by Ian Rankin
‘Talking to the families?’ she guessed, writing a note to herself on her pad.
‘Right. As for the two bodies, we need to take another look at the PM results, see if there’s anything the pathologists could have missed.’
‘Nineteen seventy-seven and eighty-two? You think the records won’t have been ditched?’
‘I hope not. In any case, some of those pathologists have long memories.’
She made another note. ‘I’ll ask again: what are we looking for? You think there’s a possibility of proving these women and the coffins are related?’
‘I don’t know.’ But he knew what she meant: it was one thing to believe something, quite another to be able to prove it, especially in a court of law.
‘It might set my mind at rest,’ he said at last.
‘And all of this started with some coffins on Arthur’s Seat?’ He nodded, his own enthusiasm making no impact on her scepticism.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘if I’m seeing things, you’ll get your chance to tell me. But first we do a bit of digging.’
She shrugged, made a show of jotting another note on to her pad. ‘Did you ask for me, or were you given me?’
‘I asked.’
‘And DCS Templer said okay?’
Rebus nodded again. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I don’t know.’ She gave the question serious consideration. ‘Probably not.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Then let’s get started.’
It took him the best part of two hours to type up everything he had. What he wanted was a ‘bible’ they could work from. He had dates and page references for each of the newspaper stories, and had arranged with the library for copies to be made. Wylie meantime was busy on the phone, begging favours from police stations in Glasgow, Perth, Dunfermline and Nairn. She wanted case notes if any still existed, plus pathologists’ names. Whenever she laughed, Rebus knew what had just been said to her: ‘You don’t ask for bloody much, do you?’ Hammering away at his keyboard, he listened to her work. She knew when to be coy, when to get tough, and when to flirt. Her voice never betrayed the set features of her face as repetition made her weary.
‘Thank you,’ she said for the umpteenth time, dropping the receiver into its cradle. She scribbled a note on her pad, checked the time and wrote that down too. She was thorough, all right. ‘A promise is one thing,’ she said more than once.
‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘As long as they come through.’ Then she lifted the handset again, took another deep breath, and made the next call.
Rebus was intrigued by the long gaps in the chronology: 1972, 1977, 1982, 1995. Five years, five years, thirteen years. And now, just maybe, another five-year gap. The fives made for a nice pattern, but it was immediately broken by that silence between ’82 and ’95. There were all sorts of explanations: the man, whoever he was, could have been away somewhere, maybe in prison. Who was to say the coffins had only been left dotted around Scotland? It might be worth putting out a more general search, see if any other forces had come across the phenomenon. If he’d done a stretch in prison, well, records could be checked. Thirteen years was a long one: had to be murder, most probably.
There was another possibility, of course: that he hadn’t been anywhere. That he’d gone on with his spree right here, but somehow hadn’t bothered with the coffins, or they hadn’t ever been found. A little wooden box … a dog would chew it to pulp; a kid might take it home; someone might bin it, the better to be rid of the sick joke. Rebus knew that a public appeal would be one way of finding out, but he couldn’t see Templer going for it. She would need convincing first.
‘Nothing?’ he asked as Wylie put down the phone.
‘No one’s answering. Maybe word’s gone round about the crazy cop from Edinburgh.’
Rebus crumpled a sheet of paper and tossed it overarm towards the bin. ‘I think maybe we’re getting a bit stir-crazy,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a break.’
Wylie was heading off to the baker’s for a jam doughnut. Rebus decided he’d just take a walk. The streets around St Leonard’s didn’t offer a great deal of choice. Tenements and housing schemes, or Holyrood Road with its speeding traffic and backdrop of Salisbury Crags. Rebus decided to head into the warren of narrow passages between St Leonard’s and Nicolson Street. He nipped into a newsagent’s and bought a can of Irn-Bru, sipping from it as he walked. They said the stuff was perfect for hangovers, but he was using it to fend off the craving for a proper drink, a pint and a nip, somewhere smoky with the horses on TV … The Southsider was a possibility, but he crossed the road to avoid it. There were kids playing on the pavements, Asians mostly. School was over for the day and here they were with their energy, their imagination. He wondered if maybe his own imagination was putting in some overtime today … It was the final possibility: that he was seeing connections where none existed. He got out his mobile and a scrap of paper with a number on it.
When the call was answered, he asked to be put through to Jean Burchill.
‘Jean?’ He stopped walking. ‘It’s John Rebus. We might have struck gold with your little coffins.’ He listened for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you about it right now.’ He looked around. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting. Are you busy tonight?’ He listened again. ‘That’s a pity. Would you be up for a nightcap?’ He brightened. ‘Ten o’clock? Portobello or in town?’ Another pause. ‘Yes, town makes sense if you’ve been in a meeting. I’ll drive you home after. Ten at the museum then? Okay, bye.’
He looked around. He was in Hill Square, and there was a sign on the railings nearest him. Now he knew where he was: at the back of Surgeons’ Hall. The anonymous door in front of him was the entrance to something called the Sir Jules Thorn Exhibition of the History of Surgery. He checked his watch against the opening times. He had about ten minutes. What the hell, he thought, pushing the door and going inside.
He found himself in an ordinary tenement stairwell. Climbing one flight brought him to a narrow landing with two doors facing. They looked like they led to private flats, so he climbed a further flight. As he passed the museum threshold an alarm sounded, alerting a member of staff that there was a new visitor.
‘Have you been here before?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Well, modern-day is upstairs, and just off to the left is the dental display …’ He thanked her and she left him to it. There was no one else around, no one Rebus could see. He lasted half a minute in the dentistry room. It didn’t seem to him that the technology had moved so very far in a couple of centuries. The main museum display took up two floors, and was well presented. The exhibits were behind glass, well lit for the most part. He stood in front of an apothecary’s shop, then moved to a full-size dummy of the physician Joseph Lister, examining his list of accomplishments, chief among them the introduction of carbolic spray and sterile catgut. A little further along, he came across the case containing the wallet made from Burke’s skin. It reminded him of a small leatherbound Bible an uncle had gifted him one childhood birthday. Beside it was a plaster cast of Burke’s head – the marks of the hangman’s noose still visible – and one of an accomplice, John Brogan, who had helped transport the corpses. While Burke looked peaceful, hair groomed, face at rest, Brogan looked to have suffered torments, the skin pulled back from his lower jaw, skull bulbous and pink.
Next along was a portrait of the anatomist Knox, recipient of the still-warm cadavers.
‘Poor Knox,’ a voice behind him said. Rebus looked around. An elderly man, dressed in full evening attire – bowtie, cummerbund and patent shoes. It took Rebus a second to place him: Professor Devlin, Flip’s neighbour. Devlin shuffled forward, staring at the exhibits. ‘There’s been a lot of discussion about how much he knew.’
‘You mean, whether he knew Burke and Hare were killers?’
Devlin nodded. ‘For myself, I think there’s no doubt he knew. At the time, most bodies worked on by the anatomists were cold indeed. They were brought to Edinburgh from all over B
ritain – some came by way of the Union Canal. The resurrectionists – body-snatchers – pickled them in whisky for transportation. It was a lucrative trade.’
‘But did the whisky get drunk afterwards?’
Devlin chuckled. ‘Economics would dictate that it did,’ he said. ‘Ironically, both Burke and Hare came to Scotland as economic migrants. Their job was to help build the Union Canal.’ Rebus recalled Jean saying something similar. Devlin paused, tucked a finger into his cummerbund. ‘But poor Knox … the man was possessed of a kind of genius. It was never proven that he was complicit in the murders. But the Church was against him, that was the problem. The human body was a temple, remember. Many of the clergy were against exploration – they saw it as desecration. They raised the rabble against Knox.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died of apoplexy, according to the literature. Hare, who had turned King’s evidence, had to flee Scotland. Even then he wasn’t safe. He was attacked with lime, and ended his days blind and begging on the streets of London. I believe there’s a pub called the Blind Beggar somewhere in London, but whether it has any connection …’
‘Sixteen murders,’ Rebus said, ‘in an area as confined as the West Port.’
‘We can’t imagine it happening these days, can we?’
‘But these days we’ve got forensics, pathology …’
Devlin unhooked the finger from his cummerbund and wagged it before him. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And we’d have had no pathological studies at all had it not been for the resurrectionists and the likes of Messrs Burke and Hare!’
‘Is that why you’re here? Paying homage?’
‘Perhaps,’ Devlin said. Then he checked his watch. ‘There’s a dinner upstairs at seven. I thought I’d arrive early and spend some time amongst the exhibits.’
Rebus recalled the invitation on Devlin’s mantelpiece: black tie and decorations …
‘I’m sorry, Professor Devlin,’ the curator called. ‘It’s time I was locking up.’
‘That’s okay, Maggie,’ Devlin called back. Then, to Rebus: ‘Would you like to see the rest of the place?’
Rebus thought of Ellen Wylie, probably back at her desk by now. ‘I should really …’
‘Come on, come on,’ Devlin insisted. ‘You can’t visit Surgeons’ Hall and miss out on the Black Museum …’
The curator had to let them through a couple of locked doors, after which they entered the main body of the building. The corridors were hushed and lined with portraits of medical men. Devlin pointed out the library, then stopped in a marble-floored circular hall, pointing upwards. ‘That’s where we’ll be eating. Lots of Profs and Docs all dressed to the nines and feasting on rubber chicken.’
Rebus looked up. The ceiling was topped with a glass cupola. There was a circular railing on the first floor, with a doorway just visible beyond. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘Lord alone knows. I just bung them a cheque whenever an invite arrives.’
‘Will Gates and Curt be there?’
‘Probably. You know Sandy Gates has trouble turning down a square meal.’
Rebus was studying the inside of the large main doors. He’d seen them before, but only ever from the other side, while driving or walking down Nicolson Street. He didn’t think he’d ever seen them open, and said as much to his guide.
‘They’ll be open this evening,’ Devlin told him. ‘Guests march in and straight up the stairs. Come on, this way.’
Along more corridors and up some steps. ‘Probably won’t be locked,’ Devlin said, as they approached another imposing set of doors. ‘The dinner guests like a stroll after their meal. Most of them end up here.’ He tried the doorhandle. He was right; the door opened and they entered a large exhibition hall.
‘The Black Museum,’ Devlin said, gesturing with his arms.
‘I’ve heard of it,’ Rebus said. ‘Never had cause to visit.’
‘Off limits to the public,’ Devlin explained. ‘Never been sure why. The College could make itself a bit of money, open it as a tourist attraction.’
Its given name was Playfair Hall, and it wasn’t, to Rebus’s eye, as grisly as its nickname suggested. It seemed to consist of old surgical tools, looking more fit for a torture chamber than an operating theatre. There were lots of bones and body parts and things floating in hazy jars. A further narrow staircase took them up to a landing, where more jars awaited them.
‘Pity the poor bugger whose job is keeping the formaldehyde topped up,’ Devlin said, panting from the exertion.
Rebus stared at the contents of one glass cylinder. The face of an infant stared back at him, but it looked distorted somehow. Then he realised that it sat atop two distinct bodies. Siamese twins, joined at the head, parts of either face forming a singular whole. Rebus, who’d seen his fair share of horror, was held in grim fascination. But there were other exhibits to explore: further deformed foetuses. Paintings, too, mostly from the nineteenth century: soldiers with bits blown off them by cannonball or musket.
‘This is my favourite,’ Devlin said. Surrounded by obscene images, he had found a still point, the portrait of a young man, almost smiling for the artist. Rebus read the inscription.
‘“Dr Kennet Lovell, February, eighteen twenty-nine.”’
‘Lovell was one of the anatomists charged with the dissection of William Burke. It’s even likely that he pronounced Burke dead after the hanging. Less than a month later, he sat for this portrait.’
‘He looks pretty happy with his lot,’ Rebus commented.
Devlin’s eyes sparkled. ‘Doesn’t he? Kennet was a craftsman too. He worked with wood, as did Deacon William Brodie, of whom you will have heard.’
‘Gentleman by day, housebreaker by night,’ Rebus acknowledged.
‘And perhaps the model for Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde. As a child, Stevenson had a wardrobe in his room, one of Brodie’s creations …’
Rebus was still studying the portrait. Lovell had deep black eyes, a cleft chin and a profusion of dark locks of hair. He had no doubt that the painter would have flattered his subject, maybe shaved a few years and pounds from him. Still, Lovell was a handsome man.
‘It’s interesting about the Balfour girl,’ Devlin said. Startled, Rebus turned to him. The old man, his breathing regular now, had eyes only for the painting.
‘What is?’ Rebus asked.
‘The caskets found on Arthur’s Seat … the way the press have brought them up again.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘One notion is that they represent Burke and Hare’s victims …’
‘Yes.’
‘And now another casket seems to be some memorial for young Philippa.’
Rebus turned back to the portrait. ‘Lovell worked with wood?’
‘The table in my dining room.’ Devlin smiled. ‘He made that.’
‘Is that why you bought it?’
‘A small memento of the early years of pathology. The history of surgery, Inspector, is the history of Edinburgh.’ Devlin sniffed and then sighed. ‘I miss it, you know.’
‘I don’t think I would.’
They were walking away from the portrait. ‘It was a privilege, in its way. Endlessly fascinating, what this animal exterior can contain.’ Devlin slapped his own chest to make the point. Rebus didn’t feel he had anything to add. To him, a body was a body was a body. By the time it was dead, whatever it was that had made it interesting had disappeared. He almost said as much, but knew he’d fail to match the old pathologist’s eloquence.
Back in the main hall, Devlin turned to him. ‘Look here, you really ought to come along tonight. Plenty of time to run home and change.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Rebus said. ‘It’ll be all shop talk, you said as much yourself.’ And besides, he could have added, he didn’t own so much as a dinner jacket, never mind the rest.
‘But you’d enjoy it,’ Devlin persisted. ‘Bearing in mind our conversation.’
‘Why’s that?’ Rebus asked.
‘The speaker is a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. He’s discussing the dichotomy between body and spirit.’
‘You’ve lost me already,’ Rebus said.
Devlin just smiled at him. ‘I think you pretend to be less able than you are. Probably useful to you in your chosen career.’
Rebus admitted as much with a shrug. ‘This speaker,’ he said. ‘It’s not Father Conor Leary, is it?’
Devlin’s eyes widened. ‘You know him? All the more reason to join us.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Maybe just for a drink before dinner.’
Back at St Leonard’s, Ellen Wylie was not best pleased.
‘Your idea of a “break” differs somewhat from mine,’ she complained.
‘I bumped into someone,’ he said. She didn’t say anything else, but he knew she was holding back. Her face remained tense and when she snatched up the receiver it was as though with malice aforethought. She wanted something more from him: a fuller apology maybe, or some words of praise. He held off for a while, then, as she attacked the telephone again, asked:
‘Is it because of that press conference?’
‘What?’ She slammed the receiver back down.
‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘it’s not as—’
‘Don’t you fucking dare patronise me!’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, no more first names. Sorry if it sounded patronising, DS Wylie.’
She glowered at him, then suddenly her face changed, became looser. She forced a smile from somewhere and rubbed at her cheeks with her hands.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ She looked at him. ‘For being out so long. I should have called it in.’ He shrugged. ‘But now you know my awful secret.’
‘Which is?’
‘To wring an apology from John Rebus, you first have to violate a telephone.’
This time she laughed. It was far from full-blooded, and retained an edge of hysteria, but she seemed the better for it. They got back to work.
By the end of play, however, they’d achieved next to nothing. He told her not to worry, it was bound to be a rocky start. She shrugged her arms into her coat, asked if he was going for a drink.