None of which explained why she was doing what she was doing, going out on her own fragile limb like this. It was the sort of stupid thing she regularly chastised Rebus for. Maybe Grant had decided it for her, Grant who had shown himself a ‘company player’, with his suits and his tan, looking good on TV — good PR for the force.
One game she knew she didn’t want to play.
Many times she’d crossed the line, but always crossing back again. She’d break a rule or two, but nothing important, nothing career-threatening, and then hop back into the fold. She wasn’t a born outsider in the way she sensed John Rebus was, but she’d learned that she liked it on his side of the fence, liked it better than becoming a Grant or a Derek Linford... people who played their own games, doing anything it took to keep in with the men who mattered, men like Colin Carswell.
At one time, she’d thought maybe she could learn from Gill Templer, but Gill had become just like the others. She had her own interests to protect, whatever that took. In order to rise, she’d had to take on the worst attributes of someone like Carswell, while wrapping her own feelings inside some sort of reinforced box.
If rising through the ranks meant losing a part of herself, Siobhan didn’t want it. She’d known as much back at the dinner in Hadrian’s, when Gill had hinted at things to come.
Maybe that was what she was doing out here, out on her limb — proving something to herself. Maybe it wasn’t really about the game and Quizmaster so much as it was about her.
She moved in her seat so she was facing the laptop. The line was already open, had been since she’d got into the car. No new messages, so she typed in one of her own.
Meeting accepted. See you there. Siobhan.
And clicked on ‘send’.
After which, she shut down the computer, disconnected the phone and powered it down — battery needed a boost anyway. She placed both beneath the passenger seat, making sure they weren’t visible to pedestrians: didn’t want someone breaking in. When she got out of the car, she made sure all the doors were locked, and that the little red alarm button was flashing.
Just under two hours to go now; a little time to kill...
Jean Burchill had tried calling Professor Devlin, but no one ever answered. So finally she wrote him a note, asking him to contact her, and decided to deliver it by hand. In the back of the taxi, she wondered what the sense of urgency was, and realised it was because she wanted to be rid of Kennet Lovell. He was taking up too much of her waking time, and last night he’d even infected her dreams, slicing the meat from cadavers only to reveal planed wood beneath, while her colleagues from work watched and applauded, the performance turning into a stage show.
If her research into Lovell was to progress, she needed some kind of proof of his interest in woodwork. Without that, she was at a dead end. Having paid the driver, she stood in front of the Professor’s tenement, note in hand. But there was no letter-box. Each flat would have its own, the postman gaining entry by pressing the buzzers until someone let him in. She supposed she could slip the note under the door, but reckoned it would lie there ignored, along with all the junk mail. So instead, she looked at the array of buzzers. Professor Devlin’s just said ‘D. Devlin’. She wondered if he might be back from his wanderings, and pressed the buzzer. When there was no answer, she looked at the remaining buttons, wondering which one to pick. Then the intercom crackled.
‘Hello?’
‘Dr Devlin? It’s Jean Burchill from the Museum. I wonder if I can have a word...’
‘Miss Burchill? This is somewhat of a surprise.’
‘I’ve tried phoning...’
But the door was already signalling that it was no longer locked.
Devlin was waiting for her on his landing. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with thick braces holding up his trousers.
‘Well, well,’ he said, taking her hand.
‘I’m sorry to bother you like this.’
‘Not at all, young lady. Now just you come in. I’m afraid you’ll find my housekeeping somewhat lacking...’ He led her into the living room, cluttered with boxes and books.
‘Separating the wheat from the chaff,’ he informed her.
She picked up a case and opened it. It contained old surgical instruments. ‘You’re not throwing it out? Perhaps the Museum would be interested...’
He nodded. ‘I’m in contact with the bursar at Surgeons’ Hall. He thinks perhaps the exhibition there might have room for one or two pieces.’
‘Major Cawdor?’
Devlin’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You know him?’
‘I was asking him about the portrait of Kennet Lovell.’
‘So you’re taking my theory seriously?’
‘I thought it was worth pursuing.’
‘Excellent.’ Devlin clapped his hands together. ‘And what have you found?’
‘Not a great deal. That’s really why I’m here. I can’t find any reference in the literature to Lovell having an interest in carpentry.’
‘Oh, it’s a matter of record, I assure you, though it’s many years since I came across it.’
‘Came across it where?’
‘Some monograph or dissertation... I really can’t recall. Could it have been a university thesis?’
Jean nodded slowly. If it had been a thesis, only the university itself would hold a copy; there’d be no record in any other library. ‘I should have thought of that,’ she admitted.
‘But don’t you agree he was a remarkable character?’ Devlin asked.
‘He certainly lived a very full life... unlike his wives.’
‘You’ve been to his graveside?’ He smiled at the idiocy of the question. ‘Of course you have. And you took note of his marriages. What did you think?’
‘At first, nothing... but then later, when I thought about it...’
‘You began to speculate as to whether or not they had been assisted on their final journey?’ He smiled again. ‘It’s obvious, really, isn’t it?’
Jean became aware of a smell in the room: stale sweat. Perspiration was shining on Devlin’s forehead, and the lenses of his spectacles looked smeared. She was amazed he could see her through them.
‘Who better,’ he was saying, ‘than an anatomist to get away with murder?’
‘You’re saying he murdered them?’
He shook his head. ‘Impossible to tell after all this time. I’m merely speculating.’
‘But why would he do that?’
Devlin shrugged, his shoulders stretching the braces. ‘Because he could? What do you think?’
‘I’ve been wondering... he was very young when he assisted at Burke’s autopsy; young and impressionable maybe. That might explain why he fled to Africa...’
‘And God alone knows what horrors he encountered out there,’ Devlin added.
‘It would help if we had his correspondence.’
‘Ah, the letters between himself and the Reverend Kirkpatrick?’
‘You don’t happen to know where they might be?’
‘Consigned to oblivion, I’d wager. Tossed on to the pyre by some descendant of the good minister...’
‘And here you are doing the same thing.’
Devlin looked around him at the mess. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Selecting that by which history shall judge my small endeavours.’