by Ian Rankin
‘You really are a bastard,’ Jayne was saying, rubbing her brow.
‘You started it. I’m lying there with a head like blazes. If you’d just held off a few hours . . .’ His voice was soothing. ‘I was going to do the dishes, cross my heart. I just need a bit of peace first.’ Opening his arms to her. Fact was, the little bout of sparring had given him a hard-on. Maybe Nic was right about sex and violence, about how they were pretty much the same thing.
Jayne pounced to her feet, seemed to have seen straight through him. ‘Forget it, pal.’ Stalked out of the room. Temper on her . . . and always quick to take the huff. Maybe Nic was right, maybe he really could do better. But then look at Nic with his good job and his clothes and everything. Mortgage and money, and still Catriona had left him. Jerry snorted: left him for someone she met at a singles night! Married woman, and off she trots to a singles night . . . and meets someone! Life could be cruel, all right; Jerry should be thankful for small mercies. Back on with the telly, lying down on the sofa. His beer can was on the floor, untouched. He lifted it. Cartoons now, but that was all right; he liked cartoons. Didn’t have any kids, which was just as well: he was still a bit of a kid at heart himself. The ceiling thumpers upstairs, they had three . . . and had the gall to say he was noisy! And there it was on the floor, where it had fallen from the coffee table: the letter from the council. Complaints have reached us . . . powers to deal with problem neighbours . . . blah blah. Was it his fault they built the walls so thin? Bloody things would barely hold a Rawlplug. When the buggers upstairs were trying for kid number four, you felt like you were in the bed with them. One night, when they’d stopped he’d given them a round of applause. Deadly silence after, so he knew they’d heard.
He wondered if maybe that was why Jayne had gone off sex: fear of being heard. One day he’d ask her about it. Either that or he’d make her do it anyway. Make her cry out long and hard so they heard her upstairs, give them something to think about. That wee thing on the telly, he’d bet she was a noisy one. You’d have to clamp your hand over her mouth, but making sure she could still breathe.
Like Nic said, that was the important part.
‘You like football then?’
Derek Linford had taken Siobhan’s number at the Marina. Saturday, he’d left a message on her machine asking if she fancied a Sunday walk. So here they were in the Botanic Gardens, a crisp afternoon, couples all around, strolling just like them. But talking football.
‘I go most Saturdays,’ Siobhan confessed.
‘I thought there was a winter shutdown or something.’ Struggling to show some knowledge of the game.
She smiled at the effort he was making. ‘Only for the premier league. Last season, Hibs got knocked down to the first.’
‘Oh, right.’ They were coming to a signpost. ‘If you’re cold, we could go to the tropical house.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I don’t usually do much on a Sunday.’
‘No?’
‘Maybe a car boot sale. Mostly, I just stay home.’
‘No boyfriend then?’ She didn’t say anything. ‘Sorry I asked.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not a sin, is it?’
‘Career we’re in, how are we supposed to meet people?’
She looked at him. ‘Hence the singles club?’
He reddened. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to tell anyone.’
He tried a smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re right anyway,’ she went on, ‘when do we ever meet anyone? Apart from other cops, that is.’
‘And villains.’
The way he said it made her suspect he’d not met too many ‘villains’. But she nodded anyway.
‘I think the tea room’ll be open,’ he said. ‘If you’re ready . . . ?’
‘Tea and a scone.’ She took his arm. ‘A perfect Sunday afternoon.’
Except that the family at the table next to them had one hyperactive child and a squealing infant in a pushchair. Linford turned to glower at the infant, as though it would instantly recognise his authority and start behaving.
‘What’s so funny?’ he said, turning back to Clarke.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Must be something.’ He started attacking the contents of his coffee cup with a spoon.
She lowered her voice so the family wouldn’t hear. ‘I was just wondering if you were going to take him into custody.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ He sounded serious.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, then Linford started telling her about Fettes. When she got a chance, she asked him: ‘And what do you like to do when you’re not working?’
‘Well, there’s always a lot of reading to do: textbooks and journals. I keep pretty busy.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’
‘It is, that’s what most people . . .’ His voice died away, and he looked at her. ‘You were being ironic, right?’
She nodded, smiling. He cleared his throat, got to work with the spoon again.
‘Change of subject,’ he said at last. ‘What’s John Rebus like? You work with him at St Leonard’s, don’t you?’
She was about to say that he hadn’t exactly changed the subject, but nodded instead. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘The committee, he doesn’t seem to take it seriously.’
‘Maybe he’d rather be doing something else.’
‘From what I’ve seen of him, that would involve sitting in a pub with a cigarette in his mouth. Got a drink problem, has he?’
She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said coldly.
He was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked. Got to stick up for him, haven’t you? Same division and all that.’
She bit back a reply. He let the spoon clatter back on to its saucer.
‘I’m being an idiot,’ he said. The infant was screaming again. ‘It’s this place . . . Can’t think straight.’ He risked a look at her. ‘Can we go?’
5
Monday morning, Rebus headed for the city mortuary. Normally, when an autopsy was being carried out, he would enter by the side door, which led directly to the viewing area. But the building’s air filtering wasn’t up to scratch, so all autopsies were now carried out at a hospital, and the mortuary was for storage only. There were none of the distinctive grey Bedford vans in the parking area – unlike most cities, the Edinburgh mortuary picked up every dead body; only later did undertakers enter the equation. He entered by the staff door. There was no one in the ‘card room’ – so called because employees spent their spare time playing cards there – so he wandered into the storage area. Dougie, who ran the place, was standing there in his white coat, clipboard in hand.
‘Dougie,’ Rebus said, announcing himself.
Dougie peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Morning, John.’ His eyes twinkled with good humour. He always joked that he worked in the dead centre of Edinburgh.
Rebus twitched his nostrils, letting Dougie know he could smell the faint but noticeable smell.
‘Aye,’ Dougie said. ‘A bad one. Elderly lady, probably dead a week.’ He nodded towards the Decomposing Room, where the worst-smelling corpses were stored.
‘Well, my one’s been dead a sight longer than that.’
Dougie nodded. ‘You’re too late though. He’s already gone.’
‘Gone?’ Rebus checked his watch.
‘Two of my boys took him off to the Western General about an hour ago.’
‘I thought the autopsy was scheduled for eleven.’
Dougie shrugged. ‘Your man was keen – keen and persuasive. It takes a lot to get the Two Musketeers to change their diaries.’
The Two Musketeers: Dougie’s name for Professor Gates and Dr Curt. Rebus frowned.
‘My man?’
Dougie looked down at his clipboard, found the name. ‘DI Linford.’
When Rebus got to the hospital, the autopsy was in full swing, and with it th
e double act of Gates and Curt. Professor Gates liked to describe himself as big-boned. Certainly as he leaned over the remains he seemed the antithesis of his colleague, who was tall and gaunt. Curt, Gates’ junior by a decade, kept clearing his throat, something newcomers took as a comment on Gates’ handiwork. They didn’t know about the smoking habit, which was up to thirty a day now. Every moment Curt spent in the autopsy suite was precious time away from his fix. Rebus, whose mind had been on other things during the journey, suddenly craved a cigarette.
‘Morning, John,’ Gates said, glancing up from his work. Under his rubberised full-length apron he was wearing a crisp white shirt and red-and-yellow striped tie. Somehow his ties always stood out against the grey colours of the suite.
‘Been jogging?’ Curt asked. Rebus was aware that he was breathing heavily. He ran his hand over his forehead.
‘No, I just . . .’
‘If he keeps that up,’ Gates said, his eyes on Curt, ‘he’ll be next on the slab.’
‘Won’t that be fun?’ Curt responded. ‘Digestive tract full of bridies and beetroot.’
‘And the man’s so thick-skinned, we’ll need hatchets rather than scalpels.’ The pair shared a laugh. Not for the first time, Rebus cursed the rule of corroboration, which necessitated two pathologists at each autopsy.
The corpse – literally skin and bone, though some of the skin had been removed already – lay on a shallow stainless-steel trolley, the surface of which was moulded so as to catch any spilled blood. The corpse, however, had dust and cobwebs to spare, but no life fluid. Its skull lay on an angled wooden plinth which, in another context, might have been taken for a curio cheeseboard.
‘There’s a time and a place for banter, gentlemen.’ The voice was Linford’s. He was younger than either pathologist, but something about his tone quietened them. Then his eyes were on Rebus. ‘Good morning, John.’
Rebus walked over towards him. ‘Good of you to tell me about the change of schedule.’
Linford blinked. ‘Is there a problem?’
Rebus stared him out. ‘No, no problem.’ There were others in the room: two hospital technicians, a police photographer, someone from Scene of Crimes, and a suited and queasy-looking man from the Advocate Depute’s office. Autopsies were always crowded, everyone either getting on with their work, or else fidgeting nervously.
‘I did a bit of boning up over the weekend,’ Gates was saying, addressing the room. ‘So I can tell you that, judging by the deterioration, our friend here probably died some time in the late nineteen seventies or early eighties.’
‘Have his clothes gone for analysis?’ Linford asked.
Gates nodded. ‘Howdenhall got them this morning.’
‘A young man’s clothes,’ Curt added.
‘Or an old one trying to look trendy,’ the photographer said.
‘Well, the hair shows no signs of grey. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’ Gates looked at the photographer, letting him know his theories weren’t welcome. ‘The lab will give us a better date of death.’
‘How did he die?’ This from Linford. Normally Gates would punish such impatience, but he didn’t so much as glance at the young DI.
‘Skull fracture.’ Curt pointed to the area with a pen. ‘Could be a post-mortem injury, of course. Might not be the cause of death.’ He caught Rebus’s eye. ‘A lot depends on the Scene of Crime results.’
The SOCO was scribbling into a thick notepad. ‘We’re working on it.’
Rebus knew what they’d be looking for – murder weapon to start with, and then trace evidence such as blood. Blood had a way of sticking around.
‘How did he end up in the fireplace anyway?’ he asked.
‘Not our problem,’ Gates said, smiling towards Curt.
‘I take it we’re noting this as a suspicious death?’ the Fiscal Depute asked, his bass baritone belying the lack of height and brittle frame.
‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you?’ Gates had straightened up, clattering one of his tools back on to its metal tray. It took a moment for Rebus to realise that the pathologist was holding something in his gloved hand. Something shrivelled and the size of a large peach.
‘Tough old organ, the heart,’ Gates said, examining the specimen.
‘You missed the beginning,’ Curt explained to Rebus. ‘Gash in the skin over the ribcage. Could have been rats . . .’
‘Aye,’ Gates admitted, ‘rats carrying knives.’ He showed the organ to his colleague. ‘Inch-wide incision. Maybe a kitchen knife, eh?’
‘Suspicious death,’ the Fiscal Depute muttered to himself, writing it down in his notebook.
‘I should have been told,’ Rebus hissed. He was in the hospital car park, not about to let Derek Linford drive back to the Big House.
‘I know about you, John. You’re not a team player.’
‘And that was your idea of team playing? Leaving me out?’
‘Look, maybe you’ve got a point. I just don’t think it’s anything to get het up about.’
‘But it’s our case, right?’
Linford had opened the driver’s door of his shiny new BMW. It was a 3-Series, but would do him for now. ‘In what way?’
‘The PPLC. We found him.’
‘It’s not in our brief.’
‘Come on. Who else is going to want it? Do you think the parliament really wants an unsolved murder on the premises?’
‘A murder from twenty-odd years ago: I hardly think it’ll cost them any sleep.’
‘Maybe not, but the press won’t let it go. Any whiff of scandal, they’ll be able to point back to it: Holyrood’s murky past, a parliament tainted with blood.’
Linford snorted, but then was thoughtful, finally producing a smile. ‘Are you always like this?’
‘I think Skelly is ours.’
Linford folded his arms. Rebus knew what he was thinking: the investigation would touch the parliament; it was a route to meeting the movers and shakers. ‘How do we play it?’
Rebus rested a hand on the BMW’s wing, saw Linford’s look and removed it. ‘How did he end up there? A couple of decades back, the place was a hospital. I’m guessing you couldn’t just walk in, tear down a wall and stuff a body behind it.’
‘You think the patients might have noticed?’
It was Rebus’s turn to smile. ‘It will mean a bit of digging.’
‘Your forte, I believe?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of all that.’
‘What do you mean?’
He meant ghosts, but wasn’t about to try to explain. ‘What about Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie?’ he said instead.
‘Will they want it?’
‘They won’t have any choice. Ever heard the phrase pulling rank?’
Linford nodded thoughtfully, then got into his car, but Rebus’s hand stopped him pulling the door closed.
‘Just one other thing. Siobhan Clarke is a friend of mine. Anyone makes her unhappy makes me unhappy.’
‘Don’t tell me: I wouldn’t like you when you’re angry?’ Linford smiled again, but coldly this time. ‘I get the feeling Siobhan wouldn’t thank you for fighting her battles for her. Especially when they’re all in your head. Goodbye, John.’
Linford started the engine, then let it idle as he took a call on his mobile. After listening for a few seconds, he stared out at Rebus and slid his window down.
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Two rows back.’
‘You’d better follow me then.’ Linford terminated the call and tossed the mobile on to his passenger seat.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
Linford slid both hands around the steering wheel. ‘Another body at Queensberry House.’ He stared through the windscreen. ‘Only a bit fresher this time.’
6
They’d passed the summer house the previous Friday. It was a flimsy wooden affair which had belonged to the hospital and stood inside the grounds, next to Her Majesty’s cherry tree. Like the tree, t
he summer house was for the chop. But for now it was a handy storage area; nothing valuable, there was no lock on the door. And even a lock would have been ineffective, since most of the windows were broken.
This was where the body had been found, lying amidst old paint tins, bags of rubble and broken tools.
‘Probably not the way he’d have chosen to go,’ Linford muttered, looking around him at the chaos of the site. Uniforms were erecting a cordon around the summer house and its vicinity. Workers in hard hats were being told to disperse. A crowd of them had gathered on the roof of one of the buildings under demolition, from where they had a grandstand view of proceedings. Maybe their fellow workers would join them. Maybe the roof would cave in. Not yet midday and Rebus was conjuring up worst-case scenarios, while praying this would be as bad as it got. The site manager was being interviewed in the security hut, complaining that all the police officers needed to be issued with hard hats. Rebus and Linford had filched a couple from the hut. SOCOs were unpacking the arcana of their craft. A doctor had pronounced death; the call had gone out to the available pathologists. All the building work on Holyrood Road had reduced it to a single lane, controlled by traffic lights. Now, with police cars and vans on the scene (including a grey one from the mortuary, Dougie behind the wheel) queues were forming and tempers fraying. The sound of horns was growing into a chorus, rising into the bruised-looking sky.
‘Snow’s on the way,’ Rebus commented. ‘It’s cold enough for it.’ Yet the previous day had started mild, and even the rain had been like an April shower. Twelve degrees.
‘The weather’s not exactly a consideration,’ Linford snapped. He wanted to get closer to the body, wanted to be inside the summer house, but the locus had to be secured. He knew the rules: barging in meant leaving traces.
‘Doctor says the back of the skull was cracked open.’ He nodded to himself, looked towards Rebus. ‘Coincidence?’
Hands in pockets, Rebus shrugged. He was sucking on only his second cigarette of the morning. He knew Linford was tasting something: he was tasting fast-track. Not content with his own momentum, he was seeing a case, a big case. He was seeing himself at its heart, with media attention, the public clamouring for a result. A result he thought he could deliver.