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.
Gates turned toward him, hands cradling a pile of glistening innards. “What’s the matter, John? Lost the stomach…?”
There was no one in the waiting area. An empty mug, decorated with the logo of a soccer team, the Glasgow Rangers, sat on the floor beside a chair. Rebus touched it: still warm. He walked toward the main door. Members of the public entered the building from an alley off the Cowgate. Rebus looked up and down the road but saw no one. Walked around the corner into Cowgate itself and saw the figure seated on the low wall that fronted the morgue. She was staring at the children’s nursery across the street. Rebus stopped in front of her.
“Got a cigarette?” she asked.
“You want one?”
“Seems as good a time as any.”
“Meaning you don’t smoke.”
“So?”
“So I’m not about to corrupt you.”
She looked at him for the first time. She had short fair hair and a round face with prominent chin. Her skirt was knee length, an inch of leg showing above brown boots with fur edging. On the wall next to her sat an oversize bag, probably everything shepacked-hurriedly, haphazardly-before rushing north.
“I’m DI Rebus,” he told her. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
She nodded slowly, eyes returning to the nursery school. “Is that working?” she asked, gesturing in its direction.
“As far as I know. It’s not open today, of course…”
“But it is a nursery.” She turned to examine the building behind her. “And right across the road from this. Short journey, isn’t it, DI Rebus?”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you ID’d the body.”
“Why? Did you know Ben?”
“No…I just thought…how come nobody’s with you?”
“Such as?”
“From his constituency…the party.”
“Think Labor gives two hoots about him now?” She gave a short laugh. “They’ll all be lining up at the head of that bloody march, ready for the photo op. Ben kept saying how close he was getting to what he called ‘the power.’ Little good it did him.”
“Careful there,” Rebus warned her, “you sound like you’d fit right in with the marchers.” She gave a snort, but didn’t say anything. “Any idea why he would-?” Rebus broke off. “You know I need to ask?”
“I’m a cop, same as you.” She watched him bring out the packet. “Just one,” she begged. How could he refuse? He lit both their cigarettes and leaned against the wall next to her.
“No cars,” she stated.
“Town’s locked down,” he explained. “You’ll have trouble getting a taxi, but my car’s parked-”
“I can walk,” she told him. “He didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you wanted to know. Seemed fine last night, very relaxed, etcetera. Colleagues can’t explain…no problems at work.” She paused, raising her eyes skyward. “Except he always had problems at work.”
“Sounds like the two of you were close.”
“He was in London most weekdays. We hadn’t seen each other for maybe a month-actually, probably more like two-but there were texts, e-mails…” She took a drag on the cigarette.
“He had problems at work?” Rebus prompted.
“Ben worked on foreign aid, deciding which decrepit African dictatorships deserved our help.”
“Explains what he was doing here,” Rebus said, almost to himself.
She gave a slow, sad nod. “Getting closer to the power-a bang-up dinner at Edinburgh Castle while you discuss the world’s poor and hungry.”
“He’d be aware of the irony?” Rebus guessed.
“Oh, yes.”
“And the futility?”
She fixed her eyes on his. “Never,” she said quietly. “Wasn’t in Ben’s nature.” She blinked back tears, sniffed and sighed, and flipped most of the cigarette onto the road. “I need to go.” She brought a wallet from her shoulder
