“Way Big Ger talks about you,” she’d cajoled, “I really think you need to give your side.”
Rebus hadn’t felt that need at all.
Which hadn’t stopped the book being a roaring success, not just in Scotland but farther afield. U.S., Canada, Australia. Translations into sixteen languages. For a time, he couldn’t pick up the paper without reading about it. Couple of prizes, TV talk shows for journalist and subject. Wasn’t enough that Cafferty had spent his life ruining people and their communities, terrorizing them; now he was a full-scale celebrity.
She’d sent Rebus a copy of the book; he’d sent it back by return mail. Then he’d gone out two weeks later and bought himself a copy-half price on Princes Street. Flicked through it but hadn’t had the stomach for the whole thing. Nothing brought the bile up quicker than a penitent…
“Hello?”
“Mairie, it’s John Rebus.”
“Sorry, the only John Rebus I know is dead.”
“Now that’s hardly fair…”
“You sent my book back! After I’d signed it to you and everything!”
“Signed it?”
“You didn’t even read the inscription?”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘Whatever it is you’re wanting, get stuffed.’”
“Sorry about that, Mairie. Let me make it up to you.”
“By asking a favor?”
“How did you guess?” He smiled into the receiver. “You going to the march?”
“Thinking about it.”
“I could buy you a tofu burger.”
She gave a snort. “Long time since I was that cheap a date.”
“I’ll throw in a mug of decaf…”
“What the hell do you want, John?” The words cold, but the voice thawing a little.
“I want some info on an outfit called Pennen Industries. Used to be Ministry of Defense. I think they’re in town right now.”
“And why am I interested?”
“You’re not, but I am.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Did you hear about Cafferty’s chum?”
“Which one?” Trying not to sound interested.
“Cyril Colliar. That missing scrap from his jacket has turned up.”
“With Cafferty’s confession written on it? He told me you wouldn’t give up.”
“Just thought I’d let you know-it’s not exactly common knowledge.”
She was silent for a moment. “And Pennen Industries?”
“Something else entirely. You heard about Ben Webster?”
“It was on the news.”
“Pennen was paying for his stay at the Balmoral.”
“So?”
“So I’d like to know a bit more about them.”
“Their managing director’s name is Richard Pennen.” She laughed, sensing his bemusement. “Ever heard of Google?”
“And you just did that while we’re talking?”
“Do you even have a computer at home?”
“I bought a laptop.”
“So you’re on the Internet?”
“In theory,” he confessed. “But, hey, I play a mean game of Minesweeper.”
She laughed again, and he knew it was going to be all right between them. He heard something hissing in the background, the clinking of cups.
“Which café are you in?” he asked.
“ Montpelier ’s. There are people outside, all dressed in white.”
Montpelier ’s was in Bruntsfield; five minutes by car. “I could come buy you that coffee. You can show me how to use my laptop.”
“I’m just leaving. Want to meet later at the Meadows?”
“Not especially. How about a drink?”
“Maybe. I’ll see what I can find about Pennen, call you when I’m finished.”
“You’re a star, Mairie.”
“And a best seller to boot.” She paused. “Cafferty’s share went to charity, you know.”
“He can afford to be generous. Talk to you later.” Rebus finished the call, decided to check for messages. There was only the one. Steelforth’s voice had gotten just a dozen words out before Rebus cut it off. The unfinished threat echoed in his head as he crossed to the stereo and filled the room with the Groundhogs.
Don’t ever try to outsmart me, Rebus, or I’ll…
“…break most of the major bones,” Professor Gates was saying. He gave a shrug. “Fall like that, what else can you expect?”
He was at work because Ben Webster was news. Rush job: everyone wanted the case closed as soon as possible.
“A nice suicide verdict” was how Gates had put it earlier. He was joined in the autopsy suite by Dr. Curt. In Scots law, two pathologists were needed: corroboration was the result. Kept things tidy in court. Gates was the heavier of the two men, face red veined, nose misshapen by early abuse on the rugby field (his version) or an ill-judged student fight. Curt, his junior by only four or five years, was slightly taller and a good deal thinner. Both men had tenure at the University of Edinburgh. With the term finished, they could have been sunning themselves elsewhere, but Rebus had never known them to take holidays-either would have regarded it as a sign of weakness in the other.
“Not on the march, John?” Curt asked. The three men were gathered around a steel slab in the morgue on Cowgate. Just behind them, an assistant was moving pans and instruments with a series of metallic scrapes and clatterings.
“Too tame for me,” Rebus answered. “Monday, that’s when I’ll be out.”
“With all the other anarchists,” Gates added, slicing into the body. There was an area for spectators, and Rebus would usually have stayed there, shielded by Plexiglas, distanced from this ritual. But this being the weekend, Gates had said they could “rise to a certain informality.” Rebus had seen the insides of a human before, but he averted his gaze nonetheless.
“What was he-thirty-four, thirty-five?” Gates asked.
“Thirty-four,” the assistant confirmed.
“In pretty good shape…considering.”
“Sister says he kept fit: jogging, swimming, gym.”
“Is that who did the formal ID?” Rebus asked, happy to turn his head in the assistant’s direction.
“Parents are dead.”
“It was in the papers, wasn’t it?” Curt drawled, keeping a beady eye on his colleague’s work. “Scalpel sharp enough, Sandy?”
Gates ignored this. “Mother was killed during a break-in. Tragic, really; father couldn’t go on without her.”
“Just wasted away, didn’t he?” Curt added. “Want me to take over, Sandy? Can’t blame you for feeling tired, the week we’ve had…”
“Stop fussing.”
Curt offered a sigh and a shrug, both for Rebus’s benefit.
“Did the sister come down from Dundee?” Rebus asked the assistant.
“Works in London. She’s a cop, nicer-looking than most.”
“No valentine for you next year,” Rebus retorted.
“Present company excepted, obviously.”
“Poor girl,” Curt commented. “To lose your family…”
“Were they close?” Rebus couldn’t help asking. Gates thought it an odd question; he glanced up from his work. Rebus ignored him.
“Don’t think she’d seen much of him lately,” the assistant was saying.
Like me and Michael…
“Pretty cut up about it all the same.”
“She didn’t travel up on her own, did she?” Rebus asked.
“Wasn’t anyone with her at the ID,” the assistant said matter-of-factly. “I left her in the waiting area after, gave her a mug of tea.”
“She’s not still there, is she?” Gates snapped.
The assistant looked around him, unsure what rule he’d broken. “I had to get the cutters ready…”
“Place is deserted apart from us,” Gates barked. “Go see she’s all right.”
“I’ll do it,” Rebus stated.