He reddened. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to tell anyone.’
He tried a smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re right anyway,’ she went on, ‘when do we ever meet anyone? Apart from other cops, that is.’
‘And villains.’
The way he said it made her suspect he’d not met too many ‘villains’. But she nodded anyway.
‘I think the tea room’ll be open,’ he said. ‘If you’re ready...?’
‘Tea and a scone.’ She took his arm. ‘A perfect Sunday afternoon.’
Except that the family at the table next to them had one hyperactive child and a squealing infant in a pushchair. Linford turned to glower at the infant, as though it would instantly recognise his authority and start behaving.
‘What’s so funny?’ he said, turning back to Clarke.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Must be something.’ He started attacking the contents of his coffee cup with a spoon.
She lowered her voice so the family wouldn’t hear. ‘I was just wondering if you were going to take him into custody.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ He sounded serious.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, then Linford started telling her about Fettes. When she got a chance, she asked him: ‘And what do you like to do when you’re not working?’
‘Well, there’s always a lot of reading to do: textbooks and journals. I keep pretty busy.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’
‘It is, that’s what most people...’ His voice died away, and he looked at her. ‘You were being ironic, right?’
She nodded, smiling. He cleared his throat, got to work with the spoon again.
‘Change of subject,’ he said at last. ‘What’s John Rebus like? You work with him at St Leonard’s, don’t you?’
She was about to say that he hadn’t exactly changed the subject, but nodded instead. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘The committee, he doesn’t seem to take it seriously.’
‘Maybe he’d rather be doing something else.’
‘From what I’ve seen of him, that would involve sitting in a pub with a cigarette in his mouth. Got a drink problem, has he?’
She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said coldly.
He was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked. Got to stick up for him, haven’t you? Same division and all that.’
She bit back a reply. He let the spoon clatter back on to its saucer.
‘I’m being an idiot,’ he said. The infant was screaming again. ‘It’s this place... Can’t think straight.’ He risked a look at her. ‘Can we go?’
5
Monday morning, Rebus headed for the city mortuary. Normally, when an autopsy was being carried out, he would enter by the side door, which led directly to the viewing area. But the building’s air filtering wasn’t up to scratch, so all autopsies were now carried out at a hospital, and the mortuary was for storage only. There were none of the distinctive grey Bedford vans in the parking area — unlike most cities, the Edinburgh mortuary picked up every dead body; only later did undertakers enter the equation. He entered by the staff door. There was no one in the ‘card room’ — so called because employees spent their spare time playing cards there — so he wandered into the storage area. Dougie, who ran the place, was standing there in his white coat, clipboard in hand.
‘Dougie,’ Rebus said, announcing himself.
Dougie peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Morning, John.’ His eyes twinkled with good humour. He always joked that he worked in the dead centre of Edinburgh.
Rebus twitched his nostrils, letting Dougie know he could smell the faint but noticeable smell.
‘Aye,’ Dougie said. ‘A bad one. Elderly lady, probably dead a week.’ He nodded towards the Decomposing Room, where the worst-smelling corpses were stored.
‘Well, my one’s been dead a sight longer than that.’
Dougie nodded. ‘You’re too late though. He’s already gone.’
‘Gone?’ Rebus checked his watch.
‘Two of my boys took him off to the Western General about an hour ago.’
‘I thought the autopsy was scheduled for eleven.’
Dougie shrugged. ‘Your man was keen — keen and persuasive. It takes a lot to get the Two Musketeers to change their diaries.’
The Two Musketeers: Dougie’s name for Professor Gates and Dr Curt. Rebus frowned.
‘My man?’
Dougie looked down at his clipboard, found the name. ‘DI Linford.’
When Rebus got to the hospital, the autopsy was in full swing, and with it the double act of Gates and Curt. Professor Gates liked to describe himself as big-boned. Certainly as he leaned over the remains he seemed the antithesis of his colleague, who was tall and gaunt. Curt, Gates’ junior by a decade, kept clearing his throat, something newcomers took as a comment on Gates’ handiwork. They didn’t know about the smoking habit, which was up to thirty a day now. Every moment Curt spent in the autopsy suite was precious time away from his fix. Rebus, whose mind had been on other things during the journey, suddenly craved a cigarette.
‘Morning, John,’ Gates said, glancing up from his work. Under his rubberised full-length apron he was wearing a crisp white shirt and red-and-yellow striped tie. Somehow his ties always stood out against the grey colours of the suite.
‘Been jogging?’ Curt asked. Rebus was aware that he was breathing heavily. He ran his hand over his forehead.
‘No, I just...’
‘If he keeps that up,’ Gates said, his eyes on Curt, ‘he’ll be next on the slab.’
‘Won’t that be fun?’ Curt responded. ‘Digestive tract full of bridies and beetroot.’
‘And the man’s so thick-skinned, we’ll need hatchets rather than scalpels.’ The pair shared a laugh. Not for the first time, Rebus cursed the rule of corroboration, which necessitated two pathologists at each autopsy.
The corpse — literally skin and bone, though some of the skin had been removed already — lay on a shallow stainless-steel trolley, the surface of which was moulded so as to catch any spilled blood. The corpse, however, had dust and cobwebs to spare, but no life fluid. Its skull lay on an angled wooden plinth which, in another context, might have been taken for a curio cheeseboard.
‘There’s a time and a place for banter, gentlemen.’ The voice was Linford’s. He was younger than either pathologist, but something about his tone quietened them. Then his eyes were on Rebus. ‘Good morning, John.’
Rebus walked over towards him. ‘Good of you to tell me about the change of schedule.’
Linford blinked. ‘Is there a problem?’
Rebus stared him out. ‘No, no problem.’ There were others in the room: two hospital technicians, a police photographer, someone from Scene of Crimes, and a suited and queasy-looking man from the Advocate Depute’s office. Autopsies were always crowded, everyone either getting on with their work, or else fidgeting nervously.
‘I did a bit of boning up over the weekend,’ Gates was saying, addressing the room. ‘So I can tell you that, judging by the deterioration, our friend here probably died some time in the late nineteen seventies or early eighties.’
‘Have his clothes gone for analysis?’ Linford asked.
Gates nodded. ‘Howdenhall got them this morning.’
‘A young man’s clothes,’ Curt added.
‘Or an old one trying to look trendy,’ the photographer said.
‘Well, the hair shows no signs of grey. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’ Gates looked at the photographer, letting him know his theories weren’t welcome. ‘The lab will give us a better date of death.’