'Like I say,' Curt was saying, 'she's been bashed about a bit… can't tell yet whether post- or ante-mortem. Oh, about that other drowning at Dean Bridge…'
'Yes?'
'Recent sexual intercourse. Traces of semen in the vagina. We should be able to get a DNA profile. Ah, here we go…'
The body had been laid out on a plastic sheet. Yes, it was a nice dress, distinctive, summery, though torn now and smeared with mud. The face was muddy, too… and cut… and swollen… the hair drawn back and part of the skull exposed. Rebus swallowed hard. Had he been expecting this? He wasn't sure. But the photographs he'd seen made him sure in his mind,
'I know her,' he said.
'What?' Even the forensics men looked up at him in disbelief. The tableau must have alerted Brian Holmes, for he came stumbling down the slope to join them.
'I said I know her. At least, I think I do. No, I'm sure I do. Her name is Elizabeth Jack. Her friends call her Liz or Lizzie. She's… she was married to Gregor Jack MP.'
'Good God,' said Dr Curt. Rebus looked at Holmes, and Holmes stared back at him, and neither seemed to know what to say.
There was more to identification than that, of course. Much more. Death was certainly suspicious, but this had to be decided officially by the gentleman from the Procurator Fiscal's office, the gentleman who now stood talking with Dr Curt, nodding his head gravely while Curt made hand gestures which would not have disgraced an excited Italian. He was explaining – explaining tirelessly, explaining for the thousandth time – about the movement of diatoms within the body, while his listener grew paler still.
The Identification Unit was still busy shooting off photographs and some video film, wiping their camera lenses every thirty seconds or so. The rain had, if anything, grown heavier, the sky an unbroken shading of grey-black. An autopsy was needed, agreed the Procurator Fiscal. The body would be transported to the mortuary in Edinburgh 's Cowgate, and there formal identification would take place, involving two people who knew the deceased in life, and two police officers who had known her in death. If it turned out not to be Elizabeth Jack, Rebus was in a dung-pile of trouble. Watching the body being taken away, Rebus allowed himself a muffled sneeze. Perhaps Dr Curt's diagnosis of pneumonia was right. He knew where he was headed: the Kinnoul house. With luck, he might find hot tea there. The forensics team squeezed wetly into their car and headed back to police headquarters at Fettes.
'Come on, Brian,' said Rebus, 'let's see how Mrs Kinnoul's getting on.'
Cath Kinnoul seemed in a state of shock. A doctor had been to the house, but had left by the time Rebus and Holmes reached the scene. They shed their sodden jackets in the hall, while Rebus had a quiet word with the WPC.
'No sign of the husband?' -
'No, sir.'
'How is she?'
'Comfortably numb.'
Rebus tried to look bedraggled and pathetic. It wasn't difficult. The WPC read his mind and smiled.
I'll make some tea, shall I?'
'Anything hot would hit the spot, believe me.'
Cath Kinnoul was sitting in one of the living room's huge armchairs. The chair itself looked like it was in the process of consuming her, while she looked about half the size and a quarter of the age she'd been when Rebus had last seen her.
'Hello again,' he said, mock-cheerily.
Inspector… Rebus?'
'That's it. And this is Sergeant Holmes. No jokes, please, he's heard them all before, haven't you, Sergeant?'
Holmes saw that they were playing the comedy duo, trying to bring some life back into Mrs Kinnoul. He nodded encouragingly. In fact, he was glancing around wistfully, hoping to find a roaring log or coal fire. But there wasn't even a roaring gas fire for him to stand in front of. Instead, there was a one-bar electric job, just about glowing with warmth, and there were two radiators. He went and stood in front of one of these, separating his trousers from his legs. He pretended to be admiring the pictures on the wall in front of him. Rab Kinnoul with a TV actor… with a TV comedian… with a gameshow host…
'My husband,' Mrs Kinnoul explained. 'He works in television.'
Rebus spoke. 'No idea what he's up to today though, Mrs Kinnoul?'
'No,' she said quietly,' no idea.'
Two witnesses who had known the deceased in life… Well, thought Rebus, you can scrub Cath Kinnoul. She'd fall apart if she knew it was Liz Jack out there, never mind having to identify the body. Even now, someone was trying to get in touch with Gregor Jack, and Jack would probably arrive at the mortuary with Ian Urquhart or Helen Greig, either of whom would do as the second nod of the head. No need to bother Cath Kinnoul
'You look soaked,' she was saying. 'Something to drink?'
'The WPC's making some tea…' But as he spoke, Rebus knew this was not what she was suggesting. 'A drop of the cratur wouldn't go amiss though, if it's not too much trouble.'
She nodded towards a sideboard. 'Right-hand cupboard,' she said. 'Please help yourself.'
Rebus thought of suggesting that she join them. But what pills had the doctor given her? And what pills had she taken of her own? He poured Glenmorangie into two long slim glasses and handed one to Holmes, who had taken up a canny position in front of a radiator.
'Mind you don't get steaming,' Rebus said in a murmur, Just then, the WPC appeared, carrying a tray of tea things She saw the alcohol and almost frowned.
'Here's tae us,' said Rebus, downing the drink in one.
At the mortuary, Gregor Jack seemed hardly to recognize Rebus at all. Jack had been holding his weekly constituency surgery, Ian Urquhart explained to Rebus in a conspiratorial whisper. This was usually held on a Friday, but there was a Private Member's Bill in the Commons this Friday, and Gregor Jack wanted to be part of the debate. So, Gregor having been in the area on Wednesday anyway, they'd decided to hold the surgery on Thursday, leaving Friday free.
Listening to all this in silence, Rebus thought: Why are you telling me? But Urquhart was clearly nervous and felt the need to talk. Well, mortuaries could have that effect. never mind the fact that your employer was about to see scandal heaped upon scandal. Never mind the fact that your job was about to be made more difficult than ever.
'How did the golf game go?' Rebus asked back.
'What golf game?'
'Yesterday.'
'Oh.' Urquhart nodded. 'You mean Gregor's game. I don't know. I haven't asked him yet.'
So Urquhart himself hadn't been involved. He paused for so long that Rebus thought a dead end had been reached. but the need to speak was too great.
'That's a regular date,' Urquhart went on. 'Gregor and Ronnie Steele. Most Wednesday afternoons.'
Ah, Suey, Mr would-be teenage suicide…
Rebus tried to make his next question sound like a joke. 'Doesn't Gregor ever do any work?'
Urquhart looked stunned. 'He's always working. That game of golf… it's about the only free time I've ever known him have.'
'But he doesn't seem to be in London very often.'
'Ah well, the constituency comes first, that's Gregor's way.'
'Look after the folk who voted you in, and they'll look after you?'
'Something like that,' Urquhart allowed. There was no more time for talk. The identification was about to take place. And if Gregor Jack looked bad before he saw the body, he looked like a half-filled rag doll afterwards.
'Oh Christ, that dress…' He seemed about to collapse, but Ian Urquhart had a firm grip on him.
'If you'll look at the face,' someone was saying. 'We need to be definite…'
They all looked at the face. Yes, thought Rebus, that's the person I saw beside the stream.
'Yes,' said Gregor Jack, his voice wavering, 'that's my… that's Liz.'
