by Ian Rankin
‘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 door handle. 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 deft 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.
‘Previous appointment,’ he told her. ‘Another night though, eh?’
‘Sure,’ she said. But she didn’t sound as if she believed it.
He drank alone: just the one before the walk to Surgeons’ Hall; a Laphroaig, with the merest trickle of water to smooth its edges. He chose a pub Ellen Wylie wouldn’t know, didn’t like the thought of bumping into her after he’d turned her down. He’d need a few drinks in him to tell her she was wrong, that one tongue-tied press conference wasn’t the end of her career. Gill Templer was down on her, no question of that, but Gill wasn’t stupid enough to let it turn into a feud. Wylie was a good cop, an intelligent detective. She’d get her chance again. If Templer kept knocking her back, she herself would sta
rt to look bad.
‘Another?’ the barman said.
Rebus checked his watch. ‘Aye, go on then.’
It suited him, this place. Small and anonymous and hidden away. There wasn’t even a name outside, nothing to identify it. It was on a corner in a back street where only the knowing would find it. Two old regulars in the corner, sitting straight-backed, eyes hypnotised by the far wall. Their dialogue was sparse and guttural. The TV had its sound turned off, but the barman watched it anyway: some American courtroom drama, with lots of pacing about and walls painted grey. Now and then there was a close-up of a woman trying to seem worried. Unwilling to rely on facial expression alone, she wrung her hands as well. Rebus handed over his money and poured the remains of his first drink into its replacement, shaking the drips out. One of the old men coughed, then sniffed. His neighbour said something, and he nodded silent agreement.
‘What’s going on?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking the barman.
'Eh?'
‘The film, what’s happening in it?’
‘Same as always,’ the barman said. It was as if each day held its identical routine, right down to the drama being played out on the screen.
‘How about yourself?’ the barman said. ‘How’s your day been?’ The words sounded rusty in his mouth: small-talk with the customers not part of the routine.
Rebus thought of possible answers. The potential that some serial killer was on the loose, and had been since the early seventies. A missing girl almost sure to turn up dead. A single, twisted face shared by Siamese twins.
‘Ach, you know,’ he said at last. The barman nodded agreement, as though it was exactly the answer he’d expected.
Rebus left the bar soon after. A short walk back on to Nicolson Street and the doors of Surgeons’ Hall now, as Professor Devlin had predicted, standing open. Guests were already filtering in. Rebus had no invite to show to staff, but an explanation and his warrant card seemed to do the trick. Early arrivals were standing on the first-floor landing, drinks in hand. Rebus made his way upstairs. The banqueting hall was set for dinner, waiters scurrying around making last-minute adjustments. A trestle table just inside the doorway had been covered with a white cloth and an array of glasses and bottles. The serving staff wore black waistcoats over crisp white shirts.
'Yes, sir?’
Rebus considered another whisky. The problem was, once he had three or four under his belt, he wouldn’t want to stop. And if he did stop, the thumping head would be nestling in just about the time he was due to meet Jean.
‘Just an orange juice, please,’ he said.
‘Holy Mother, now I can die a peaceful death.’
Rebus turned towards the voice, smiling. ‘And why’s that?’ he asked.
‘Because I’ve seen all there is to see on this glorious planet of ours. Give the man a whisky and don’t be niggardly,’ he ordered the barman, who stopped hallway through pouring the orange juice. The barman looked at Rebus.
‘Just the juice,’ he said.
‘Well now,’ Father Conor Leary said. ‘I can smell whisky on your breath, so I know you’ve not gone TT on me. But for some inexplicable reason you want to stay sober … ’ He grew thoughtful. ‘Is the fairer sex involved at all?’
'You’re wasted as a priest,’ Rebus said.
Father Leary roared with laughter. ‘I’d have made a good detective, you mean? And who’s to say you’re wrong?’ Then, to the barman: ‘Do you need to ask?’ The barman didn’t, and was generous with the measure. Leary nodded and took the glass from him.
‘Slainte!’ he said.
‘Slainte.’ Rebus sipped the juice. Conor Leary looked almost too well. When Rebus had last spoken with him, the old priest had been ailing, medicines jostling for space with the Guinness in his fridge.
‘It’s been a while,’ Leary stated.
You know how it is.’
‘I know you young fellows have little enough time to visit the weak and infirm. Too busy with the sins of the flesh.’
‘Been a long time since my flesh saw any sins worth reporting.’
‘And by God there’s plenty of it.’ The priest slapped Rebus’s stomach.
‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ Rebus admitted. You, on the other hand …'
‘Ah, you were expecting me to wither and die? That’s not the way I’d choose. Good food, good drink and damn the consequences.
Leary wore his clerical collar beneath a grey V-neck jumper. His trousers were navy blue, the shoes polished black. It was true he’d lost some weight, but his stomach and jowls sagged, and his thin silver hair was like spun silk, the eyes sunken beneath a Roman fringe. He held his whisky glass the way a workman would grip a flask.
‘We’re neither of us dressed for the occasion,’ he said, looking around at the array of dinner jackets.
‘At least you’re in uniform,’ Rebus said.
‘Just barely,’ Leary said. ‘I’ve retired from active service.’ Then he winked. ‘It happens, you know. We’re allowed to down tools. But every time I put the old collar on for something like this, I envision papal emissaries leaping forward, daggers drawn, to slice it from my neck.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Like leaving the Foreign Legion?’
‘Indeed! Or dipping the pigtail from a retiring Sumo.’
Both men were laughing as Donald Devlin came alongside. ‘Glad you felt able to join us,’ he told Rebus, before taking the priest’s hand. ‘I think you were the deciding factor, Father,’ he said, explaining about the dinner invitation.
‘The offer of which still stands,’ he added. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to hear the Father’s speech.’ Rebus shook his head.
‘Last thing a heathen like John needs is me telling him what’s good for him,’ Leary said.
‘Too right,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And I’m sure I’ve heard it all before anyway.’ He caught Leary’s eye, and in that moment they shared a memory of the long talks in the priest’s kitchen, fuelled by trips to the fridge and the drinks cabinet. Conversations about Calvin and criminals, faith and the faithless. Even when Rebus agreed with Leary, he’d try to play devil’s advocate, the old priest amused by his stubbornness. Long talks they’d had, and regularly … until Rebus had started finding excuses to stay away. Tonight, if Leary asked why, he knew he couldn’t give a reason. Maybe it was because the priest had begun to offer him certainties, and Rebus had no time for them. They’d played this game, Leary convinced he could convert ‘the heathen’.
'You’ve got all these questions,’ he’d tell Rebus. ‘Why won’t you let someone supply the answers?’
‘Maybe because I prefer questions to answers,’ Rebus had replied. And the priest had thrown up his hands in despair, before making another foray to the fridge.
Devlin was asking Leary about the theme of his talk. Rebus could see that Devlin had had a drink or two. He stood rosy-faced with hands in pockets, his smile contented but distant. Rebus was getting his OJ topped up when Gates and Curt appeared, the two pathologists dressed almost identically, making them seem more of a double-act than usual.
‘Bloody hell,’ Gates said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ He caught the barman’s attention. ‘Whisky for me, and a glass of tonic water for this fairy here.’
Curt snorted. ‘I’m not the only one.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s drink.
'Ye Gods, John, tell me there’s vodka in that,’ Gates boomed. Then: ‘What the hell are you doing here anyway?’ Gates was sweating, his shirt collar constricting his throat. His face had turned almost puce. Curt, as usual, looked completely at ease. He’d gained a couple of pounds but still looked slim, though his face was grey.
‘I never see sunlight,’ was the excuse he always gave when asked about his pallor. More than one woolly-suit at St Leonard’s had taken to calling him Dracula.
‘I wanted to catch the pair of you,’ Rebus said now.
‘The answer’s no,’ Gates said.
'You don’t know what I was going to say.’
&nbs
p; ‘That tone of voice was enough. You’re going to ask a favour. You’ll say it won’t take long. You’ll be wrong.’
‘Just some old PM results. I need a second opinion.’
‘We’re rushed off our feet,’ Curt said, looking apologetic.
‘Whose are they?’ Gates asked.
‘I haven’t got them yet. They’re from Glasgow and Nairn. Maybe if you were to put in a request, it would push things along.’
Gates looked around the group. ‘See what I mean?’
‘University duties, John,’ Curt said. ‘More students and coursework, fewer people to do the teaching.’
‘I appreciate that …’ Rebus began.
Gates lifted his cummerbund and pointed to the pager hidden there. ‘Even tonight, we could get a call, another body to deal with.’
‘I don’t think you’re winning them over,’ Leary said, laughing.
Rebus fixed Gates with a hard look. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.
‘So am I. First night off I’ve had in ages, and you’re after one of your famous “favours”.’
Rebus decided there was no point pushing it, not when Gates was in a mood. Hard day at the office maybe, but then weren’t they all?
Devlin cleared his throat. ‘Might I perhaps …?’
Leary slapped Devlin’s back. ‘There you are, John. A willing victim!’
‘I know I’ve been retired a good few years, but I don’t suppose the theory and practice have changed.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘the most recent case is nineteen eighty-two.’
‘Donald was still wielding the scalpel in eighty-two,’ Gates said. Devlin acknowledged this truth with a small bow.
Rebus hesitated. He wanted someone with a bit of clout, someone like Gates.
‘Motion carried,’ Curt said, deciding the matter for him.
Siobhan Clarke sat in her living room watching TV. She’d tried cooking herself a proper dinner, but had given up hallway through chopping the red peppers, putting everything in the fridge and pulling a ready-meal from the freezer. The empty container was on the floor in front of her. She sat on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, head resting on one arm. The laptop was on the coffee table, but she’d unhooked her mobile phone. She didn’t think Quizmaster would be calling again. She lifted her notepad and stared at the clue. She’d gone through dozens of sheets of paper, working out possible anagrams and meanings. Seven fins high is king … and mentions of the queen and ‘the bust’: it sounded like something from a card game, but the compendium of card games she’d borrowed from the Central Library hadn’t been any help. She was just wondering if she should read it through a final time when her phone rang.
