by Ian Rankin
‘I can’t say I blame them.’ A generator hummed in the background, providing juice for the three tall halogen lamps which lit the clearing. Some uniformed officers were cordoning off the area with strips of orange tape. ‘So nobody’s touched it?’
‘Nobody’s been near it.’
Rebus nodded, satisfied. ‘Better keep it that way till forensics get here. Where the hell’s the pathologist?’
Holmes nodded over Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said.
Rebus turned. Two men in sombre Crombie-style coats were walking briskly towards the scene. One carried a black surgeon’s bag, the other had his hands firmly in his pockets, protection from the chill air. The halogen had fooled a few of the local birds, who were chirping their hearts out. But morning wasn’t far away.
Chief Inspector Lauderdale nodded curtly towards Rebus, reckoning this greeting enough under the circumstances. The pathologist, Dr Curt, was, however (and despite his name), as voluble as ever.
‘Top of the morning to you, Inspector.’ Rebus, knowing Dr Curt of old, waited for the inevitable joke. The doctor obliged, gesturing towards the body. ‘Not often I get a trunk call these days.’
Rebus, as was expected of him, groaned. The doctor beamed. Rebus knew what came next: the corny newspaper headlines. Again, Dr Curt obliged. ‘Corpse in the coppice baffles cops,’ he mused brightly, donning overshoes and coveralls before making for the corpse itself.
Chief Inspector Lauderdale looked stunned. He shuffled closer to Rebus. ‘Is he always like this?’
‘Always.’
The doctor had crouched down to inspect the body. He asked for the position of the lamps to be changed, then started his examination. But there was time for a last twist of the head towards Rebus.
‘I’m afraid we’re too late,’ Dr Curt called out. ‘Poor chap’s dead.’
Chuckling to himself, he set to work, bringing a tape-recorder out of his case and mumbling into it from time to time.
Lauderdale watched for a minute. It was about fifty-nine seconds too long. He turned to Rebus again. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘About Dr Curt? Or about the deceased?’
‘About the deceased.’
Rebus pushed his fingers through his hair, scratching at the scalp. He was mentally listing the bad puns still available to Dr Curt – he got legless, he’s out of ’arm’s way, lost his head, hadn’t paid his bills so got cut off, was for the chop anyway, had no bleeding right, worked as a hack, take a butcher’s at him …
‘Inspector?’
Rebus started. ‘What?’
Lauderdale stared at him hard.
‘Oh,’ Rebus said, remembering. ‘Well, he’s naked of course. And they haven’t severed every limb, so we know for sure that it is a he. Nothing else yet, sir. Come first light, we’ll search the area for the missing appendages. One thing I’m pretty sure of, he wasn’t butchered here.’
‘Oh?’
‘No blood, sir. Not that I can see.’
‘Gentlemen!’ It was Curt, calling to them, waving his arm for them to join him. They, too, had to slip on the elastic shoes, like ill-fitting polythene bags, and the coveralls. The forensics people would want to cover every inch of the ground around the victim’s body. It didn’t do to leave erroneous ‘clues’ like fibres from your jacket or a dropped coin.
‘What is it, Doctor?’
‘First, let me tell you that he’s male, aged anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. Either dissolute thirty-five or a fairly well-preserved fifty. Stocky, too, unless the legs are in ridiculous proportion to the trunk. I can give a better guesstimate once we’ve had him on the slab.’ His smile seemed directed at Lauderdale especially. ‘Been dead a day or more. He was brought here in this condition, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Lauderdale. ‘No blood.’
The doctor nodded, still smiling. ‘But there’s something else. Look here.’ He pointed to what was left of the right shoulder. ‘Do you see this damage?’ He circled the shoulder with his finger. They had to bend closer to see what he was talking about. The shoulder had been attacked with a knife, like someone had tried to peel it. It all looked clumsy and amateurish compared to the other neat examples.
‘A tattoo,’ Rebus said. ‘Got to be.’
‘Quite right, Inspector. They’ve tried removing it. After they dumped the trunk here. They must have spotted that there was still part of the tattoo left, enough to help us identify the victim. So …’ He moved his finger from the shoulder stump to the ground beneath it. Rebus could just make out the shreds of skin.
‘We can piece it back together,’ Rebus stated.
‘Of course we can!’ The doctor stood up. ‘They must think we’re stupid. They go to all this trouble, then leave something like that.’ He shook his head slowly. Rebus held his breath, waiting. The doctor’s face brightened. ‘It’s years since I last did a jigsaw,’ he said, opening his bag, placing his things back in it, and closing it with a loud snap. ‘An open and shut case,’ he said, moving back towards the cordon.
After he’d gone, off to his slab to await delivery of the body, Lauderdale lingered to see that everything was running smoothly. It was, as Rebus assured him. Lauderdale then bid him goodnight. Rebus didn’t think anyone had ever ‘bid’ him goodnight before; wasn’t sure anyone had ever bid anyone goodnight, outside of books and plays. It was especially strange to be bid goodnight at dawn. He could swear there was a cock crowing in the distance, but who in Morningside would keep chickens?
He looked for Holmes and found him over beside the tree-dwellers. Overnight, a guard-duty worked in shifts, two or three people at a time for two hours at a stretch. Holmes was chatting, seeming casual. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though cramp or cold were seeping through his socks.
Hadn’t a leg to stand on: that was another one Dr Curt could have used.
‘You seem very cheerful this morning, Inspector. But then each morning is a cause for celebration in itself.’ Intent on Holmes, Rebus hadn’t noticed the other figure who, like him, was making his way towards the tree. Dressed in jeans, tartan shirt and lumber jacket, but with the same wooden cross. It was Father Byrne. Sky-blue eyes, piercing eyes, the pupils like tiny points of ink. The smile spreading from the lips and mouth towards the eyes and cheeks. The man’s very beard seemed to take part in the process.
‘I don’t know about cheerful, Father Byrne—’
‘Please, call me Steven.’
‘Well, as I was saying, I don’t know about cheerful. You know there was a murder last night?’
Now the eyes opened wide. ‘A murder? Here?’
‘Well, not strictly speaking, no. But the body was dumped here. We’ll need to talk to anyone who was here yesterday. They may have seen something.’
Holmes waved a notebook. ‘I’ve already collected some names and addresses.’
‘Good lad. Have there been any more threats, Father?’
‘Threats?’
‘You remember, the man with the knife.’
‘No, not that I know of.’
‘Well, I really would like you to come down to the station and see if you can pick him out from some photographs.’
‘Now?’
‘Sometime today.’ Rebus paused. ‘At your convenience.’
Father Byrne caught the meaning of the pause. ‘Well, of course. If you think it will help. I’ll come this morning. But you don’t think …? Surely not.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Probably just a coincidence, Father. But you have to admit, it is quite a coincidence. Someone comes down here with a knife. Some days later, a body appears not three hundred yards away. Yes, coincidence.’ That pause again. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
But Father Byrne didn’t seem to have an answer for that.
No, it was no coincidence, Rebus was sure of that. Fine, if you were going to dump a body the Hermitage was as good a spot as any. But not in a clearing, where it would be stumbled upon sooner rather than la
ter. And not so close to the famous tree, where, as everyone knew, people were to be found round-the-clock, making dumping a body nearby a risky procedure. Too risky. There had to be a reason. There had to be some meaning. Some message.
Yes, some message.
And wasn’t three hundred yards a long way to go for number twos? Well, that one was cleared up quickly. The man admitted that he hadn’t gone off alone. He’d gone with his girlfriend. After finding the body, the man had sent her home. Partly because she was in shock; partly to avoid any ‘slur on her character’. Father Byrne passed this news on to Rebus when he came to the station to look through the mug-shots – without success.
A new sort of tourist now visited the Hermitage, to view a new kind of ‘shrine’. They wanted to see the spot where the trunk had been discovered. Locals still brought their dogs, and lovers still followed the route of the burn; but they wore fixed looks on their faces, as though unwilling to accept that the Hermitage, their Hermitage, had become something else, something they never believed it could be.
Rebus, meantime, played with a jigsaw. The tattoo was coming together, though it was a slow business. Errors were made. And one error, once made, led to more pieces being placed incorrectly, until the whole thing had to be broken up and started again. Blue was the predominant colour, along with some patches of red. The dark, inked lines tended to be straight. It looked like a professional job. Tattoo parlours were visited, but the description given was too vague as yet. Rebus showed yet another configuration of the pieces to Brian Holmes: it was the fifth such photograph in a week. The lab had provided their own dotted outline of how they thought the design might continue. Holmes nodded.
‘It’s a Kandinsky,’ he said. ‘Or one of his followers. Solid bars of colour. Yes, definitely a Kandinsky.’
Rebus was amazed. ‘You mean Kandinsky did this tattoo?’
Holmes looked up from the photograph, grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was making a joke. Or trying to. Kandinsky was a painter.’
‘Oh,’ Rebus sounded disappointed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, of course he was. Right.’
Feeling guilty at having raised his superior’s hopes, Holmes concentrated all the harder on the photo. ‘Could be a swastika,’ he offered. ‘Those lines …’
‘Yes.’ Rebus turned the photograph towards him, then slapped a hand against it. ‘No!’ Holmes flinched. ‘No, Brian, not a swastika … a Union Jack! It’s a bloody Union Jack!’
Once the lab had the design in front of them, it was a straightforward job of following it in their reconstruction. Not just a Union Jack, though, as they found. A Union Jack with the letters UFF slurred across it, and a machine gun half-hidden behind the letters.
‘Ulster Freedom Fighters,’ Rebus murmured. ‘Right, let’s get back to those tattoo parlours.’
A CID officer in Musselburgh came up with the break. A tattooist there thought he recognised the design as the work of Tam Finlayson, but Finlayson had retired from the business some years ago, and tracing him was hard work. Rebus even feared for a moment that the man might be dead and buried. He wasn’t. He was living with his daughter and son-in-law in Brighton.
A Brighton detective visited the address and telephoned Edinburgh with details. Shown the photograph, Finlayson had flinched, then had taken, as the daughter put it, ‘one of his turns’. Pills were administered and finally Finlayson was in a state to talk. But he was scared, there was no doubt of that. Reassured, though, by the information that the tattoo belonged to a corpse, the tattooist owned up. Yes, it was his work. He’d done it maybe fifteen years before. And the customer? A young man called Philips. Rab Philips. Not a terrorist, just a tearaway looking for a cause.
‘Rab Philips?’ Rebus stared at his telephone. ‘The Rab Philips?’ Who else? A dim, small-time villain who’d spent enough time in prison, that university of life, to become a clever small-time villain. And who had grown, matured, if you like, into a big-game player. Well, not quite Premier League, but not Sunday kickabout either. He’d certainly been keeping himself to himself these past couple of years. No gossip on the street about him; no dirt; no news at all really.
Well, there was news now. Pubs and clubs were visited, drinks bought, occasionally an arm twisted and the information began to trickle in. Philips’s home was searched, his wife questioned. Her story was that he’d told her he was going to London for a few days on a business trip. Rebus nodded calmly and handed her a photograph.
‘Is that Rab’s tattoo?’
She went pale. Then she went into hysterics.
Meanwhile, Philips’s cronies and ‘associates’ had been rounded up and questioned. One or two were released and picked up again, released and picked up. The message was clear: CID thought they knew more than they were telling and unless they told what they knew, this process would go on indefinitely. They were nervous, of course, and who could blame them? They couldn’t know who would now take over their ex-boss’s terrain. There were people out there with grudges and knives. The longer they hung about in police stations, the more of a liability they would appear.
They told what they knew, or as much as CID needed to know. That was fine by Rebus. Rab Philips, they said, had started shifting drugs. Nothing serious, mostly cannabis, but in hefty quantities. Edinburgh CID had done much to clear up the hard drug problem in the city, mainly by clearing out the dealers. New dealers would always appear, but they were small-fry. Rab Philips, though, had been so quiet for so long that he was not a suspect. And besides, the drugs were merely passing through Edinburgh; they weren’t staying there. Boats would land them on the Fife coast or further north. They would be brought to Edinburgh and from there transferred south. To England. Which meant, in effect, to London. Rebus probed for an Ulster connection, but nobody had anything to tell him.
‘So who are the drugs going to in London?’
Again, nobody knew. Or nobody was saying. Rebus sat at his desk, another jigsaw to work on now, but this time in his head – a jigsaw of facts and possibilities. Yes, he should have known from the start. Dismemberment equals gangland. A betrayal, a double-cross. And the penalty for same. Rebus reached for his telephone again and this time put in a call to London.
‘Inspector George Flight, please.’
Trust Flight to make it all seem so easy. Rebus gave him the description and an hour later Flight came back with a name. Rebus added some details and Flight went visiting. This time, the phone call came to Rebus’s flat. It was late evening and he was lying half-asleep in his chair, the telephone waiting on his lap.
Flight was in good humour. ‘I’m glad you told me about the wound,’ he said. ‘I asked him a few questions, noticed he was a bit stiff. As he stood up to show me out, I slapped him on his right side. I made it seem sort of playful. You know, not malicious like.’ He chuckled. ‘You should have seen him, John. Doubled over like a bloody pen-knife. It started bleeding again, of course. The silly sod hadn’t had it seen to. I wouldn’t wonder if it’s gone septic or something.’
‘When did he get back from Edinburgh?’
‘Couple of days ago. Think we can nail him?’
‘Maybe. We could do with some evidence though. But I think I can do something about that.’
As Rebus explained to Brian Holmes, it had been more than a ‘hunch’. A hunch was, as Dr Curt himself might put it, a stab in the dark. Rebus had a little more light to work by. He told the story as they drove through early-morning Edinburgh towards the Hermitage. The three girls had seen a man appearing from the trees. A wounded man. It seemed clear now that he’d been stabbed in some skirmish nearer to, or by the side of, Braid Hills Road. A switch of drugs from one car to another. An attempted double-cross. He’d been wounded and had fled down the hill into the Hermitage itself, coming into the clearing at the same time as the girls, making himself scarce when he saw them.
Because, of course, he had something to hide: his wound. He had patched himself up, but had stuck around Edinburgh, looking for revenge. Rab Philips
had been grabbed, dismembered and his body dumped in the Hermitage as a message to Philips’s gang. The message was: you don’t mess with London.
Then the wounded villain had finally headed back south. But he was the antithesis of Philips; he wore flashy clothes. ‘Probably a white coat,’ Rebus had told George Flight. ‘White trousers. He’s got long hair and a beard.’
Flight had bettered the description. ‘It’s a white trench-coat,’ he’d said. ‘And yellow trousers, would you believe. A real old ex-hippy this one.’ His name was Shaun McLafferty. ‘Everyone on the street knows Shaun,’ Flight went on. ‘I didn’t know he’d started pushing dope though. Mind you, he’d try anything, that one.’
McLafferty. ‘He wouldn’t,’ Rebus asked, ‘be Irish by any chance?’
‘London Irish,’ said Flight. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the IRA was creaming ten per cent off his profits. Maybe more. After all, he either pays up or they take over. It happens.’
Maybe it was as simple as that then. An argument over ‘the divide’. An IRA supporter finding himself doing business with a UFF tattoo. The kind of mix old Molotov himself would have appreciated.
‘So,’ Brian Holmes said, having digested all this, ‘Inspector Flight paid a visit to McLafferty?’
Rebus nodded. ‘And he was wounded in his right side. Stab wound, according to George.’
‘So why,’ Holmes said, ‘are we here?’
They had parked the car just outside the gates and were now walking into the Hermitage.
‘Because,’ Rebus said, ‘we still lack evidence.’
‘What evidence?’
But Rebus wasn’t saying; perhaps because he didn’t know the answer himself. They were approaching the tree. There was no sign of the once ubiquitous guard, but a familiar figure was kneeling before the tree.
‘Morning, Father.’
Father Byrne looked up. ‘Good morning, Inspector. You too, Constable.’
Rebus looked around him. ‘All alone?’