by Ian Rankin
‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But I could have spoken up anyway.
‘I didn’t make it any easier, for which I apologise.’
She had to stifle a smile. ‘There you go again, turning the tables. It’s me who’s supposed to be saying sorry.’
'You’re right; I can’t help it.’ There was nothing on or in Siobhan’s desk.
‘So what do I do now?’ she asked. ‘Talk it through with DCS Templer?’
He nodded. ‘If that’s what you want. Of course, you could just keep quiet about it.’
‘And let you take the flak?’
‘Who says I don’t like it?’ The phone rang and he snatched at it. ‘Hello?’ Suddenly his face relaxed. ‘No, he’s not here right now. Can take a … ?’ He put the receiver down. ‘Someone for Silvers; no message.'
'You’re expecting a call?’
He rubbed a hand against the grain of the day’s stubble. ‘Siobhan’s gone walkabout.’
‘In what sense?’
So he told her. Just as he was finishing, a phone on one of the other desks started ringing. He got up and answered it. Another message. He got a pen and a scrap of paper and started writing it down.
'Yes … yes,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll stick it on his desk. No promises when he’ll see it though.’ While he’d been on the phone, Ellen Wylie had been flicking through the autopsy stuff again. As he put the receiver down, he saw her lower her face towards one of the files, as though trying to read something.
‘Old Hi-Ho’s popular today,’ he said, placing the telephone message on Silvers’ desk. ‘What’s the matter?’
She pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘Can you read this signature?’
‘Which one?’ There were two, at the foot of an autopsy report. Date to the side of the signatures: Monday 26 April, 1982—Hazel Gibbs, the Glasgow ‘victim’. She’d died on the Friday night …
Typed beneath the signature were the words ‘Deputising Pathologist’. The other signature—marked ‘Chief Pathologist, City of Glasgow’—wasn’t much clearer.
‘I’m not sure,’ Rebus said, examining the squiggle. ‘The names should be typed on the cover-sheet.’
‘That’s just it,’ Wylie said. ‘No cover-sheet.’ She turned back a few pages to confirm this. Rebus came around the desk so he was standing next to her, then bent down a little closer.
‘Maybe the pages got out of order,’ he suggested.
‘Maybe.’ She started going through them. ‘But I don’t think so.’
‘Was it missing when the files arrived?’
‘I don’t know. Professor Devlin didn’t say anything.’
‘I think the Chief Pathologist for Glasgow back then was Ewan Stewart.’
Wylie flicked back to the signatures. 'Yep,’ she said, ‘I’ll go with that. But it’s the other one that interests me.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, maybe it’s just me, sir, but if you sort of screw your eyes shut a little and take another look, isn’t it just possible it says Donald Devlin?’
‘What?’ Rebus looked, blinked, looked again. ‘Devlin was in Edinburgh back then.’ But his voice dropped off. The word Deputising floated into view. ‘Did you look through the report before?’
‘That was Devlin’s job. I was more like a secretary, remember?’
Rebus put his hand to the back of his neck, rubbed at the knot of muscle there. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t Devlin say … ?' He grabbed the phone, hit 9 and punched a local number. ‘Professor Gates, please. It’s an emergency. Detective Inspector Rebus here.’ A pause as the secretary put him through. ‘Sandy? Yes, I know I always say it’s an emergency, but this time I might not be stretching the truth. April nineteen eighty-two, we think we’ve got Donald Devlin assisting an autopsy in Glasgow. Is that possible?’ He listened again. ‘No, Sandy, eighty-two. Yes, April.’ He nodded, making eye contact with Wylie, started relaying what he was hearing. ‘Glasgow crisis … shortage of staff … gave you your first chance at being in charge here. Mm-hm, Sandy … is that your way of saying Devlin was in Glasgow in April nineteen eighty-two? Thanks, I’ll talk to you later.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Donald Devlin was there.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Wylie said. ‘Why didn’t he say something?’
Rebus was flicking through the other report, the one from Nairn. No, neither pathologist was Donald Devlin on that occasion. All the same …
‘He didn’t want us to know,’ he said at last, answering Wylie’s question. ‘Maybe that’s why he removed the cover-sheet.’
‘But why?’
Rebus was thinking … the way Devlin had returned to the back room of the Ox, anxious to see the autopsies consigned once more to history … the Glasgow coffin, made of balsa wood, cruder than the others, the sort of thing you might make if you didn’t have access to your usual supplier, or your usual tools … Devlin’s interest in Dr Kennet Lovell and the Arthur’s Seat coffins …
Jean!
‘I’m getting a bad feeling,’ Ellen Wylie said.
‘I’ve always been one for trusting a woman’s instincts …’ But that was just what he hadn’t done: all those times women had reacted badly to Devlin … Your car or mine?’ he said.
Jean was rising to her feet. Donald Devlin still filled the doorway, his blue eyes as cold as the North Sea, pupils reduced to black pinpoints.
'Your tools, Professor Devlin?’ she guessed.
‘Well, they’re not Kennet Lovell’s, dear lady, are they?’
Jean swallowed. ‘I think I’d better be going.’
‘I don’t think I can let you do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I think you know.’
‘Know what?’ She was looking around her, seeing nothing helpful …
You know that I left those coffins,’ the old man stated. ‘I can see it in your eyes. No use pretending.’
‘The first one was just after your wife died, wasn’t it? You killed that poor girl in Dunfermline.’
He raised a finger. ‘Untrue: I merely read about her disappearance and went there to leave a marker, a memento mori. There were others after that … God knows what happened to them.’ She watched him take a step forward into the room. ‘It took some time, you see, for my sense of loss to turn into something else.’ The smile trembled on his lips, which glistened with moisture. ‘Anne’s life was just … taken … after whole months of agony. That seemed so unfair: no motive, no one to be found guilty … All those bodies I’d worked on … all the ones after Anne died … eventually I wanted some suffering to go with them.’ His own hands stroked the table’s edge. ‘I should never have let slip about Kennet Lovell … a good historicist would naturally be unable to resist looking into my claim further, finding disturbing parallels between past and present, eh, Miss Burchill? And it was you … the only one who made the connection … all those coffins over all that time …'
Jean had been working hard at controlling her breathing. Now she felt strong enough not to hang on to the table. She released her grip on its edge. ‘I don’t understand;’ she said. You were helping the inquiry …'
‘Hindering, rather. And who could resist the opportunity? After all, I was investigating myself, watching others do the same … '
'You killed Philippa Balfour?’
Devlin’s face creased in disgust. ‘Not a bit of it.’
‘But you left the coffin … ?’
‘Of course I didn’t!’ he snapped.
‘Then it’s been five years since you last … ’ She sought the right words. ‘Last did anything.’
He’d taken another step towards her. She thought she could hear music, and realised suddenly that it was him. He was humming some tune.
'You recognise it?’ he asked. The corners of his mouth were flecked white. “’Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”. The organist played it at Anne’s funeral.’ He bowed his head a little and smiled. ‘Tell me, Miss Burchill: what do you do when the chariot won’t s
wing low enough?’
She ducked, reached into the cupboard for one of the chisels. Suddenly he had hold of her hair, pulling her back up. She screamed, hands still scrabbling for a weapon. She felt a cool wooden handle. Her head felt like it was on fire. As she lost her balance and started to fall, she stabbed the chisel into his ankle. He didn’t so much as flinch. She stabbed again, but now he was dragging her towards the door. She half rose to her feet and added her momentum to his, the pair of them colliding with the edge of the door, spinning out of the room and into the hall. The chisel had fallen from her grasp. She was on her hands and knees when the first blow came, spinning white lights across her vision. The whorls in the carpet seemed to form a pattern of question marks.
How ridiculous, she thought, that this was happening to her … She knew she had to get back on to her feet, start fighting back. He was an old man … Another blow made her flinch. She could see the chisel … only twelve feet to the front door … Devlin had her by the legs now, hauling her towards the living room … His grasp of her ankles was like a vice. Oh, Christ, she thought. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ … Her hands flailed, seeking purchase, or any instrument she could use … She screamed again. The blood was roaring in her ears; she couldn’t be sure she was making any noise at all. One of Devlin’s braces had come free, and his shirt-tail was hanging out.
Not like this … not like this …
John would never forgive her …
The area around Canonmills and Inverleith was an easy enough beat: no housing schemes, plenty of discreet wealth. The patrol car always made a point of stopping at the gates to the Botanics, just across from Inverleith Park. Arboretum Place was a double-width road which saw little traffic: perfect for the officers’ mid-shift break. PC Anthony Thompson always provided the flask of tea, while his partner, Kenny Milland, brought the chocolate biscuits—either Jacob’s Orange Club or, as today, Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers.
‘Magic,’ Thompson said, though his teeth told him otherwise: there was a dull ache from one of his molars whenever it came into contact with sugar. Having not been near a dentist since the 1994 World Cup, Thompson wasn’t enthusiastic about any future encounter.
Milland took sugar in his tea; Thompson didn’t. That was why Milland always brought a couple of little sachets and a spoon with him. The sachets came from a burger chain where Milland’s elder son worked. Not much of a job, but it had its perks, and there was talk of a significant step-up for Jason.
Thompson loved American cop films, everything from Dirty Harry to Seven, and when they stopped for their break he sometimes imagined that they were parked outside a doughnut stand, in baking heat and searing glare, with the radio about to burst into life. They’d have to leave their coffee and burn some rubber, giving chase to bank robbers or gangland killers …
Not much chance of either in Edinburgh. A couple of pub shootings, some pre-teen car-jackers (one of them a friend’s son), and a body in a skip, these comprised the highlights of Thompson’s two decades on the force. So when the radio did burst into life, detailing a car and driver, Anthony Thompson did a double-take.
‘Here, Kenny, doesn’t that one fit the bill?’
Milland turned and looked out of his window at the car parked next door. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Wasn’t really listening, Tony.’ He took another bite of biscuit. Thompson, however, was on the blower, asking for a repeat of the licence plate. He then opened his door and walked around the patrol car, staring down at the front of the neighbouring vehicle.
‘We’re only parked bloody next to it,’ he told his partner. Then he got on the blower again.
The message was relayed to Gill Templer, who sent half a dozen officers from the Balfour team out to the area, then spoke to PC Thompson.
‘What do you reckon, Thompson: is she in the Botanic Gardens or Inverleith Park?’
‘It’s for a meeting, you say?’
‘We think so.’
‘Well, the park’s just this big flat space, easy to spot someone. The Botanics has its nooks and crannies, places you could sit down for a chat.’
'You’re saying the Botanics?’
‘But it’ll be closing soon … so maybe not.’
Gill Templer expelled breath. You’re being a big help.’
‘The Botanics is a big place, ma’am. Why not send the officers in there, get some of the staff to help? Meantime my partner and me can take the park.’
Gill considered the offer. She didn’t want Quizmaster scared off … or Siobhan Clarke for that matter. She wanted both of them back at Gayfield Square. The officers who were already on their way would pass for civvies from a distance; uniforms would not.
‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s okay. We’ll start with the Botanics. You stay put, in case she comes back to her car …'
Back in the patrol car, Milland gave a resigned shrug. You can’t say you didn’t try, Tony.’ He finished his biscuit and screwed up the wrapper.
Thompson didn’t say anything. His moment had come and gone.
‘That mean we’re stuck here?’ his partner asked. Then he held his cup out. ‘Any more tea in that flask … ?’
They didn’t call it tea in the Du The cafe-. It was a herbal infusion’: blackcurrant and ginseng to be precise. Siobhan though it tasted all right, though she was tempted to add a spot of milk to cut the sharpness. Herbal tea and a finger of carrot cake. She’d bought an early edition of the evening paper from the newsagent’s next door. There was a photo of Flip’s coffin on page three, held aloft by the pall -bearers as they left the church. Smaller photos of the parents and a couple of celebs whose presence Siobhan had failed to notice at the time.
All of this after her walk through the Botanics. She hadn’t meant to walk the entire length, but somehow had found herself at the eastern gate, next to Inverleith Row. Shops and cafes just along to the right, by Canonmills. Still time to spare … She’d thought of fetching her car, but had decided to leave it where it was. She didn’t know what parking was like where she was headed. Then she remembered that her phone was tucked under the passenger seat. But by then it was too late: if she walked back through the Botanics, then either drove or walked back here, she’d have missed the meeting time. And she couldn’t be sure how patient Quizmaster would be.
Her decision made, she left the paper on her table at the cafe and headed back towards the Botanics, but passing the entrance, staying on Inverleith Row. Just before the rugby ground at Goldenacre she took a right, the path turning into more of a track. Dusk was fast arriving as she turned a corner and approached the gates of Warriston Cemetery.
No one was answering Donald Devlin’s buzzer, so Rebus hit all the others at random until someone responded. Rebus identified himself, and was buzzed into the tenement, Ellen Wylie right behind him. She actually passed him on the stairs and was first at Devlin’s door, thumping it, kicking, pressing his bell, and rattling the letter-box.
‘Not promising,’ she admitted.
Rebus, who had caught his breath, crouched in front of the letter- box and pushed it open. ‘Professor Devlin?’ he called. ‘It’s John Rebus. I need to talk to you.’ On the downstairs landing, one of the doors opened and a face peered up.
‘It’s okay,’ Wylie assured the nervous neighbour. ‘We’re police officers.’
‘Ssh!’ Rebus hissed. He put his ear to the open letter-box.
‘What is it?’ Wylie whispered.
‘I can hear something … ’ It sounded like the low mewling of a cat. ‘Devlin didn’t have any pets, did he?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Rebus put his eyes to the letter-box again. The hallway was deserted. The door to the living room was at; the far end, open a few inches. The curtains looked to be closed, so that he couldn’t see into the room. Then his eyes widened.
‘Holy Christ,’ he said, getting to his feet. He stood back and launched a kick at the door, then another. The wood complained, but didn’t give. He slammed his shoulder into it. N
o effect.
‘What?’ Wylie said.
‘There’s someone in there.’
He was about to take another run at the door when Wylie stopped him. ~ogether,’ she said. So that was what they did. Counted to three and hit the door at the same time. The jamb made a cracking sound. Their second assault split it, and the door opened inwards, Wylie falling through it so that she landed on all fours. When she looked up, she saw what Rebus had seen. Almost at floor level, a hand had attached itself to the living-room door and was trying to open it.
Rebus ran forward, pushed through the gap into the living room. It was Jean, bruised and beaten, her face a smear of blood and mucus, hair matted with sweat and more blood. One eye had swollen and was completely closed. Flecks of pink saliva flew from her mouth as she breathed.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rebus said, dropping to his knees in front of her, eyes running over the visible damage. He didn’t want to touch her, thought there might be bones broken. He didn’t want her to hurt more than she already did.
Wylie was in the room now, too, surveying the scene. It looked like half the contents of the flat lay strewn across the floor, a bloody trail showing where Jean Burchill had crawled her way to the door.
‘Get an ambulance,’ Rebus said, voice trembling. Then: ‘Jean, what did he do to you?’ And watched her one good eye fill with tears.
Wylie made the call. Halfway through, she thought she heard a noise out in the hall: the nervous neighbour grown nosy perhaps. She stuck her head out, but couldn’t see anything. She gave the address and stressed again that it was an emergency, then cut the call. Rebus’s ear was close to Jean’s face. Wylie realised she was trying to say something. Her lips were swollen, and teeth looked to have been dislodged.
Rebus looked up at Wylie, eyes widening. ‘She says, did we catch him?’
Wylie caught the meaning at once, ran to the window and pulled the curtains back. Donald Devlin was scurrying across the road, dragging one leg and holding his bleeding left hand out in front of him.
‘Bastard!’ Wylie yelled, making for the door.