‘I’m sure,’ Rebus said, holding open the door.
They climbed from the Cowgate to Chambers Street, Rebus working hard to keep up with her.
‘So you’re the notorious John Rebus?’ she asked.
‘You must be thinking of someone else.’
‘I don’t think so. You knew Professors Gates and Curt?’
‘Worked with them for years.’
‘I think it was Professor Curt who mentioned you. He used to teach me, back in the day. You featured in a few of his war stories.’ They were passing the museum, and she asked him if he’d been in.
‘Not since it reopened,’ he admitted.
‘You should.’
‘Are you sure about this corpse, Professor Quant?’
‘My name’s Deborah. And I’ll admit I have more questions than answers right now.’
‘Nothing to identify the body?’
‘He was naked when they pulled him out of the water. No obvious tattoos or scars. Fair haired, five feet ten. I’d say he weighed around a hundred and seventy pounds at one time — bit of a paunch. Someone from Forensics will be there when we do the next examination. There were fibres stuck to the body. I’m guessing he was wrapped in something.’ She stopped walking for a moment. ‘I did read somewhere about a similar case — husband couldn’t bear to part with his wife, so he left her in the chair where she died, wouldn’t let anyone into the room for the best part of five years.’
‘You think that’s what happened here?’
‘All I know is there are no immediate signs of violence.’
‘Who spotted the body?’
‘A jogger. Usual story — mistook it for a bag of rubbish at first.’ She had resumed walking, turning left out of Chambers Street and heading down Bristo Place. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said, checking her watch again. ‘And for once I’m going to start on time.’
‘You lecture in the medical faculty?’
She nodded. ‘Are you going all the way back to the mortuary now to collect your car?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, earning a smile. ‘What time’s the second autopsy?’
‘If I can find a willing helper, four forty-five. Will I see you there?’
‘Hopefully.’
They were on Teviot Place now, at the entrance to her building. She held out her hand and he shook it. The hand was slender, and he could feel the bones beneath the skin. Then she headed through the archway and was gone.
‘Fucking mummies now,’ Rebus muttered to himself, readying to retrace his route. His phone rang and he answered it.
‘Why is nothing ever simple with you, John?’ Page asked.
‘I didn’t ask for the assignment.’
‘From what Professor Quant tells me, we have a suspicious death at the very least.’
‘She told me that too.’
‘You saw her, then? I hear she’s a fine-looking specimen.’
‘You’re misinformed,’ Rebus responded, ending the call and searching his pockets for his cigarettes.
He met Eamonn Paterson at a lunchtime pub on Raeburn Place. Rebus was seated at a corner table when Paterson arrived. Paterson got himself a pint of lager, Rebus shaking away the offer.
‘What the hell is that?’ the older man asked, nodding towards the bright green drink in front of Rebus.
‘Lime juice and soda — Siobhan Clarke swears by it.’
‘I’d swear too if you plonked one in front of me.’ Paterson picked up the menu and studied it. ‘You eating?’
‘I’m fine,’ Rebus said.
‘Just want to get down to business, eh?’ Paterson put the menu back and took a mouthful of lager.
‘The thing is, Porkbelly, I know about Phil Kennedy.’
‘Oh aye?’
Rebus nodded slowly, his eyes on his old friend. ‘You had him on a chair in the cell, giving him a doing. He smacks his head and that’s that. To cover your arse, the body’s taken back to his house and arranged at the foot of the stairs. The relevant bit of the custody ledger is torn out so no one’s any the wiser — except Billy Saunders, who heard everything from the cell next door.’
Paterson stared at the table, as if committing to memory the pattern of its grain. He was holding his glass but not drinking from it. Eventually he sniffed and rubbed at his nose. But still he failed to make eye contact with Rebus, finding the window, the walls and the bar staff more interesting.
‘Aye,’ he said at last, stretching the single syllable as far as he could. Then he risked meeting Rebus’s gaze. ‘You found out from Saunders? He wrote it down somewhere?’
‘Doesn’t matter how I found out.’
‘It can always be denied, you know. There’s no actual proof.’
‘You’re right.’
‘And it really was an accident, if it was anything.’
‘The cover-up was no accident, though. It was planned to almost the last detail.’
‘Almost?’
‘The custody ledger, and the presence in the vicinity of Billy Saunders. He cuts a deal: you’ll go out of your way to see he gets off next time he’s arrested. He knew precisely what he was going to do — batter Douglas Merchant to death. And if you didn’t help him, he’d tell everyone what he knew. Wouldn’t just be you with your head on the block; it’d be Gilmour and Blantyre too, plus Professor Donner, and I’m guessing Magnus Henderson had to be in on it — hard to tamper with the ledger without the custody sergeant knowing.’
‘Magnus Henderson is dead, John. Professor Donner is dead. So is Saunders, and our old friend Dod Blantyre hasn’t much longer to go. Ask yourself what any of this —
‘Probably not much,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But a man was shot dead in cold blood in the present day. Are you going to tell me that doesn’t matter?’
‘It matters,’ Paterson said. ‘Of course it matters.’
‘Do you know what happened to that pistol, Porkbelly?’
Paterson considered how to answer. Another mouthful of lager gave him courage. ‘I always thought Stefan lifted it. It was never seen again after he left Summerhall for the last time.’ He managed the most rueful of smiles. ‘When he started making a go of his business, I used to wonder if he maybe produced it at meetings to get the signatures on the relevant documents.’
‘It’s a thought,’ Rebus said.
‘You’re not managing to sound convinced. You know, we kept you out of it as a way of protecting you.’
‘Protecting me?’
‘The less you knew, the better.’
‘What about Frazer Spence — was he in on it?’
‘You were still the apprentice back then, John — Frazer had served his time.’
‘Meaning you didn’t trust me?’
‘We didn’t know how you’d react.’
‘Thanks very much.’ Rebus pushed his garish drink aside. ‘You say Stefan had the pistol? That must mean you think he shot Billy Saunders?’
‘I doubt I’m alone in that.’
‘You’re not — doesn’t make it the truth, though.’
‘Is it the truth that’s needed here, or just a convincing story? My bet is any one of us would do as far as your friend Fox is concerned.’ Paterson paused. ‘That’s why we should offer him Frazer.’
‘The more you and Stefan try to use Frazer, the more I realise how much of a lie the Saints were. And here’s the thing — Frazer used to send titbits Albert Stout’s way, but never once did he give the press anything on you or Stefan or the rest of us. He went to his grave with whatever dirt on you he had, and now you’re offering
