Professor Norman Cuttle was resident in a care home overlooking the greenery of Colinton Dell. A trolley was serving tea and biscuits in the TV room. Cuttle rose slowly from his chair to greet his two visitors, then suggested they ‘repair’ to the garden, where it would be quieter.
Quieter and chillier. Not that Rebus was complaining. He’d had to remove both coat and jacket upon entering the care home’s reception area, a member of staff explaining that the heating had to be kept full blast or there were complaints. He remembered the suffocating warmth of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie’s occasional need to escape.
The same staff member provided a tartan travel rug for Professor Cuttle, wrapping it around his legs and chest. The professor was seated on a new-looking wooden bench. There was a plaque on it, identifying the donor as someone who had lived at the care home.
And died there, Rebus presumed.
Cuttle was a bit stiffer than Albert Stout, and required a hearing aid. He was a lot more skeletal, too, his skull all but visible through his paper-thin blue-veined skin. Rebus remembered him as a gentle man who took great care with the cadavers in his possession, respecting them as though family members were gathered at his shoulder. He apologised for not remembering Rebus.
‘We didn’t meet often,’ Rebus said. ‘I got to know your successor a bit better.’
‘Professor Gates?’
Rebus nodded and buttoned up his coat. There was a stiff breeze from the north, the cloud thickening. With Fox and Stout taking up the bench, there was nowhere for him to sit, so he was standing to one side, leaving the woodland view unobstructed.
‘We’re here about Douglas Merchant,’ Fox nudged.
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about him. It was on the news about Billy Saunders disappearing.’
‘You did the post-mortem examination.’
‘With Professor Donner — he was the senior pathologist.’
‘I don’t suppose you recall the details. .’ Fox opened the briefcase he’d been holding and slid out a thin brown folder. Inside was the report from the autopsy. Cuttle peered at the sheets, seemingly engrossed.
‘These were written by Donner,’ he said. ‘Such tiny handwriting, yet perfectly legible. I’d no idea we kept paperwork for this number of years.’
‘We’re lucky it survived,’ Fox said.
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘You gave evidence at the trial?’
‘I did. But then the case fell apart.’
‘A question of contamination?’
Cuttle nodded. ‘The victim’s blood was found on clothing owned by Billy Saunders.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, that clothing had apparently been stored in an evidence bag alongside items belonging to the victim.’
‘Meaning the blood could have been transferred from one to the other?’
‘That was the fear.’
‘Pretty basic error.’ Fox watched Cuttle as he sifted through more of the paperwork, including photos of the deceased from both the scene of the attack and the autopsy slab. ‘Merchant was killed in the alleyway behind the pub he’d been drinking in. He’d had an argument an hour or two before with Billy Saunders. Saunders had then left the pub. He was apprehended, drunk and blood-spattered, in a street half a mile away. His story was that he’d stumbled over the body, and been so horrified he’d staggered off down the road. He told police he’d no idea the body had belonged to Douglas Merchant.’
‘Mmm,’ Cuttle said, managing to inject huge scepticism into the single syllable. ‘The man had grazed knuckles and a burst lip, consistent with a fight. Plus a few nicks that could have been received from an opponent’s blows. DNA collection was not as advanced as it is these days — we never matched skin from under either man’s fingernails. .’
‘But you’re pretty sure Billy Saunders did it?’
‘Mmm,’ Cuttle said again.
‘And was helped in beating the charge by officers at Summerhall CID?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
Rebus cleared his throat. ‘When Inspector Fox asked if Saunders had done it, you didn’t sound wholly convinced — or are my ears playing tricks on me?’
‘His story had a certain plausibility. People jumped to the obvious conclusion — the two men had been arguing; Merchant had been sleeping with Saunders’s wife. .’ Cuttle gave a shrug and pulled the rug a little tighter around himself. ‘The iron bar found at the scene provided no usable fingerprints.’
‘Story is, someone wiped it,’ Fox interrupted.
‘Never proven, though — so much of what we’re talking about here will remain always in the realm of conjecture.’
‘If Billy Saunders didn’t do it, who did?’ Fox asked.
‘A question for the police, unless of course. .’
Fox leaned in towards the old man. ‘Unless the police did it, you mean?’
‘It would explain the need to doctor evidence, and maybe feelings of guilt meant no one wanted an innocent man to go to prison for the crime. .’
Fox snatched the report from Cuttle’s hands. ‘Why is none of that thinking in here?’
‘Because,’ Cuttle replied calmly, ‘I wasn’t the one who wrote it up.’
‘But you spoke to Professor Donner? You told him you had reservations?’
‘I may have done.’
‘And he chose to ignore them?’
Cuttle offered another shrug. ‘We were so busy during that period: a lot of lowlifes dropping dead or succumbing to injuries; not enough staff to assist in the mortuary — I can’t recall now if industrial action or sickness was to blame. The mortuary had to close soon after, you know? They found asbestos in the walls. .’ His eyes lost focus for a moment. Then he blinked and looked up at Rebus. ‘Is Professor Gates still alive, do you know?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I think I saw you at his funeral — quite a few years back now.’
‘I don’t remember. It’s funny, usually I’m fine with the far past — just don’t quiz me on what I had for dinner yesterday.’
‘I need to ask you rather an awkward question, Professor,’ Fox said, pressing the palms of his hands together. ‘Did anyone at Summerhall try to pressure you in any way?’
‘Pressure?’
‘Ask you to change anything in the report, or try your best in the witness box to help the defence rather than the prosecution?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Cuttle shook his head defiantly. ‘Never anything like that.’
Fox pressed the point, but Cuttle kept shaking his head, so that Rebus feared the man might do himself an injury.
‘Is everything all right?’ Another staff member had come into the garden. The sun wasn’t far off setting, the daylight fading. ‘Might be an idea to come back indoors, eh?’
‘Yes,’ the professor said, as Fox and the aide helped him to his feet. ‘I’m beginning to feel it now in my bones.’
‘Nice cup of tea when we get you in.
‘Do I?’
‘Well, let’s find out. .’
Rebus and Fox lingered by the bench.
‘Got enough?’ Rebus asked.
Fox was stuffing the report back into his case. ‘You heard what the man said — might not even have been Saunders.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
