by Ian Rankin
Devlin seemed taken aback. Perhaps he wasn’t often pulled up for his vocabulary. He gave Wylie a look, then turned to Rebus. ‘But is there some historical connection?’
‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.’
The inner door opened and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, dressed in dark suit, crisp white shirt, and grey shimmering tie. His hair was short and silver, his face long and pale.
‘Mr Hodges?’ Rebus asked. The man acknowledged as much with a bow. Rebus shook his hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ Rebus introduced the others.
‘It was,’ Mr Hodges said in a near-whisper, ‘one of the more remarkable requests I’ve received. However, Mr Patullo is waiting for you in my office. Would you care for any tea?’
Rebus assured him they’d be fine, and asked if Hodges would lead the way.
‘As I explained on the phone, Inspector, these days the majority of coffins are made along what could be described as an assembly- line process. Mr Patullo is that rare woodworker who will still produce a casket to order. We’ve been using his services for years, certainly for as long as I’ve been with the firm.’ The hall they trooped along was wood-panelled like the reception area, but with no exterior lighting. Hodges opened a door and ushered them inside. The office was spacious, completely lacking in clutter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected: displays of bereavement cards brochures for coffins maybe. But the only clue that this office belonged to an undertaker was the very lack of any outward clues. It went beyond discretion. The clients who came in here didn’t want reminding of the visit’s purpose, and Rebus didn’t suppose it made the undertaker’s job any easier if people were bursting into tears every two minutes.
‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Hodges said, closing the door. He’d arranged enough seats for them, but Patullo was standing beside the opaque window. He carried a flat tweed cap, the brim of which he worried between the fingers of both hands. The fingers themselves were gnarled, the skin like parchment. Rebus reckoned Patullo had to be in his mid-seventies. He still had a good head of thick silver hair, and his eyes were clear, if wary. But he held himself with a stoop, and his hand trembled when Rebus made to shake it.
’Mr Patullo,’ he said, ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to meet us’
Patullo shrugged, and Rebus made one more round of introductions before telling everyone to sit down. He had the coffins ma carrier bag, and brought them out now, laying them on the unblemished surface of Mr Hodges’ desk. There were four of them- Perth, Nairn, Glasgow, plus the more recent one from Falls.
‘I’d like you to take a look, please,’ Rebus said, ‘and tell us what you see.’
‘I see some wee coffins.’ Patullo’s voice was hoarse.
‘I meant in terms of craftsmanship.’
Patullo reached into his pocket for his glasses, then got up and stood in front of the display.
‘Pick them up if you like,’ Rebus said. Patullo did so, examining the lids and the dolls, peering closely at the nails.
‘Carpet tacks and small wood nails,’ he commented. ‘The joints are a bit rough, but working to this scale …'
‘What?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t expect to see anything as detailed as a dovetail.’ He went back to his examination. 'You want to know if a coffin-maker made these?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t think so. There’s a bit of skill here, but not that much. The proportions are wrong, the shape’s too much of a diamond.’ He turned each coffin over to examine its underside. ‘See the pencil marks here where he made his outline?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He measured up, then he cut with a saw. Didn’t do any planing, just some sandpaper.’ He looked at Rebus over the top of his glasses. 'You want to know if they’re all by the same hand?’
Again, Rebus nodded.
‘This one’s a bit cruder,’ Patullo said, holding up the Glasgow coffin. ‘Different wood, too. The rest are pine, this is balsa. But the joints are the same, as are the measurements.’
‘So you think it’s the same person?’
‘As long as my life didn’t depend on it.’ Patullo picked up another coffin. ‘Now this one, the proportions are different. Joints aren’t so tidy. Either a rushed job, or my guess would be it’s by someone else.’
Rebus looked at the coffin. It was the one from Falls.
‘So we’ve got two different people responsible?’ Wylie said. When Patullo nodded, she blew air from her mouth and rolled her eyes. Two culprits made for twice the work, and halved the chance of getting a result.
‘A copycat?’ Rebus guessed.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Patullo admitted.
‘Which brings us to … ’ Jean Burchill dipped a hand into her shoulder-bag, produced a box, which she opened. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was one of the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Rebus had asked her to bring it, and she made eye contact with him now, letting him know what she’d already told him in the cafe: that she was putting her job on the line. If it was discovered that she’d sneaked an artefact out of the Museum, or if anything happened to it … she’d be dismissed on the spot. Rebus nodded his head, letting her know he understood. She got up and placed the coffin on the desk.
‘It’s rather delicate,’ she told Patullo. Devlin, too, had risen to his feet, and Wylie wanted a better look also.
‘My goodness,’ Devlin gasped, ‘is that what I think it is?’
Jean just nodded. Patullo didn’t pick the coffin up, but bent down so his eyes were close to the level of the desk.
‘What we’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘is whether you think the coffins you’ve just looked at could be modelled on this.’
Patullo rubbed his cheek. ‘This is a much more basic design. Still well made, but the sides are a lot straighter. It’s not the casket shape we’d recognise today. The lid has been decorated with iron studs.’ He rubbed his cheek again, then straightened up, gripping the edge of the desk for support. ‘They’re not copies of it. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’
‘I’ve never seen one outside the Museum,’ Devlin said, shuffling forward so he could take Patullo’s place. He beamed at Jean Burchill. 'You know, I have a theory as to who made them.’
Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’
Devlin turned his attention to Rebus. 'You remember that portrait I showed you? Dr Kennet Lovell?’ When Rebus nodded Devlin turned back to Jean. ‘He was the anatomist who carried out Burke’s autopsy. Afterwards, I think he carried a weight of guilt over the whole affair.’
Jean was interested. ‘Had he been buying corpses from Burke?
Devlin shook his head. ‘There’s no historical indication that such was the case. But like many an anatomist of the day, he probably bought his share of bodies without asking too many questions as to provenance. The thing is,’ Devlin licked his lips, ‘our Dr Lovell was also interested in carpentry.’
‘Professor Devlin,’ Rebus told Jean, ‘owns a table he made.’
‘Lovell was a good man,’ Devlin was saying, ‘and a good Christian.’
‘He left them to commemorate the dead?’ Jean asked.
Devlin shrugged, glanced around. ‘I’ve no evidence, of course …' His voice tailed off, as though he realised his animation maybe looked foolish.
‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Jean conceded, but Devlin only shrugged again, as though realising he was being patronised.
’Like I say, it’s well enough made,’ Patullo commented.
‘There are other theories,’ Jean said. ‘Maybe witches or sailors made the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’
Patullo nodded. ‘Sailors used to be good woodworkers. In some cases it was a necessity, for others it passed a long voyage.’
‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘thanks again for your time, Mr Patullo. Can we get someone to drive you home?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
They said their goodbyes, and Rebus directed his party to the Metropole cafe, where they ordered coffees and squeezed into one of
the booths.
‘One step forward, two steps back,’ Wylie said.
‘How do you reckon?’ Rebus asked.
‘If there’s no connection between the other coffins and the one at Falls, we’re chasing a wild goose.’
‘I don’t see that,’ Jean Burchill interrupted. ‘I mean, maybe I’m speaking out of turn here, but it seems to me whoever left that coffin at Falls had to get the idea from somewhere.’
‘Agreed,’ Wylie said, ‘but it’s far more likely they got it from a trip to the Museum, wouldn’t you say?’
Rebus was looking at Wylie. 'You’re saying we should ditch the four previous cases?’
‘I’m saying their only relevance here is if they connect to the Falls coffin, always supposing it has anything to do with the Balfour disappearance. And we can’t even be sure of that.’ Rebus started to say something, but she hadn’t finished. ‘If we go to DCS Templer with this—as we should—she’ll say the same thing I’m saying now. We’re getting further and further away from the Balfour case.’ She raised her cup to her lips and sipped.
Rebus turned to Devlin, who was sitting next to him. ‘What do you think, Professor?’
‘I’m forced to agree, reluctant though I am to be cast back into the darkness of an old man’s retirement.’
‘There was nothing in the autopsy notes?’
‘Nothing as yet. It looks very much as if both women were alive when they went into the water. Both bodies sustained some injuries, but that’s not so unusual. The river would have rocks in it, so that the victim may have hit her head when falling. As to the victim in Nairn, the tides and sealife can do terrible things to a body, especially one that’s been in the water for some time. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
‘Everything’s useful,’ Jean Burchill said. ‘If it doesn’t rule something in, it can help rule other things out.’
She looked to Rebus, hoping he might smile at hearing his own words paraphrased, but his mind was elsewhere. He was worried Wylie was right. Four coffins left by the same person, one by someone completely different, no connection between the two. The problem was, he felt there was a connection. But it wasn’t something he could make someone like Wylie comprehend. There were times when instinct had to take over, no matter what the protocol. Rebus felt this was one of those times, but doubted Wylie would go along with it.
And he couldn’t blame her for that.
‘Maybe if you could give the notes a final look,’ he asked Devlin.
‘Gladly,’ the old man said, bowing his head.
‘And talk to the pathologists from either case. Sometimes they remember things …'
‘Absolutely.’
Rebus turned his attention to Ellen Wylie. ‘Maybe you should make your report to DCS Templer. Tell her what we’ve done. I’m sure there’s work for you on the main investigation.’
She straightened her back. ‘Meaning you’re not giving up?’
Rebus gave a tired smile. ‘I’m close to. Just a couple more days.’
‘To do what exactly?’
‘Convince myself it’s a dead end.’
The way Jean looked at him across the table, he knew she wanted to offer him something, some form of comfort: a squeeze of the hand maybe, or a few well-intentioned words. He was glad there were other people present, making the gesture impossible. Otherwise he might have blurted something out, something about comfort being the last thing he needed.
Unless comfort and oblivion were the same thing.
Daytime drinking was special. In a bar, time ceased to exist, and with it the outside world. For as long as you stayed in the pub, you felt immortal and ageless. And when you stumbled back out from twilight into raging daylight, people all around you going about their afternoon’s business, the world had a new shine to it. After all, people had been doing the same damned thing for centuries: plugging the holes in their consciousness with alcohol. But today … today Rebus was just having the two drinks. He knew he could walk out after two. To stay for three or four would mean staying either until closing time or until he keeled over. But two … two was a manageable number. He smiled at that word: number, with its possible other meaning—that which made you numb. Comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd would say.
Vodka and fresh orange: not his first choice, but it didn’t leave a smell. He could walk back into St Leonard’s and no one would know. It was just that the world would seem a little softer to him. When his mobile sounded, he thought of ignoring it, but its trilling was disturbing the other drinkers, so he pushed the button.
‘Hello?’
‘Let me guess,’ the voice said. It was Siobhan.
‘In case you’re wondering, I’m not in a pub.’ Which was the cue for the young guy at the bandit to hit a big win, the coins disgorging noisily.
'You were saying?’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Do these excuses get any better?’
‘What do you want anyway?’
‘I need to pick a Mason’s brain.’
He misheard. You need to pick “Amazing Grace”?’
‘A Mason. You know, funny handshakes, trousers rolled up.’
‘Can’t help. I failed the audition.’
‘But you must know a few?’
He thought about it. ‘What’s all this about anyway?’
So she told him the latest clue.
‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘How about the Farmer?’
‘Is he one?’
‘Going by his handshake.’
‘Do you think he’d mind me calling him?’
‘Quite the opposite.’ There was a pause. ‘Now you’re going to ask if I know his home number, and as it happens you’re in luck.’ He took out his notebook, recited the number.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘How’s it going anyway?’
‘Okay.’
Rebus detected a slight reticence. ‘Everything all right with Grant?’
‘Fine, yes.’
Rebus raised his eyes to the gantry. ‘He’s there with you, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Message received. We’ll talk later. Oh, hang on.'
‘What?’
You ever had anything to do with someone called Steve Holly?’
‘Who is he?’
‘A local hack.’
‘Oh, him. I think we might have talked once or twice.’
‘He ever call you at home?’
‘Don’t be daft. That’s one number I keep close to my chest.’
‘Funny, he has it pinned to the wall in his office.’ She didn’t say anything. ‘No idea how he could have come by it?’
‘I suppose there are ways. I’m not giving him tip-offs or anything, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘The only thing I’m implying, Siobhan, is that he needs watching. He’s as smooth as a fresh-laid turd and gives off the same smell.’
‘Charming. I’ve got to go.’
'Yes, me too.’ Rebus cut the call and drained his second drink. Right, that was that then, time to call it a day. Except there was another race coming up on TV, and he had his eye on the chestnut, Long Day’s Journey. Maybe one more wouldn’t do any harm … Then his phone rang again, and, cursing, he pushed his way outdoors, squinting into the sudden light.
'Yes?’ he snapped.
‘That was a bit naughty.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Steve Holly. We met at Bev’s house.’
‘Funny, I was just talking about you.’
‘Only, I’m glad we met that day, or I might not have been able to place you from Margot’s description.’ Margot: the blonde receptionist with the earpiece. Not enough of a conspirator to resist grassing Rebus up …
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Rebus. The coffin.’
‘I heard you’d finished with it.’
‘Is it evidence then?’
‘No, I was just returning it to Ms Dodds.’
‘Bright boy. That “something” is a police investigation. In fact I’m up to my eyes in it right now, so if you wouldn’t mind … ’
‘Bev said something about all these other coffins … ’
‘Did she? Maybe she misheard.’
'I don't think so.' Holly waited, but Rebus wasn't saying anything. ‘Fine,’ the journalist said into the silence. ‘We’ll talk later.’ We'll talk later, the very words Rebus had used to Siobhan. For a split second, he wondered if Holly had been listening in. But it wasn't possible. As the phone went dead, two things struck Rebus. One was that Holly hadn’t mentioned the phone numbers missing from his wall, so probably hadn’t noticed them yet. The other was that he’d just called Rebus on his mobile, meaning he knew the number. Normally, Rebus gave out his pager rather than his mobile. He wondered which he had given to Bev Dodds …
Balfour’s Bank wasn’t much like a bank at all. For a start, it was sited on Charlotte Square, one of the most elegant parts of the New Town. Shoppers queued grimly for non-existent buses outside, but inside was very different: thick carpets, an imposing staircase, and a huge chandelier, walls recently given a coat of startling white. There were no cashiers, no queues. Transactions were dealt with by three members of staff seated at their own desks, far apart so that discretion was assured. The staff were young and well dressed. Other customers sat in comfortable chairs, selecting newspapers and magazines from the coffee table as they waited to be ushered into one of the private rooms. The atmosphere was rarefied: this was a place where money wasn’t so much respected as worshipped. It reminded Siobhan of a temple.
‘What did he say?’ Grant Hood asked.
She slipped her mobile back into her pocket. ‘He thinks we should talk to the Farmer.’
‘Is that his number?’ Grant nodded towards Siobhan’s notebook.
'Yes.’ She’d placed the letter F beside the number: F for Farmer. It made the various addresses and phone numbers in her notebook harder to identify, should the book fall into the wrong hands. She was annoyed that a journalist she barely knew should have access to her home number. Not that he’d called her there, but all the same …