Rebus drove to work next morning in what his father would have called ‘a dwam’, unaware of the world around him. As he got out of the Saab, he realised the car park was unfamiliar — or not as familiar as it should have been. A uniformed sergeant was puffing on a pipe in the smoking zone.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked.
Only then did it dawn: he had driven to St Leonard’s police station. Hadn’t worked there in a number of years. It was where he’d been introduced to Siobhan Clarke, where they’d forged their working relationship.
‘Meeting,’ he explained to the uniform, making his way towards the entrance. Didn’t want the man to think he’d grown senile. Indoors, he bided his time, pretending to check his phone for texts. When the coast was clear, he headed to the car park again, got back in the Saab and wondered where to go.
Maybe that was the problem right there — Clarke was in Wester Hailes with the Saunders murder; at Torphichen, Nick Ralph was running the Pat McCuskey inquiry. Leaving Rebus with what? The only thing waiting for him at Gayfield Square was an irritable James Page and a workload of desk-tidying. When his phone rang, he hoped to hell the caller might give him some direction.
It was Christine Esson, and she did. ‘The boss wants to know where you are — he’s got a job for you.’
‘Tell him I’m on my way.’
‘But are you?’
‘Oh ye of little faith. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘You’ve not seen the snarl-up at the Conan Doyle roundabout — I’ll tell him fifteen to be on the safe side.’
‘Twenty quid says ten.’
‘Oh aye? Parked outside, are you?’
‘I’m at St Leonard’s.’ Rebus repeated the bet.
‘Starting now,’ Esson said, after a moment’s calculation.
‘You’re on.’
Rebus knew better than to head for North Bridge and Leith Street. Instead, he drove through Holyrood Park and out the other side, taking Abbey Hill and Royal Terrace and missing the worst of the congestion. He took the stairs two at a time and was in front of Esson’s desk in eleven and a half minutes.
‘A good try,’ she conceded.
‘Call it a tenner, then.’ Rebus held out his hand.
‘John!’ Page barked. ‘In here!’
‘I’ll be back,’ Rebus warned Esson, receiving only a smirk for his efforts.
‘What time do you call this?’ Page was asking when Rebus entered the room. He was behind his desk, laptop open in front of him.
‘Had to drop into St Leonard’s,’ Rebus explained.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Running an errand for Siobhan. But now that I’m here, how can I help?’
‘Another errand, I suppose. You heard they pulled a body out of Leith Docks yesterday afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘Adult male. Autopsy is in an hour’s time.’
‘Suspicious death?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping we’ll find out.’
‘By “we”, I assume you mean me?’
Page nodded.
‘Anything I should know? Got a name for the deceased?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘And you picked me over Esson, Ogilvie or any other poor sod because. .?’
‘Look, it’s simple enough — just go oversee the post-mortem exam and then report back. I know it lacks the glamour of a shooting or the death of an MSP, but it’s still part of life’s rich tapestry.’ Busying himself at his computer, he flicked the fingers of one hand in Rebus’s direction, indicating that the meeting was over.
Back in the main office, Esson was trying not to look smug.
‘You might have bloody warned me,’ Rebus complained.
‘You’re the one who was in a hurry,’ she shot back. ‘Besides, I hear there’s a new pathologist — might be fun to be had there.’
‘Oh, the mortuary’s a non-stop riot,’ Rebus drawled. ‘You better have my winnings ready when I get back. .’
‘You’re too late,’ the attendant said. ‘We had to bring it forward an hour.’
Rebus had been to the mortuary many times. There was a large storage area at ground level with a concrete floor that was regularly cleaned with a pressure hose. One whole wall comprised metal roller-drawers where the corpses were stored, with a separate smaller room off for worst-case scenarios. Vans could be backed in through a bay door from the car park, keeping the general public unaware of the building’s primary use. Labs and autopsy suite were one floor up, along with staff offices, the viewing room, and a waiting area for next of kin.
‘She’s probably phoning in her report as we speak.’
‘She?’
‘Professor Quant.’
‘Any chance of a word with her?’
The attendant nodded towards the flight of stairs. ‘She’s got to be elsewhere in twenty minutes,’ he cautioned.
But Rebus was already on his way.
The door was ajar, but he tapped on it anyway. Quant had already changed out of her scrubs and was ending a call at her desk.
‘You’re DS Rebus?’ she asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘I was just telling DCI Page. .’
‘You had to bring the autopsy forward.’
‘I need to be at a lecture.’ She glanced at her wristwatch.
‘I could give you a lift.’
‘Quicker walking — it’s just by the McEwan Hall.’
‘I’ll walk with you, then.’
She fixed him with her blue eyes. Mascara coated her eyelashes and thick red hair fell to her shoulders and just beyond. Rebus placed her in her mid forties, maybe a touch older. No rings on any of her fingers, but that could have been for professional reasons. The backs of her hands were pink, perhaps from the scrubbing they’d just been given.
‘Just so you can update me,’ Rebus explained.
‘Fine then,’ she said, gathering paperwork into a capacious leather bag before lifting her coat from the back of the chair and putting it on, Rebus resisting a sudden urge to help.
‘Always supposing the case is worth updating,’ he felt it necessary to qualify.
‘I’m trying to find time for a second examination later today — if I can locate another pathologist to work with me.’
‘Oh?’
She was looking around the cramped space, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
‘It’s a strange one,’ she said.
‘He didn’t drown, then?’
‘Dead when he entered the water. The question is: for how long?’ She saw the look he was giving her. ‘I’m thinking months,’ she explained. ‘Possibly even years.’
‘Years?’
‘Spent seated, judging by the way the bones have fused.’
‘Professor, are we talking about a skeleton here?’
‘There’s skin, but it has all but mummified. Hard to say much more right now. Body probably wasn’t in the water for more than a couple of days — the dock isn’t exactly tidal, so it almost certainly was disposed of there rather than being washed up from elsewhere.’ She grew thoughtful. ‘That’s about as much as I was able to tell DCI Page. Sure you still want that walk?’
‘I’m sure,’ Rebus said, holding open the door.
They climbed from the Cowgate to Chambers Street, Rebus working hard to keep up with her.
‘So you’re the notorious John Rebus?’ she asked.
‘You must be thinking of someone else.’
‘I don’t think so. You knew Professors Gates and Curt?’
‘Worked with them for years.’
‘I think it was Professor Curt who mentioned you. He used to teach me, back in the day. You featured in a few of his war stories.’ They were passing the museum, and she asked him if he’d been in.
‘Not since it reopened,’ he admitted.
‘You should.’
‘Are you sure about this corpse, Professor Quant?’
‘My name’s Deborah. And I’ll admit I have more questions than answers right now.’
‘Nothing to identify the body?’
‘He was naked when they pulled him out of the water. No obvious tattoos or scars. Fair haired, five feet ten. I’d say he weighed around a hundred and seventy pounds at one time — bit of a paunch. Someone from Forensics will be there when we do the next examination. There were fibres stuck to the body. I’m guessing he was wrapped in something.’ She stopped walking for a moment. ‘I did read somewhere about a similar case — husband couldn’t bear to part with his wife, so he left her in the chair where she died, wouldn’t let anyone into the room for the best part of five years.’
‘You think that’s what happened here?’
‘All I know is there are no immediate signs of violence.’
‘Who spotted the body?’
‘A jogger. Usual story — mistook it for a bag of rubbish at first.’ She had resumed walking, turning left out of Chambers Street and heading down Bristo Place. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said, checking her watch again. ‘And for once I’m going to start on time.’
‘You lecture in the medical faculty?’
She nodded. ‘Are you going all the way back to the mortuary now to collect your car?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, earning a smile. ‘What time’s the second autopsy?’
‘If I can find a willing helper, four forty-five. Will I see you there?’
‘Hopefully.’
They were on Teviot Place now, at the entrance to her building. She held out her hand and he shook it. The hand was slender, and he could feel the bones beneath the skin. Then she headed through the archway and was gone.
‘Fucking mummies now,’ Rebus muttered to himself, readying to retrace his route. His phone rang and he answered it.
‘Why is nothing ever simple with you, John?’ Page asked.
‘I didn’t ask for the assignment.’
‘From what Professor Quant tells me, we have a suspicious death at the very least.’
‘She told me that too.’
‘You saw her, then? I hear she’s a fine-looking specimen.’
‘You’re misinformed,’ Rebus responded, ending the call and searching his pockets for his cigarettes.
He met Eamonn Paterson at a lunchtime pub on Raeburn Place. Rebus was seated at a corner table when Paterson arrived. Paterson got himself a pint of lager, Rebus shaking away the offer.
‘What the hell is that?’ the older man asked, nodding towards the bright green drink in front of Rebus.
‘Lime juice and soda — Siobhan Clarke swears by it.’
‘I’d swear too if you plonked one in front of me.’ Paterson picked up the menu and studied it. ‘You eating?’
‘I’m fine,’ Rebus said.
‘Just want to get down to business, eh?’ Paterson put the menu back and took a mouthful of lager.
‘The thing is, Porkbelly, I know about Phil Kennedy.’
‘Oh aye?’
Rebus nodded slowly, his eyes on his old friend. ‘You had him on a chair in the cell, giving him a doing. He smacks his head and that’s that. To cover your arse, the body’s taken back to his house and arranged at the foot of the stairs. The relevant bit of the custody ledger is torn out so no one’s any the wiser — except Billy Saunders, who heard everything from the cell next door.’
Paterson stared at the table, as if committing to memory the pattern of its grain. He was holding his glass but not drinking from it. Eventually he sniffed and rubbed at his nose. But still he failed to make eye contact with Rebus, finding the window, the walls and the bar staff more interesting.
‘Aye,’ he said at last, stretching the single syllable as far as he could. Then he risked meeting Rebus’s gaze. ‘You found out from Saunders? He wrote it down somewhere?’
‘Doesn’t matter how I found out.’
‘It can always be denied, you know. There’s no actual proof.’
‘You’re right.’
‘And it really was an accident, if it was anything.’
‘The cover-up was no accident, though. It was planned to almost the last detail.’
‘Almost?’
‘The custody ledger, and the presence in the vicinity of Billy Saunders. He cuts a deal: you’ll go out of your way to see he gets off next time he’s arrested. He knew precisely what he was going to do — batter Douglas Merchant to death. And if you didn’t help him, he’d tell everyone what he knew. Wouldn’t just be you with your head on the block; it’d be Gilmour and Blantyre too, plus Professor Donner, and I’m guessing Magnus Henderson had to be in on it — hard to tamper with the ledger without the custody sergeant knowing.’
‘Magnus Henderson is dead, John. Professor Donner is dead. So is Saunders, and our old friend Dod Blantyre hasn’t much longer to go. Ask yourself what any of this — any of it — is going to achieve.’
‘Probably not much,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But a man was shot dead in cold blood in the present day. Are you going to tell me that doesn’t matter?’
‘It matters,’ Paterson said. ‘Of course it matters.’
‘Do you know what happened to that pistol, Porkbelly?’
Paterson considered how to answer. Another mouthful of lager gave him courage. ‘I always thought Stefan lifted it. It was never seen again after he left Summerhall for the last time.’ He managed the most rueful of smiles. ‘When he started making a go of his business, I used to wonder if he maybe produced it at meetings to get the signatures on the relevant documents.’
‘It’s a thought,’ Rebus said.
‘You’re not managing to sound convinced. You know, we kept you out of it as a way of protecting you.’
‘Protecting me?’
‘The less you knew, the better.’
‘What about Frazer Spence — was he in on it?’
‘You were still the apprentice back then, John — Frazer had served his time.’
‘Meaning you didn’t trust me?’
‘We didn’t know how you’d react.’
‘Thanks very much.’ Rebus pushed his garish drink aside. ‘You say Stefan had the pistol? That must mean you think he shot Billy Saunders?’
‘I doubt I’m alone in that.’
‘You’re not — doesn’t make it the truth, though.’
‘Is it the truth that’s needed here, or just a convincing story? My bet is any one of us would do as far as your friend Fox is concerned.’ Paterson paused. ‘That’s why we should offer him Frazer.’
‘The more you and Stefan try to use Frazer, the more I realise how much of a lie the Saints were. And here’s the thing — Frazer used to send titbits Albert Stout’s way, but never once did he give the press anything on you or Stefan or the rest of us. He went to his grave with whatever dirt on you he had, and now you’re offering him up as a sacrifice.’
Paterson seemed to have no answer to this. He lifted his glass again, but put it down without drinking. ‘We’re old men, John. You think I’d do any of the stuff I did in Summerhall, knowing what I do now? Every night I lie in my bed and think back on the people we were. But you won’t find those versions of us any more.’
‘Except for whoever killed Billy Saunders. And it wasn’t Frazer Spence.’
‘Stefan isn’t going to own up to it.’
‘The meeting with Saunders had to be arranged — somewhere traces will exist. Maybe on CCTV, maybe on a phone. Siobhan Clarke won’t rest till she’s peered into every last corner.’
‘Good luck to her.’ Paterson was rising to his feet. ‘Next time I see you might be Dod’s funeral — you realise that?’ He took one last look at the contents of Rebus’s glass. ‘Soft drinks and playing things by the book. Who’d have thought it?’
Rebus watched as his one-time colleague left the pub. There was a slight limp — maybe his hip was playing up. And a stoop to the spine, too. But at one time Paterson had struck a fearsome figure — using his heft to intimidate suspects, hardening his face to suggest violence was not out of the question. Rebus could well visualise him tipping Phil Kennedy out of his chair. Maybe that was as far as it had gone. Then again, with Kennedy’s head resting against the cold concrete floor, the temptation would have been to haul it up by the hair and thump it down again. Rebus remembered Stefan Gilmour rubbing his hands together as if washing them clean. He had glimpses of entering the CID office and the conversation ending, or changing.
The less you knew, the better. .
Still the apprentice. .
‘Not any more,’ Rebus said to himself, heading to the bar for a whisky.