Simple and clever.
Rebus still didn’t know how clever his adversary had been. Fife, Nairn, Glasgow and Perth — certainly he’d ranged far and wide. Someone who travelled. He thought of Quizmaster and the jaunts Siobhan had taken so far. Was it possible to connect Quizmaster to whoever had left the coffins? Having scribbled the words ‘forensic pathologist’ on to his notepad, Rebus added two more: ‘offender profiling’. There were university psychologists who specialised in this, deducing aspects of a culprit’s character from their MO. Rebus had never been convinced, but he felt he was banging his fists against a locked and bolted door, one he was never going to break down without help.
When Gill Templer stormed down the corridor, past the CID suite’s doorway, Rebus didn’t think she’d seen him. But now she was heading straight for him, her face furious.
‘I thought,’ she said, ‘you’d been told.’
‘Told what?’ he asked innocently.
She pointed to the coffins. ‘Told that these were a waste of time.’ Her voice vibrated with anger. Her whole body was taut.
‘Jesus, Gill, what’s happened?’
She didn’t say anything, just swung her arm across the desk, sending the coffins flying. Rebus scrambled from his chair, started picking them up, checking for damage. When he looked round, Gill was on her way to the door again, but she stopped, half turned.
‘You’ll find out tomorrow,’ she said, making her exit.
Rebus looked around the room. Hi-Ho Silvers and one of the civilian staff had stopped the conversation they’d been having.
‘She’s losing it,’ Silvers commented.
‘What did she mean about tomorrow?’ Rebus asked, but Silvers just shrugged.
‘Losing it,’ he said again.
Maybe he was right.
Rebus sat back down at his desk and pondered the phrase: there were lots of ways of ‘losing it’. He knew he was in danger of losing it too... whatever it was.
Jean Burchill had spent much of her day trying to trace the correspondence between Kennet Lovell and the Reverend Kirkpatrick. She’d spoken to people in Alloway and Ayr — the parish minister; a local historian; one of Kirkpatrick’s descendants. She’d spent over an hour on the phone to the Mitchell Library in Glasgow. She’d taken the short walk from the Museum to the National Library, and from there to the Faculty of Advocates. Finally, she’d walked back along Chambers Street and headed for Surgeons’ Hall. In the museum there she’d stared long and hard at the portrait of Kennet Lovell by J. Scott Jauncey. Lovell had been a handsome young man. Often in portraits, the artist left little clues as to the character he was painting: profession, family, hobbies... But this was a simple execution: head and upper body. The background was plain and black, contrasting with the bright yellows and pinks of Lovell’s face. The other portraits in Surgeons’ Hall, they usually showed their subjects with a textbook in front of them, or some paper and a pen. Maybe standing in their library or posed with a few telling props — a skull or femur, an anatomical drawing. The sheer plainness of the Lovell portrait bothered her. Either the painter had had little enthusiasm for the commission, or else the subject had insisted on giving little enough away. She thought of Reverend Kirkpatrick, imagined him paying the artist’s fee and then receiving this bland decoration. She wondered if it perhaps showed some ideal of its subject, or if it was the equivalent of a picture postcard, a mere advertisement for Lovell. This young man, hardly out of his teens, had assisted in the Burke autopsy. According to one report of the time, ‘the quantity of blood that gushed out was enormous, and by the time the lecture was finished the area of the classroom had the appearance of a butcher’s slaughter-house, from its flowing down and being trodden upon’. The description had made her queasy, first time she’d read it. How much more preferable to have died as one of Burke’s victims, made insensible with drink and then smothered. Jean stared into Kennet Lovell’s eyes again. The black pupils seemed luminous, despite the horrors they’d witnessed.
Or, she couldn’t help wondering, because of them?
The curator wasn’t able to help answer her questions, so she’d asked if she might see the bursar. But Major Bruce Cawdor, while affable and willing, wasn’t able to add much to what Jean already knew.
‘We don’t seem to have any record,’ he told her as they sat in his office, ‘of how the Lovell portrait came into the College’s possession. I’d presume it was a gift, perhaps to defer death duties.’ He was short but distinguished-looking, well dressed and with a face shining with good health. He’d offered her tea, which she’d accepted. It was Darjeeling, each cup coming with its own silver tea-strainer.
‘I’m also interested in Lovell’s correspondence.’
‘Yes, well, we would be, too.’
‘You don’t have anything?’ She was surprised.
The bursar shook his head. ‘Either Dr Lovell wasn’t a great man for the pen, or else they’ve perished or ended up in some obscure collection.’ He sighed. ‘A great pity. We know so little about his time in Africa...’
‘Or in Edinburgh, come to that.’
‘He’s buried here. Don’t suppose his grave’s of much interest to you...?’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘Calton cemetery. His plot’s not far from David Hume’s.’
‘I might as well take a look.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’ He thought for a moment, and his face brightened. ‘Donald Devlin’s supposed to have some table made by Lovell.’
‘Yes, I know, though there’s nothing in the literature about an interest in carpentry.’
‘I’m sure it’s mentioned somewhere; I seem to recall reading something...’ But try as he might, Major Cawdor couldn’t remember what or where.
That evening, she sat with John Rebus in her Portobello home. They ate Chinese takeaway, washed down with cold Chardonnay for her, bottled beer for him. Music on the hi-fi: Nick Drake, Janis Ian, Pink Floyd’s Meddle. He seemed wrapped up in his thoughts, but she could hardly complain. After the food, they walked down to the promenade. Kids on skateboards, looking American but sounding pure Porty, swearing like troopers. One chip shop open, that childhood smell of hot fat and vinegar. They still didn’t say much, which didn’t make them so very different from the other couples they passed. Reticence was an Edinburgh tradition. You kept your feelings hidden and your business your own. Some people put it down to the influence of the Church and figures like John Knox — she’d heard the city called ‘Fort Knox’ by outsiders. But to Jean, it was more to do with Edinburgh’s geography, its louring rock-faces and dark skies, the wind whipping in from the North Sea, hurtling through the canyon-like streets. At every turn you felt overwhelmed and pummelled by your surroundings. Just travelling into town from Portobello, she felt it: the bruising and bruised nature of the place.