Rebus fell silent and stared fixedly at the windscreen, keeping his thoughts to himself, thoughts which ran along a very simple plane: fuck you, too, pal. Over the years, those four words had become his mantra. Fuck you, too, pal. FYTP. It had taken the Londoner only the length of a twenty-minute car ride to show what he really thought of the Scots.
As Rebus got out of the car, he glanced in through the rear window and saw, for the first time, the contents of the back seat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Flight raised a knowing hand.
`Don't even ask,' he growled, slamming shut the driver's-side door. `And listen, I'm sorry about what I said . . .'
Rebus merely shrugged, but his eyebrows descended in a private and thoughtful frown. After all, there had to be some logical explanation as to why a Detective Inspector would have a huge stuffed teddy bear in the back of his car at the scene of a murder. It was just that Rebus was damned if he could think of one right this second . . .
Mortuaries were places where the dead stopped being people and turned instead into bags of meat, offal, blood and bone. Rebus had never been sick at the scene of a crime, but the first few times he had visited ,a mortuary the contents of his stomach had fairly quickly been rendered up for examination.
The mortuary technician was a gleeful little man with a livid birthmark covering a full quarter of his face. He seemed to know Dr Cousins well enough and had prepared everything for the arrival of the deceased and the usual retinue of police officers. Cousins checked the post-mortem room, while Jean Cooper's sister was taken quietly into an ante-room, there to make the formal identification. It took only a tearful few seconds, after which she was escorted well away from the scene by consoling officers. They would take her home, but Rebus doubted if she would get any sleep. In fact, knowing how long a scrupulous pathologist could take, he was beginning to doubt that any of them would get to bed before morning.
Eventually, the body bag was brought into the post-mortem room and the corpse of Jean Cooper placed on a slab, beneath the hum and glare of powerful strip lighting. The room was antiseptic but antique. Its tiled walls were cracking and there was a stinging aroma of chemicals. Voices were kept muffled, not so much out of respect but from a strange kind of fear. The mortuary, after all, was one vast memento mori, and what was about to happen to Jean Cooper's body would serve to remind each and every one of them that if the body were a temple, then it was possible to loot that temple, scattering its, treasures, revealing its precious secrets.
Unknown
A hand landed gently on Rebus's shoulder, and he turned, startled, towards the man who was standing there. `Man' was by way of simplification. This tall and unsmiling individual had cropped fair hair and the acne-ridden face of an adolescent. He looked about fourteen, but Rebus placed him in his mid-twenties.
`You're the Jock, aren't you?' There was interest in the voice, but little emotion. Rebus said nothing. FYTP. `Yeah, thought so. Cracked the case yet, have you?' The grin accompanying this question was three-quarters sneer and one-quarter scowl. `We don't need any help.'
`Ah,' said George Flight, `I see you've already met DC Lamb. I was just about to introduce you.'
`Delighted,' said Rebus, gazing stonily at the join-the-dots pattern of spots on Lamb's forehead. Lamb! No surname in history, Rebus felt, had ever been less deserved, less accurate. Over by the slab, Dr Cousins cleared his, throat noisily.
`Gentlemen,' he said to the room at large. It was little more than an indication that he was about to start work.
The room fell quiet again. A microphone hung down from the ceiling to within a few feet of the slab. Cousins turned to the technician. `Is this thing on now?' The technician nodded keenly from between arranging a row of clanging metallic instruments along a tray.
Rebus knew all the instruments, had seen them all in action. The cutters and the saws and the drills. Some of them were electrical, some needed a human force to drive them home. The sounds the electrical ones made were horrible, but at least the job was over quickly; the manual tools made similarly revolting sounds that seemed to last forever. Still, there would be an interval before that particular shop of horrors. First of all there was the slow and careful business of removing the clothing and bagging it up for Forensics.
As Rebus and the others watched, the two photographers clicked away, one taking black and white shots and the other colour, recording for posterity each stage of the process. The video cameraman had given up, however, his equipment having jammed irreparably on one of the bargain tapes. Or at least that was the story which kept him away from the mortuary.
Finally, when the corpse was naked, Cousins pointed to a few areas meriting particular close-up shots. Then the Forensics men moved in again, armed with more lengths of sticky tape. Now that the body was unclothed, the same process as was carried out on the tow-path had to be gone through again. Not for nothing were these people known as Sellotape Men.
Cousins wandered over towards the group where Rebus, Flight and Lamb stood.
`I'd kill for a cup of tea, George.'
`I'll see what I can do, Philip. What about Isobel?'
Cousins looked back towards where Isobel Penny stood, making another drawing of the corpse despite the welter of camera shots. `Penny,' he called, `care for a cuppa?' Her eyes opened a little and she nodded enthusiastically.
`Right,' said Flight, moving towards the door. Rebus thought the man seemed more than a little relieved to be leaving, albeit temporarily.
`Nasty little chap,' Cousins commented. Rebus won?dered for a moment if he were talking about George Flight, but Cousins waved a hand towards the corpse. `To do this sort of thing time after time, without motive, out of some need for . . . well, pleasure, I suppose.'
`There's always a motive, sir,' said Rebus. `You just said so yourself. Pleasure, that's his motive. But the way he kills. What he does. There's some other motive there. It's just that we can't see it yet.'
Cousins stared at him. Rebus could see a warm, light in his deep eyes. `Well, Inspector, let us hope somebody spots whatever it is before too long. Four deaths in as many months. The man's as constant as the moon.'
Rebus smiled. `But we all know that werewolves are affected by the moon, don't we?'
Cousins, laughed. It was deep and resonant and sounded extraordinarily out of place in this environment. Lamb wasn't laughing, wasn't even smiling He was following little of this conversation, and the realisation pleased Rebus. But Lamb wasn't going to be left out.
'I reckon he's barking mad. Hee, get it?'
`Well,' said Cousins, as though this joke was too well-worn even to merit acknowledgment, `must press on.' He turned towards the slab. `If you've finished, gentlemen?' The Forensics men nodded in unison. Jewellery removed?' They nodded again. `Good. Then if you are ready, I suggest we begin.'
The beginning was never too awful. Measurements, a physical description—five feet and seven inches tall, brown hair, that sort of thing. Fingernail scrapings and clippings were deposited in yet more polythene bags. Rebus made a note to buy shares in whichever company manufactured these bags. He'd seen murder investigations go through hundreds of them.
Slowly but determinedly, things got worse. Swabs were taken from Jean Cooper's vagina, then Cousins got down to some serious work.
'Large puncture wound to the throat. From size of wound, I'd' say the knife itself had been twisted in the wound. A small knife. From the extent of the exit wound I would say the blade was about five inches long, perhaps a little less, and about an inch deep, ending, in a very fine point. The skin surrounding the entry wound shows some bruising, perhaps caused by the hilt-guard or handle. This would seem to indicate that the knife was driven in with a certain amount of force.