them?’
‘Misguided loyalty, you mean?’ It was Clarke’s turn to nod. Her phone buzzed and she checked the screen. It was a text from Laura Smith:
‘Something important?’ Fox enquired.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘David Galvin?’
Clarke glared at him. ‘He’s history, Malcolm.’
She turned her head sharply, alerted by a cry from the canal. One of the frogmen was standing in the water, which reached only to his chest. He was waving something, a small, dark shape draped with strands of slimy green weed.
‘That looks to me very like a gun,’ Fox commented. Then watched as a relieved smile broke across Siobhan Clarke’s face.
Day Nine
16
Next morning, Rebus went back to the nursing home in Colinton. Professor Cuttle, he was told, was under the weather, staff fearing he had caught a chill from too much time spent in the garden.
‘He had visitors the other day,’ the staff member informed Rebus. ‘They kept him outside longer than they should.’
‘Some people, eh?’ Rebus sympathised, making a tutting sound and shaking his head.
‘He’s in his room, tucked up in bed. Can I fetch you a cup of tea. .?’
Rebus said he would be fine, and followed her along a corridor which held the faint aroma of talcum powder. She knocked on a door and opened it.
‘Visitor for you,’ she trilled, stepping back to allow Rebus past her. He nodded his thanks and, once inside, closed the door gently on her.
Cuttle looked paler and thinner than ever. It took him a moment to place Rebus.
‘Seems Inspector Fox and me kept you too long in the cold,’ Rebus apologised, lowering himself on to a folding chair next to the bed.
‘Fresh air is supposed to be good for a body,’ Cuttle said with a shrug. He had been reading a tabloid newspaper with the help of a magnifying glass.
‘Anything interesting?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the paper.
‘That shooting in the city — they’ve found the gun.’
Rebus nodded. ‘They’ve certainly fished out
Cuttle grew thoughtful. ‘Once or twice — the first when I was still a young pup. Professor Donner was very much my teacher in those days.’ He paused. ‘Is my memory playing tricks, or did
‘Lucky I didn’t end up on a slab,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘That was 1987 — I’d not long been promoted detective sergeant. Took a bullet to the shoulder.’
‘Donner and I did the autopsy on the shooter.’ Cuttle was nodding to himself.
‘I’m impressed you remember so many of the bodies.’
‘That’s because they were never just “bodies” — they were human beings, each one with a life story, an identity.’
‘Well I’m hoping you’ll maybe be able to tell me about one more — Philip Kennedy. He died suddenly at home in Moredun at the age of forty-two. This was the week before you had Douglas Merchant in your mortuary.’
‘Suddenly at home?’ Cuttle echoed. ‘Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy. .’ He was searching for the memory.
‘Also known as Slippery Phil.’
‘Ah, yes. Known to the Lothian and Borders Police. I’m pretty sure CID attended that particular post-mortem exam. They wanted to make sure the man really was dead and wouldn’t be slipping out of their clutches again.’
‘CID meaning. .?’
‘DI Gilmour, I believe. And probably DS Blantyre. Victim had fallen down a flight of stairs at his home. Head injuries and, I think, a broken neck. Professor Donner did the cutting that day. I was on hand for corroboration.’ Cuttle broke off, eyes narrowing.
‘What is it?’
But Cuttle shook his head. ‘The man had been drinking heavily. Fumes from his stomach had us reeling.’ He broke off again, lost in thought. ‘He’d been a housebreaker, hadn’t he? With violence — “hamesucken”, as the law has it. DI Gilmour was glad to see the back of him. .’
Rebus’s phone was vibrating. He took it out and checked caller ID: DCI James Page. Doubtless wondering why Rebus had failed to turn up for work. Rebus put the phone away again.
‘That man Fox,’ Cuttle was saying, ‘the one who was with you the other day. .’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s investigating Summerhall?’
‘He is.’
‘Specifically the death of Douglas Merchant at the hands of William Saunders?’ Cuttle watched Rebus nod. ‘So why
‘Not at all.’
‘Because Saunders has turned up dead, hasn’t he? Hard not to see a connection.’
Rebus glared at the old man. ‘Would your report of the Kennedy autopsy be held somewhere?’
‘Professor Donner wrote it up, not me. And to answer your question, it’s very doubtful. Accidental death — not likely to be of interest to posterity.’
‘Then I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’ Rebus rose to his feet.
‘Glad I could be of help in that, Detective Inspector Rebus.’
‘Detective Sergeant, actually.’
‘Same rank as 1987?’ Cuttle asked with a cold smile. The question sliced into Rebus like a scalpel.
Stefan Gilmour had been brought from Glasgow to Wester Hailes police station in a patrol car. He’d looked furious as he was led into the building, past the stunned journalists and trigger-happy photographers.
‘The Yes campaign will have a field day with this,’ he had complained to anyone who would listen, including, eventually, Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. All three sat in a makeshift interview room, with recording equipment standing by. They were awaiting the arrival of Gilmour’s expensive lawyer.
‘You’re not being cautioned or anything,’ Clarke had sought to reassure him.
‘Nevertheless,’ Gilmour had replied. He kept casting looks towards Malcolm Fox, as if wondering how much Fox might have told Clarke about the meeting in Glasgow.
The solicitor, when he arrived, introduced himself as Alasdair Traquair and apologised for his ‘tardiness’, before handing an embossed business card to both Clarke and Fox. The cards smelled of sandalwood aftershave.
‘Bit of a circus out there,’ he commented. ‘Not particularly helpful — and such a charming part of town. .’
Traquair rested a black leatherbound notebook on the table and opened it, unscrewing the top from a fountain pen before checking his watch and marking the time.
‘Let’s make a start, shall we?’ he suggested.
‘Your client,’ Clarke obliged, ‘has already been questioned — in a more informal manner — concerning the disappearance of a former acquaintance called William Saunders. Mr Saunders has since turned up dead, so we
