bar, greeting his arrival there.

‘What’re you doing hiding upstairs?’ one of them asked. She couldn’t hear an answer, but knew it anyway. The front bar was Rebus’s domain, a place where he could hold court with his fellow drinkers — all of them men. But this part of his life had to remain distinct from any other — Siobhan wasn’t sure why, it was just something he was unwilling to share. The back room was for meetings and ‘guests’. She sat back and thought of the Jardines, and whether she was really willing to become involved in their search. They belonged to her past, and past cases seldom reappeared so tangibly. It was in the nature of the job that you became involved in people’s lives intimately — more intimately than many of them would like — but for a brief time only. Rebus had let slip to her once that he felt surrounded by ghosts: lapsed friendships and relationships, plus all those victims whose lives had ended before his interest in them had begun.

It can play havoc with you, Shiv...

She’d never forgotten those words; in vino veritas and all that. She could hear a mobile phone ringing in the front room. It prompted her to take out her own, checking for messages. But there was no signal, something she’d forgotten about this place. The Oxford Bar was only a minute’s walk from the city-centre shops, yet somehow you could never pick up a signal in the back room. The bar was tucked away down a narrow lane, offices and flats above. Thick stone walls, built to survive the centuries. She angled the handset different ways, but the on-screen message remained a defiant ‘No Signal’. But now Rebus himself was in the doorway, no drinks in his hands. Instead, waving his own mobile at her.

‘We’re wanted,’ he said.

‘Where?’

He ignored her question. ‘You got your car?’

She nodded.

‘Better let you drive then. Lucky you stuck to the soft stuff, eh?’

She put her jacket back on and picked up her bag. Rebus was purchasing cigarettes and mints from behind the bar. He popped one of the mints into his mouth.

‘So is this to be a mystery tour or what?’ Siobhan asked.

He shook his head, crunching down with his teeth. ‘Fleshmarket Close,’ he told her. ‘Couple of bodies we might be interested in.’ He pulled open the door to the outside world. ‘Only not quite as fresh as the one in Knoxland...’

Fleshmarket Close was a narrow, pedestrian-only lane connecting the High Street to Cockburn Street. The High Street entrance was flanked by a bar and a photographic shop. There were no parking spaces left, so Siobhan turned into Cockburn Street itself, parking outside the arcade. They crossed the road and headed into Fleshmarket Close. This end, its entrance boasted a bookmaker’s one side, and a shop opposite selling crystals and ‘dream-catchers’: old and new Edinburgh, Rebus thought to himself. The Cockburn Street end of the close was open to the elements, while the other half was covered over by five floors of what he assumed to be flats, their unlit windows casting baleful looks on the goings-on below.

There were several doorways in the lane itself. One would lead to the flats, and one, directly opposite, to the bodies. Rebus saw some of the same faces from the crime scene at Knoxland: white-suited SOCOs and police photographers. The doorway was narrow and low, dating back a few hundred years to when the locals had been a great deal shorter. Rebus ducked as he entered, Siobhan right behind him. Lighting, provided by a meagre forty-watt bulb in the ceiling, was in the process of being augmented by an arc lamp, as soon as a cable could be found to stretch to the nearest socket.

Rebus hesitated on the periphery, until one of the SOCOs told him it was all right.

‘Bodies’ve been here a while; not much chance of us disturbing any evidence.’

Rebus nodded and approached the tight circle made up of white suits. There was a scuffed concrete floor under their feet. A pickaxe lay nearby. There was still dust in the air, clinging to the back of Rebus’s throat.

‘The concrete was being taken up,’ someone was explaining. ‘Doesn’t look as if it’s been there too long, but they wanted to lower the floor for some reason.’

‘What is this place?’ Rebus asked, looking around. There were packing cases, shelves filled with more boxes. Old barrels and advertising signs for beers and spirits.

‘Belongs to the pub upstairs. They’ve been using it for storage. Cellar’s just through that wall.’ A gloved hand pointed to the shelves. Rebus could hear floorboards creaking above them, and muffled sounds from a jukebox or TV set. ‘Workman starts breaking the stuff up, and here’s what he finds...’

Rebus turned and looked down. He was staring at a skull. There were other bones, too, and he didn’t doubt they would make up an entire skeleton, once the rest of the concrete had been removed.

‘Might have been here a while,’ the scene-of-crime officer offered. ‘Going to be a sod of a job for somebody.’

Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. In the car, she’d wondered aloud why the call had come to them, and not to Hawes or Tibbet. Rebus raised an eyebrow, indicating that he felt she now had her answer.

‘A proper pig of a job,’ the SOCO reiterated.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Rebus said quietly, gaining a wry smile from Siobhan — more than one meaning to his words. ‘Where’s the owner of the pickaxe?’

‘Upstairs. He said a snifter might help revive him.’ The SOCO twitched his nose, as if only now catching a hint of mint in the stale air.

‘Suppose we better have a word with him then,’ Rebus said.

‘I thought it was bodies plural?’ Siobhan queried.

The SOCO nodded towards a white polythene carrier bag lying on the floor, next to the broken-up concrete. One of his colleagues raised the bag a few inches. Siobhan sucked in her breath. There was another skeleton there, hardly any size at all. She let out a hiss.

‘It was the only thing we had to hand,’ the SOCO apologised. He meant the carrier bag. Rebus, too, was staring down at the tiny remains.

‘Mother and baby?’ he guessed.

‘I’d leave that sort of speculation to the professionals,’ a new voice stated. Rebus turned and found himself shaking hands with the pathologist, Dr Curt. ‘Christ, John, are you still around? I heard they were kicking you into touch.’

‘You’re very much my role model, Doc. When you go, I go.’

‘And the rejoicing shall be long and heartfelt. Good evening to you, Siobhan.’ Curt tipped his head forwards slightly. If he’d been wearing a hat, Rebus didn’t doubt he’d have removed it in a lady’s presence. He seemed to belong to another age, with his immaculate dark suit and polished brogues, the stiff shirt and striped tie, this last probably denoting membership of some venerable Edinburgh institution. His hair was grey, but this only served to make him appear even more distinguished. It was combed back from the forehead, not a strand out of place. He peered at the skeletons.

‘The Prof will have a field day,’ he muttered. ‘He does like these little puzzles.’ He straightened up, examining his surroundings. ‘And his history, too.’

‘You think they’ve been here a while then?’ Siobhan made the mistake of asking. Curt’s eyes twinkled.

‘Certainly they were here before the concrete was laid... but probably not too long before. People don’t tend to pour fresh concrete over bodies without good reason.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Siobhan’s blushes would have been spared had not the arc lamp suddenly lit the scene blazingly, casting huge shadows up the walls and across the low ceiling.

‘That’s better,’ the SOCO said.

Siobhan looked to Rebus and saw that he was rubbing his cheeks, as if she needed telling that her own face had reddened.

‘I should probably get the Prof down here,’ Curt was saying to himself. ‘I think he’d want to see them in situ...’ He reached into an inside pocket for his mobile. ‘Pity to disturb the old boy when he’s heading out to the opera, but duty calls, does it not?’ He winked at Rebus, who responded with a smile.

‘Absolutely, Doc.’

The Prof was Professor Sandy Gates, Curt’s colleague and immediate boss. Both men worked at the university, teaching pathology, but were constantly on call to attend scenes of crime.

‘You heard we had a stabbing in Knoxland?’ Rebus asked, as Curt pushed the buttons on his phone.

‘I heard,’ Curt replied. ‘We’ll probably take a look at him tomorrow morning. Not sure yet that our clients here demand any such urgency.’ He looked again at the adult skeleton. The infant had been re-covered, not by a bag this time but by Siobhan’s own jacket, which she’d placed over the remains with the utmost care.

‘Wish you hadn’t done that,’ Curt muttered, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Means we have to hang on to your coat so we can match it against any fibres we find.’

Rebus couldn’t stand to watch Siobhan start blushing again. Instead, he gestured towards the door. As they made their exit, Curt could be heard talking to Professor Gates.

‘Are you all gussied up in tails and cummerbund, Sandy? Because if you’re not — and even if you are — I think I may have an alternative entertainment for you ce soir...’

Instead of heading up the lane, towards the pub, Siobhan started heading down.

‘Where you off to?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ve got a windcheater in the car,’ she explained. By the time she returned, Rebus had lit a cigarette.

‘Good to see you with some colour in your cheeks,’ he told her.

‘Gosh, did you think that up all by yourself?’ She made an exasperated sound and leaned against the wall next to him, arms folded. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so...’

‘What?’ Rebus was examining the glowing tip of his cigarette.

‘I don’t know...’ She looked around, as if for inspiration. Revellers were on the street, weaving their way to the next hostelry. Tourists were photographing each other outside Starbuck’s, with the climb to the Castle as backdrop. Old and new, Rebus thought again.

‘It just seems like a game to him,’ Siobhan said at last. ‘That’s not what I mean exactly, but it’ll have to do.’

‘He’s one of the most serious men I know,’ Rebus told her. ‘It’s a way of dealing with it, that’s all. We all do it in our different ways, don’t we?’

‘Do we?’ She looked at him. ‘I suppose your way involves quantities of nicotine and alcohol?’

‘It never does to mess with a winning combination.’

‘Even if it’s a killing combination?’

‘Remember the story of that old king? Took a little bit of poison every day to make himself immune?’ Rebus blew smoke into the bruise-coloured evening sky. ‘Think about it. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be buying a workman a drink... and maybe having one myself.’ He pushed open the door to the bar, let it swing shut after him. Siobhan stood there for a few moments longer before joining him.

‘Didn’t that king end up being killed anyway?’ she asked, as they moved through the bar’s interior.

The place was called The Warlock, and it looked geared to foot-weary tourists. One wall was covered in a mural which told the story of Major Weir, who, back in the seventeenth century, had confessed to witchcraft, identifying his own sister as accomplice. The pair had been executed on Calton Hill.

‘Nice,’ was Siobhan’s only comment.

Rebus gestured towards a fruit machine, which was being played by a heavy-set man in dusty blue overalls. An empty brandy glass was perched on top of the machine.

‘Get you another?’ Rebus asked the man. The face which turned towards him was as spectral as Major Weir’s in the mural, the thick dark hair peppered with plaster. ‘I’m DI Rebus, by the way. Hoping you might answer a few questions. This is my colleague, DS Clarke. Now, about that drink — brandy, am I right?’

The man nodded. ‘I’ve got the van though... it’s got to go back to the yard.’

‘We’ll get someone to drive you, don’t worry.’ Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘Usual for me, large brandy for Mr...’

‘Evans. Joe Evans.’

Siobhan left without a fuss. ‘Having any luck?’ Rebus asked. Evans looked at the fruit machine’s four unforgiving wheels.

‘I’m down three quid.’

‘Not your day, is it?’

The man smiled. ‘I got the shock of my bloody life. First thought was, they’re Roman or something. Or maybe some old burying ground.’

‘You’ve changed your mind?’

‘Whoever laid that concrete must’ve known they were there.’

‘You’d make a good detective, Mr Evans.’ Rebus glanced towards the bar, where Siobhan was being served. ‘How long have you been working down there?’

‘Just started this week.’

‘Using a pickaxe rather than a drill?’

‘Can’t use a drill in a space like that.’

Rebus nodded as if he understood perfectly. ‘Doing the work by yourself?’

‘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...?’

‘Who let Mr Grumpy out to play?’

His face was just beginning to soften when he heard a roar from Fleshmarket Close. A uniform had been posted to stop any passers-by using the passage. But he knew Rebus and Siobhan and nodded them through. As Rebus went to step over the threshold into the cellar, a figure barged into him from within. It was dressed in a lounge 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 recognising 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 Bohé me — 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 holes is...?’

‘There would have been connecting devices of some kind, screws or wires. To join one bone to its neighbour.’ 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.