by Ian Rankin
He read with a frown, then expelled some air. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘You’re studying medicine, aren’t you?’ Rebus interrupted.
‘That’s right. I’m in my third year.’
‘I bet it’s hard work,’ Siobhan said, sliding the sheet of paper back towards her.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Winfield laughed.
‘I think we might,’ Rebus said. ‘In our line of work, we see doctors all the time.’ Though some of us, he could have added, do our best to avoid them …
‘I’m assuming you know something of the carotid artery then?’ Siobhan asked.
‘I know where it is,’ Winfield admitted, looking puzzled.
‘And what it does?’
‘It’s an artery in the neck. Actually, there are two of them.’
‘Carrying blood to the brain?’ Siobhan said.
‘I had to look it up in a dictionary,’ Rebus told Winfield. ‘It’s from the Greek, meaning sleep. Know why that is?’
‘Because compression of the carotid causes you to black out.’
Rebus nodded. ‘That’s right, a deep sleep. And if you keep on pressing …’
‘Christ, is that how she died?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘We think she was rendered unconscious, then strangled afterwards.’
In the silence that followed, Winfield looked wildly from one detective to the other. Then he started rising to his feet, fingers gripping the table’s edge.
‘Jesus Christ, you don’t think … ? For pity’s sake, you think it was me?’
‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered. In truth, Winfield hadn’t got very far up; it looked like his knees were refusing to lock.
‘We know it wasn’t you,’ Siobhan said firmly. The student fell back on to his chair, nearly toppling it.
‘We know it wasn’t you because you’ve got an alibi: you were with everyone else in the bar that night, waiting for Flip.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘that’s right.’
‘So you’ve nothing to worry about,’ Rebus said, backing off from the table. ‘Unless you know better.’
‘No, I … I’m …’
‘Anyone else in your group like to play games, Albert?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Nobody. I mean, Trist has a few games for his computer, Tomb Raider, that sort of thing. But probably everyone does.’
‘Probably,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘No one else in your circle studies medicine?’
Winfield shook his head, but Siobhan could see he was having a thought. ‘There’s Claire,’ he said. ‘Claire Benzie. I’ve only met her once or twice at parties, but she was a friend of Flip’s … from school days, I think.’
‘And she’s studying medicine?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t really know her?’
‘She’s a year below me, and a different specialism. God, that’s right …’ He looked up at Siobhan, then to Rebus. ‘Of all the bloody things, she wants to be a pathologist …’
‘Yes, I know Claire,’ Dr Curt said, leading them down one of the corridors. They were in part of the medical faculty at the university, in a block behind McEwan Hall. Rebus had been here before: it was where both Curt and Gates had their teaching offices. But he’d never been to the lecture halls. Curt was leading them there now. Rebus had asked if he was feeling better. Gastric problems, Curt had explained. ‘Very pleasant girl,’ he said now, ‘and a good student. I hope she stays with us.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s only in second year, she could yet change her mind.’
‘Are there many female pathologists?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Not many, no … not in this country.’
‘It’s a weird decision to take, isn’t it?’ Rebus said. ‘When you’re that young, I mean.’
‘Not really,’ Curt mused. ‘I was always one for dissecting the frogs at biology.’ He beamed a smile. ‘And I’d rather treat the deceased than the living: no anxious diagnoses, no expectant families, fewer negligence claims …’ He stopped at a set of doors and peered through the glass upper half. ‘Yes, in here.’
The lecture room was small and antiquated: wood veneer on the walls, curved wooden benches rising steeply. Curt checked his watch. ‘Only another minute or two.’
Rebus peered inside. Someone he didn’t know was lecturing to a few dozen students. There were fresh diagrams on the blackboard, and a podium where the lecturer stood brushing chalk from his hands.
‘Not a cadaver on view,’ Rebus commented.
‘We tend to keep those for the practicals.’
‘Are you still having to use the Western General?’
‘We are, and it’s a blessed nuisance with the traffic.’
The autopsy suite at the mortuary was out of commission. Fear of hepatitis allied to a ventilation system past its prime. No sign of funding for a new unit, which meant one of the city hospitals was bearing the brunt of the pathologists’ needs.
‘The human body is a fascinating machine,’ Curt was saying. ‘You only really get a sense of that post mortem. A hospital surgeon will concentrate on one particular area of the body, but we have the luxury of unlimited access.’
Siobhan’s look said she wished he’d stop being so remorselessly cheery on the subject. ‘It’s an old building,’ she remarked.
‘Not that old really, in the context of the university. The medical school was based at Old College in earlier times.’
‘That’s where they took Burke’s body?’ Rebus added.
‘Yes, after he was hanged. A tunnel led into Old College. The bodies were all brought in that way – by dead of night in some cases.’ He looked to Siobhan. ‘The Resurrection Men.’
‘Good name for a band.’
He graced her flippancy with a scowl. ‘Body-snatchers,’ he said.
‘And the skin was flayed from Burke’s body?’ Rebus went on.
‘You know a bit about it.’
‘I didn’t until recently. Does the tunnel still exist?’
‘Part of it.’
‘I’d be interested to see it sometime.’
‘Devlin’s your man.’
‘Is he?’
‘Unofficial historian of the medical faculty’s early days. He’s written pamphlets on the subject … self-published, but pretty enlightening.’
‘I didn’t know that. I know he knows a bit about Burke and Hare. He has a theory that Dr Kennet Lovell placed the coffins on Arthur’s Seat.’
‘Ah, the ones that’ve been in the papers of late?’ Curt frowned in thought. ‘Lovell? Well, who’s to say he isn’t right?’ He broke off and frowned again. ‘Funny you should mention Lovell actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Claire told me recently she’s descended from him.’ There was a sound of movement from inside. ‘Ah, Dr Easton’s finished. They’ll all filter out this way; we’d better stand back, lest we’re stampeded to death.’
‘They’re keen then?’ Siobhan said.
‘Keen to be back in the fresh air, yes.’
Only a few of the students bothered to glance in their direction. Those who did seemed to know who Curt was, some acknowledging him with a bow, smile or word. Finally, with the hall three-quarters empty, Curt went up on to his toes.
‘Claire? Could you spare a minute?’
She was tall and thin with short blonde hair and a long straight nose. Her eyes were an almost oriental shape, like tilted almonds. She carried two folders beneath one arm. There was a mobile phone in her hand. She’d been studying it on her way out of the lecture theatre: checking for messages perhaps. She came forwards with a smile.
‘Hello, Dr Curt.’ Her voice was almost playful.
‘Claire, these police officers would like a word.’
‘It’s about Flip, isn’t it?’ Her face had fallen, all humour lost to it, and the voice had taken on a sombre tone.
Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘A few follow-up questions.’
; ‘I keep thinking maybe it wasn’t her, maybe there’s been a mistake …’ She looked to the pathologist. ‘Did you … ?’
Curt shook his head, but it was less a denial than a refusal to answer the question. Rebus and Siobhan knew Curt had been one of the pathologists at the Philippa Balfour autopsy. The other had been Professor Gates.
Claire Benzie knew it too. Her eyes were still on Dr Curt. ‘Have you ever had to … you know … on someone you knew?’
Curt glanced in Rebus’s direction, and Rebus knew he was thinking of Conor Leary.
‘It’s not a necessity,’ Curt was explaining to his student. ‘Something like that happens, you can be excused on compassionate grounds.’
‘We’re allowed compassion then?’
‘The occasional handful, yes.’ This put the smile back on to her face, albeit fleetingly.
‘So how can I help you?’ she asked Siobhan.
‘You know we’re treating Flip’s death as homicide?’
‘That’s what the news said this morning.’
‘Well, we just need your help to clear up a few things.’
‘You can use my office,’ Curt said.
As they walked, two by two, back down the corridor, Rebus watched Claire Benzie’s back. She was holding her folders in front of her, discussing her recent lecture with Dr Curt. Siobhan glanced at him and frowned, wondering what he was thinking. He shook his head: not important. But all the same, he thought Claire Benzie was interesting. The morning her friend’s murder is announced, and she’s able to attend a lecture, talk about it afterwards, even with two detectives right behind her …
One explanation: displacement. She was pushing thoughts of Flip aside, replacing them with the routine. Keeping busy to keep from bursting into tears.
Another: she was self-possession itself, Flip’s demise a minor intrusion in her universe.
Rebus knew which version he preferred, but he wasn’t sure it was necessarily the right one …
Dr Curt shared a secretary with Professor Gates. They passed through the secretary’s office: two doors next to one another, Curt and Gates. Curt turned the doorhandle and ushered them inside.
‘I’ve got one or two things to do,’ he said. ‘Just close the door after you when you’ve finished.’
‘Thanks,’ Rebus said.
But, having brought them here, Curt seemed suddenly reluctant to leave his student alone with the two detectives.
‘I’ll be fine, Dr Curt,’ Claire reassured him, as if she’d understood his hesitation. Curt nodded and left them. It was a cramped, airless room. A glass-fronted bookcase took up one whole wall. It was filled to overflowing. More books and documents covered every bit of shelf space, and while Rebus was sure there was a computer somewhere on the desk, he couldn’t place it: more documents, files and folders, learned journals, empty envelopes …
‘Doesn’t throw much out, does he?’ Claire Benzie said. ‘Ironic when you think what he does to a corpse.’
The statement, so casually made, startled Siobhan Clarke.
‘God, sorry,’ Claire said, placing a hand over her mouth. ‘They should hand out diplomas in bad taste with this course.’
Rebus was thinking of autopsies past: of innards tossed into pails, organs severed and placed on scales …
Siobhan was resting against the desk. Claire had dropped into the visitor’s chair, which looked like a remnant from a 1970s dining-room suite. Rebus was left with standing in the middle of the floor or taking Curt’s chair. He opted for the latter.
‘So,’ Claire said, placing her folders on the floor by her feet, ‘what is it you want to know?’
‘You were at school with Flip?’
‘For a few years, yes.’
They’d already been through the notes from Claire Benzie’s first interview. Two of the Gayfield Square contingent had talked to her, gleaning little.
‘You lost touch?’
‘Sort of … a few letters and e-mails. Then she started her history of art course and I found out I’d been accepted by Edinburgh.’
‘You got in touch?’
Claire nodded. She’d tucked one leg beneath her on the chair and was playing with a bracelet on her left wrist. ‘Sent her an e-mail, and we met up.’
‘You saw her often after that?’
‘Not that often. Different courses, different workloads.’
‘Different friends?’ Rebus asked.
‘Some, yes,’ Claire agreed.
‘Did you keep in touch with anyone else from school days?’
‘One or two.’
‘And did Flip?’
‘Not really.’
‘How did she meet David Costello, do you know?’ Rebus already knew the answer – they’d met at a dinner party – but was wondering how well Claire knew Costello.
‘I think she said something about a party …’
‘Did you like him?’
‘David?’ She was thoughtful. ‘Arrogant sod, very sure of himself.’
Rebus almost came back with: not at all like you then? Instead, he looked to Siobhan, who reached into her jacket for the folded note.
‘Claire,’ she said, ‘did Flip like to play games?’
‘Games?’
‘Role-playing … computer games … maybe on the Internet?’
She thought for a moment. Fine, except that Rebus knew you could use a pause to think up some story …
‘We had a dungeons and dragons club at school.’
‘You were both in it?’
‘Until we realised it was strictly a boy thing.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Come to think of it, didn’t David play at school too?’
Siobhan handed her the sheet of clues. ‘Ever seen these before?’
‘What do they mean?’
‘Some game Flip was playing. What are you smiling at?’
‘Seven fins high … she was so pleased with that.’
Siobhan’s eyes widened. ‘Sorry?’
‘She came bounding up to me in some bar … God, I forget where. Maybe Barcelona.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘It’s a bar on Buccleuch Street.’
Siobhan nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘She just … she was laughing … and she said this.’ Claire pointed to the sheet. ‘Seven fins high is king. Then she asked me if I knew what it meant. I told her I hadn’t the faintest. “It’s the Victoria Line,” she said. She seemed so pleased with herself.’
‘She didn’t tell you what it meant?’
‘I’ve just said …’
‘I mean, about it being part of a quiz clue.’
Claire shook her head. ‘I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought.’
‘Was anyone else there?’
‘Not at the bar, no. I was getting some drinks in when she came running up.’
‘Do you think she told anyone else?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘She didn’t explain any of the others?’ Siobhan gestured towards the sheet. She was feeling an intense rush of relief. Seven fins meant she’d been working out the same clues Flip had. Part of her had worried that Quizmaster was setting her new questions, questions specific to her. Now, she felt closer to Flip than ever …
‘Has this game got something to do with her death?’ Claire was asking.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Rebus told her.
‘And you’ve no suspects, no … leads?’
‘We’ve plenty of leads,’ Rebus was quick to assure her. ‘Tell me, you said you thought David Costello was arrogant. Did it ever go beyond that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We hear there were some pretty wild fallings-out between him and Flip.’
‘Flip could give as good as she got.’ She stopped abruptly, stared into space. Not for the first time in his life, Rebus wished he were a mind-reader. ‘She was strangled, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘From what I’ve seen on the forensics course, victims struggle. They’ll scratch and kick and bite.�
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‘Not if they’re unconscious,’ Rebus said quietly.
Claire closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there were tears shining there.
‘Pressure on the carotid artery,’ Rebus went on.
‘Causing ante-mortem bruising?’ Claire could have been reading from a textbook. Siobhan nodded an answer.
‘Only seems like yesterday we were schoolgirls …’
‘This was in Edinburgh?’ Rebus asked, waiting till Claire had nodded. The first interview hadn’t gone into her background, except as it related to Flip. ‘Is that where your family live?’
‘It is now. But back then, we lived in Causland.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Causland?’ He knew the name from somewhere.
‘It’s a village … more of a hamlet really. About a mile and a half from Falls.’
Rebus found himself gripping the arms of Dr Curt’s chair. ‘You know Falls then?’
‘Used to.’
‘And Junipers, the Balfours’ house?’
She nodded. ‘For a while, I was more house guest than visitor.’
‘And then your family moved away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘My father …’ She broke off. ‘We had to move for his work.’ Rebus and Siobhan shared a look: it wasn’t what she’d been about to say.
‘Did you and Flip ever visit the waterfall?’ Rebus asked casually.
‘Do you know it?’
He nodded. ‘Been there a couple of times.’
She was smiling, eyes losing focus. ‘We used to play there, pretend it was our enchanted kingdom. Life Never-Ending we called it. If only we’d known …’
She broke down then, and Siobhan went to comfort her. Rebus walked into the outer office and asked the secretary for a glass of water. But by the time he got back with it, Claire was already recovering. Siobhan was crouching by the side of the chair, a hand on her shoulder. Rebus offered the water. Claire rubbed at her nose with a tissue.
‘Thank you,’ she said, compressing it to the single syllable kyoo.
‘I think that’s plenty to be going on with,’ Siobhan was saying. Rebus – who privately disagreed – nodded his compliance. ‘You’ve been a big help, Claire.’
‘Really?’
It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘We might be in touch again later, if that’s all right.’
‘Fine, whatever.’