‘And for the benefit of our English-speaking viewers...?’
‘Steve Holly,’ she stated. ‘And in the context of this current inquiry, the phrase “English-speaking” could be construed as racist.’
‘That’s because everything’s racist or sexist these days, sweetheart.’ Rebus paused for a reaction, but she wasn’t about to oblige. ‘Last I heard, we’re not allowed to say “accident blackspot” or “Indian summer”.’
‘Or “manhole cover”,’ Davidson added, leaning forward to make eye contact with Rebus, who shook his head at the madness of it all before sitting back to take in the scene through the glass.
‘So how’s Gayfield Square?’ Wylie asked.
‘Moments away from having its name changed for being politically incorrect.’
This got a laugh from Davidson, loud enough to have the faces through the glass turning towards him. He held up a hand in apology, covering his mouth with the other one. Wylie scribbled something into the Murder Book.
‘Looks like detention for you, Shug,’ Rebus offered. ‘So how are things shaping up? Got any idea who he is yet?’
It was Wylie who answered. ‘Loose change in his pockets... not even so much as a set of house keys.’
‘And nobody coming forward to claim him,’ Davidson added.
‘Door-to-door?’
‘John, this is Knoxland we’re talking about.’ Meaning no one was talking. It was a tribal thing, handed down from parent to child. Whatever happened, you didn’t give the police anything.
‘And the media?’
Davidson handed Rebus a folded tabloid. The killing hadn’t made the front page; the by-line on page five was Steve Holly’s: ASYLUM DEATH RIDDLE. As Rebus skimmed down the paragraphs, Wylie turned to him.
‘I wonder who it was that mentioned asylum-seekers.’
‘Not me,’ Rebus answered. ‘Holly just makes this stuff up. “Sources close to the investigation”.’ He snorted. ‘Which one of you does he mean by that? Or maybe he means both?’
‘You’re not making any friends here, John.’
Rebus handed back the newspaper. ‘How many warm bodies have you got working the case?’
‘Not enough,’ Davidson conceded.
‘Yourself and Ellen?’
‘Plus Charlie Reynolds.’
‘And yourself apparently,’ Wylie added.
‘I’m not sure I like the odds.’
‘There are some keen uniforms working door-to-door,’ Davidson said, defensively.
‘No problem then — case solved.’ Rebus saw that the autopsy was reaching its conclusion. The corpse would be sewn back together by one of the assistants. Curt motioned that he’d meet the detectives downstairs, then disappeared through a door to change out of his scrubs.
The pathologists had no office of their own. Curt was waiting in a gloomy corridor. There were sounds from inside the staff room: a kettle coming to the boil, a game of cards reaching some sort of climax.
‘The Prof ’s done a runner?’ Rebus guessed.
‘He has a class in ten minutes.’
‘So what have you got for us, Doctor?’ Ellen Wylie asked. If she’d ever possessed a gift for small talk, it had been annihilated some time ago.
‘Twelve separate wounds in total, almost certainly the work of the same blade. A kitchen knife perhaps, serrated edge, only a centimetre wide. Deepest penetration was five centimetres.’ He paused, as if to allow for any lewd jokes in the vicinity. Wylie cleared her throat in warning. ‘The one to the throat probably ended his life. Nicked the carotid artery. Blood in the lungs suggests he may have choked on the stuff.’
‘Any defence wounds?’ Davidson asked.
Curt nodded. ‘Palm, fingertips and wrists. Whoever they were, he was fighting them off.’
‘But you think just the one attacker?’
‘Just the one knife,’ Curt corrected Davidson. ‘Not quite the same thing.’
‘Time of death?’ Wylie asked. She was jotting down as much information as she could.
‘Deep-body temperature was taken at the scene. He probably died half an hour before you were alerted.’
‘Incidentally,’ Rebus asked, ‘just who did alert us?’
‘Anonymous call at thirteen fifty,’ Wylie replied.
‘Or ten to two in old money. Male caller?’
Wylie shook her head. ‘Female, calling from a phone box.’
‘And we’ve got the number?’
More nodding. ‘Plus the conversation was recorded. We’ll trace the caller, given time.’
Curt studied his watch, wanting to be on his way.
‘Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?’ Davidson asked.
‘Victim seems to have been in general good health. Slightly undernourished, but with good teeth — either didn’t grow up here or never succumbed to the Scottish diet. A specimen of the stomach contents — what there was of it — will go to the lab today. His last meal would seem to have been less than hearty: mostly rice and veg.’
‘Any idea of his race?’
‘I’m not an expert.’
‘We appreciate that, but all the same...’
‘Middle Eastern? Mediterranean...?’ Curt’s voice drifted off.
‘Well, that narrows things down,’ Rebus said.
‘No tattoos or distinguishing features?’ Wylie asked, still writing furiously.
‘None.’ Curt paused. ‘This will all be typed up for you, DS Wylie.’
‘Just gives us something to work with in the interim, sir.’
‘Such dedication is rare these days.’ Curt offered her a smile. It did not fit well on his gaunt face. ‘You know where to find me if any other questions arise...’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Davidson said. Curt turned towards Rebus.
‘John, a quick word if I may...?’ His eyes met Davidson’s. ‘Personal rather than business,’ he explained. He steered Rebus by the elbow towards the far door, and through it into the mortuary’s main holding area. There was no one around; at least, no one with a pulse. A wall of metal drawers faced them; opposite it was the loading bay where the fleet of grey vans would drop off the unceasing roll-call of the dead. The only sound was the background hum of refrigeration. Despite this, Curt looked to left and right, as if fearing they might be overheard.
‘About Siobhan’s little request,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps you could let her know that I’m willing to accede.’ Curt’s face came close to Rebus’s. ‘But only on the understanding that Gates never finds out.’
‘Reckon he’s got too much ammo on you as it is?’
A nerve twitched in Curt’s left eye. ‘I’m sure he’s already blurted out the story to anyone who’ll listen.’
‘We were all taken in by those bones, Doc. It wasn’t just you.’
But Curt seemed lost. ‘Look, just tell Siobhan it’s being done on the quiet. I’m the only one she should talk to about it, understood?’
‘It’ll be our secret,’ Rebus assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Curt stared at the hand forlornly.
‘Why is it you remind me of one of Job’s comforters?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Doc.’
Curt looked at him. ‘But you don’t understand a word, am I right?’
‘Right as usual, Doc. Right as usual.’
Siobhan realised that she’d been staring at her computer screen for the past few minutes, without really seeing what was written there. She got up and walked over to the table with the kettle on it, the one where Rebus should have been sitting. DCI Macrae had been into the room a couple of times, on both occasions seeming almost satisfied that Rebus was nowhere to be seen. Derek Starr was in his own office, discussing a case with someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s department.