‘Might have been here a while,’ the scene-of-crime officer offered. ‘Going to be a sod of a job for somebody.’
Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. In the car, she’d wondered aloud why the call had come to them, and not to Hawes or Tibbet. Rebus raised an eyebrow, indicating that he felt she now had her answer.
‘A proper pig of a job,’ the SOCO reiterated.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Rebus said quietly, gaining a wry smile from Siobhan — more than one meaning to his words. ‘Where’s the owner of the pickaxe?’
‘Upstairs. He said a snifter might help revive him.’ The SOCO twitched his nose, as if only now catching a hint of mint in the stale air.
‘Suppose we better have a word with him then,’ Rebus said.
‘I thought it was bodies plural?’ Siobhan queried.
The SOCO nodded towards a white polythene carrier bag lying on the floor, next to the broken-up concrete. One of his colleagues raised the bag a few inches. Siobhan sucked in her breath. There was another skeleton there, hardly any size at all. She let out a hiss.
‘It was the only thing we had to hand,’ the SOCO apologised. He meant the carrier bag. Rebus, too, was staring down at the tiny remains.
‘Mother and baby?’ he guessed.
‘I’d leave that sort of speculation to the professionals,’ a new voice stated. Rebus turned and found himself shaking hands with the pathologist, Dr Curt. ‘Christ, John, are you still around? I heard they were kicking you into touch.’
‘You’re very much my role model, Doc. When you go, I go.’
‘And the rejoicing shall be long and heartfelt. Good evening to you, Siobhan.’ Curt tipped his head forwards slightly. If he’d been wearing a hat, Rebus didn’t doubt he’d have removed it in a lady’s presence. He seemed to belong to another age, with his immaculate dark suit and polished brogues, the stiff shirt and striped tie, this last probably denoting membership of some venerable Edinburgh institution. His hair was grey, but this only served to make him appear even more distinguished. It was combed back from the forehead, not a strand out of place. He peered at the skeletons.
‘The Prof will have a field day,’ he muttered. ‘He does like these little puzzles.’ He straightened up, examining his surroundings. ‘And his history, too.’
‘You think they’ve been here a while then?’ Siobhan made the mistake of asking. Curt’s eyes twinkled.
‘Certainly they were here before the concrete was laid... but probably not too long before. People don’t tend to pour fresh concrete over bodies without good reason.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Siobhan’s blushes would have been spared had not the arc lamp suddenly lit the scene blazingly, casting huge shadows up the walls and across the low ceiling.
‘That’s better,’ the SOCO said.
Siobhan looked to Rebus and saw that he was rubbing his cheeks, as if she needed telling that her own face had reddened.
‘I should probably get the Prof down here,’ Curt was saying to himself. ‘I think he’d want to see them in situ...’ He reached into an inside pocket for his mobile. ‘Pity to disturb the old boy when he’s heading out to the opera, but duty calls, does it not?’ He winked at Rebus, who responded with a smile.
‘Absolutely, Doc.’
The Prof was Professor Sandy Gates, Curt’s colleague and immediate boss. Both men worked at the university, teaching pathology, but were constantly on call to attend scenes of crime.
‘You heard we had a stabbing in Knoxland?’ Rebus asked, as Curt pushed the buttons on his phone.
‘I heard,’ Curt replied. ‘We’ll probably take a look at him tomorrow morning. Not sure yet that our clients here demand any such urgency.’ He looked again at the adult skeleton. The infant had been re-covered, not by a bag this time but by Siobhan’s own jacket, which she’d placed over the remains with the utmost care.
‘Wish you hadn’t done that,’ Curt muttered, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Means we have to hang on to your coat so we can match it against any fibres we find.’
Rebus couldn’t stand to watch Siobhan start blushing again. Instead, he gestured towards the door. As they made their exit, Curt could be heard talking to Professor Gates.
‘Are you all gussied up in tails and cummerbund, Sandy? Because if you’re not — and even if you are — I think I may have an alternative entertainment for you ce soir...’
Instead of heading up the lane, towards the pub, Siobhan started heading down.
‘Where you off to?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve got a windcheater in the car,’ she explained. By the time she returned, Rebus had lit a cigarette.
‘Good to see you with some colour in your cheeks,’ he told her.
‘Gosh, did you think that up all by yourself?’ She made an exasperated sound and leaned against the wall next to him, arms folded. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so...’
‘What?’ Rebus was examining the glowing tip of his cigarette.
‘I don’t know...’ She looked around, as if for inspiration. Revellers were on the street, weaving their way to the next hostelry. Tourists were photographing each other outside Starbuck’s, with the climb to the Castle as backdrop. Old and new, Rebus thought again.
‘It just seems like a game to him,’ Siobhan said at last. ‘That’s not what I mean exactly, but it’ll have to do.’
‘He’s one of the most serious men I know,’ Rebus told her. ‘It’s a way of dealing with it, that’s all. We all do it in our different ways, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’ She looked at him. ‘I suppose your way involves quantities of nicotine and alcohol?’
‘It never does to mess with a winning combination.’
‘Even if it’s a killing combination?’
‘Remember the story of that old king? Took a little bit of poison every day to make himself immune?’ Rebus blew smoke into the bruise-coloured evening sky. ‘Think about it. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be buying a workman a drink... and maybe having one myself.’ He pushed open the door to the bar, let it swing shut after him. Siobhan stood there for a few moments longer before joining him.
‘Didn’t that king end up being killed anyway?’ she asked, as they moved through the bar’s interior.
The place was called The Warlock, and it looked geared to foot-weary tourists. One wall was covered in a mural which told the story of Major Weir, who, back in the seventeenth century, had confessed to witchcraft, identifying his own sister as accomplice. The pair had been executed on Calton Hill.
‘Nice,’ was Siobhan’s only comment.
Rebus gestured towards a fruit machine, which was being played by a heavy-set man in dusty blue overalls. An empty brandy glass was perched on top of the machine.
‘Get you another?’ Rebus asked the man. The face which turned towards him was as spectral as Major Weir’s in the mural, the thick dark hair peppered with plaster. ‘I’m DI Rebus, by the way. Hoping you might answer a few questions. This is my colleague, DS Clarke. Now, about that drink — brandy, am I right?’
The man nodded. ‘I’ve got the van though... it’s got to go back to the yard.’
‘We’ll get someone to drive you, don’t worry.’ Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘Usual for me, large brandy for Mr...’
‘Evans. Joe Evans.’
Siobhan left without a fuss. ‘Having any luck?’ Rebus asked. Evans looked at the fruit machine’s four unforgiving wheels.
‘I’m down three quid.’
‘Not your day, is it?’
The man smiled. ‘I got the shock of my bloody life. First thought was, they’re Roman or something. Or maybe some old burying ground.’