‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’
But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.
10
‘He what?’ Rebus said.
He was on the phone from St Leonard’s to Dr Curt at the university’s Pathology Department. They kept Curt and his colleagues busy, no mistake about that. On top of police work, Curt had a full teaching load in the Faculty of Medicine, and did crossover lectures to law students too.
But then Curt had an advantage over mere mortals: he never slept. You could call him out at any hour, and he was always alert. You could catch him in his office at eight in the morning.
It was actually eight-fifteen, and Rebus was nursing a large black decaf coffee from the early-opening deli on the Pleasance.
‘Morning deafness, John?’ Dr Curt said. ‘I repeat, he was dying anyway.’
‘Dying how?’
‘Great big bloody tumours. Pancreas and large colon to start with. The man must have been in agony. I’m willing to bet the toxicology tests show the presence of powerful painkillers.’
‘You mean he was out of his box?’
‘He’d have to be to stand the pain.’
Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Haven’t you heard of voluntary euthanasia, self-inflicted in this case?’
‘Yes, but with a sawn-off shotgun?’
‘Well, that’s not my department. I can give you effect, not cause.’
Rebus terminated the call and went to see his chief inspector.
Gill Templer had made more changes to Lauderdale’s office. She’d brought in a few framed photographs of nieces and nephews, and a thriving yucca plant had appeared. There were also a couple of cards wishing her well in her new job.
‘I hear you were at that suicide last night,’ she said, motioning for him to sit.
He nodded distractedly. ‘There’s something not right about it.’
‘Oh?’
So he set out what he knew. Gill Templer listened with her chin resting on both hands, a gesture he knew of old. He recognised the perfume she was wearing, too.
‘Hmm,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘a lot of questions. But are they any of our concern?’
He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Give me a day or two, I might have an answer.’
‘Those two lads on the bridge,’ she said. ‘Another suicide, another connection with the district council.’
‘I know. It could just be coincidence.’
‘I don’t see how it could be anything else. OK, take a day or two, see what you come up with. But report back to me regularly — at least a couple of times a day.’
Rebus stood up. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re already managing to sound like a chief inspector.’
‘John,’ she said warningly, ‘remember what I said.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?’
Gill Templer shook her head. She was already getting down to some paperwork.
Rebus left her office — it was hers now, no doubt about it — and walked straight into Siobhan Clarke.
‘Any news on Paul Duggan?’
‘He’s coming in for a chat this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘Need me along?’
She shook her head. ‘Brian and me have perfected our Jekyll and Hyde routine.’
‘Which one of you plays Hyde?’
She ignored this. ‘So what are you up to today?’
It was a good question. Rebus formed his answer. ‘Chasing ghosts,’ he said, making for his desk.
He phoned Tresa McAnally. She’d identified her husband’s clothes, and had been able to identify his body, albeit with the face discreetly covered. Now all that was left for her were the funeral arrangements.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Rebus said, after introducing himself.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just wondered how you were coping.’
‘Oh aye?’ He should’ve known she wouldn’t fall for that sort of patter.
‘You knew your husband was ill, Mrs McAnally?’
‘He told me he was.’
‘Seriously ill though?’
‘He never really said.’
‘Well, what did he tell you was wrong with him?’
‘Where do you want me to start? High blood pressure, kidney stones, ulcers, a heart murmur, emphysema … see, Wee Shug was a bit of a hypochondriac.’
‘But he was ill; he was on medication.’
‘You know what doctors are like, they’ll hand you a placebo and kiss you goodbye. I’ve read the stories, I know what goes on.’ She paused. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the point asking about his health now?’
‘Well, I’ve reason to believe your husband was seriously ill. Terminally ill, Mrs McAnally.’
‘I should’ve guessed,’ she said finally, her tone chastened. ‘He was different when he came out this time, quieter like. Was it the big C?’
‘Yes.’
‘Used to smoke rollies. I always told him, that’s the way my own mother went.’ Another pause as she dragged on her filter-tip. ‘Is that why he did himself in?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Makes sense, eh? Poor wee bugger.’
Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Mrs McAnally, have you any idea where he could have got the gun?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What’s the difference where he got it? He only hurt himself.’
Thinking back to Councillor Gillespie and Miss Profitt, Rebus wondered about that. It seemed to him that Wee Shug McAnally had managed to hurt a lot of people … which brought him to thoughts of Maisie Finch.
‘The funeral’s next Tuesday, Inspector. You’d be welcome at the house.’
‘Thanks, Mrs McAnally. I’ll do my best.’
The sun was out, bathing the tired buildings in dazzling light. Edinburgh’s architecture was best suited to winter, to sharp, cold light. You got the feeling of being a long way north of anywhere, some place reserved for only the hardiest and most foolhardy.
Rebus was glad to be out of the office. He knew he worked best on the street. Besides, the office was a battleground. He knew Flower would already be plotting against Gill Templer, marshalling his forces, waiting for her defences to slip. But she was tough — the way she was handling Rebus was proof of that. He knew she would keep him at arm’s length and beyond. She was right, he did have a bad reputation. She wouldn’t want any of his failures to rub off on her. So what if they’d known one another, had been an item? She was right — it was a long time ago. Now they were colleagues; more than that, she was his acting superior. He hadn’t known many women make chief inspector. Good luck to her.
He drove past the Infirmary, chiding himself for not stopping to visit Lauderdale, and headed for Tollcross. He
