‘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 halfway 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 clipping 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.’
‘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.’