condition to ask questions, so he made his way back to the Farmer instead, where he spoke a few words. Farmer Watson glanced across to Rebus, then nodded to Kilpatrick. Then they turned their attention back to the press briefing.
Rebus knew the reporters. They were old hands mostly, and knew what to expect from Chief Inspector Lauderdale. You might walk into a Lauderdale session sniffing and baying like a bloodhound, but you shuffled out like a sleepy-faced pup. So they stayed quiet mostly, and let him have his insubstantial say.
Except for Mairie Henderson. She was down at the front, asking questions the others weren’t bothering to ask; weren’t bothering for the simple reason that they knew the answer the Chief Inspector would give.
‘No comment,’ he told Mairie for about the twentieth time. She gave up and slumped in her chair. Someone else asked a question, so she looked around, surveying the room. Rebus jerked his chin in greeting. Mairie glared and stuck her tongue out at him. A few of the other journalists looked around in his direction. Rebus smiled out their inquisitive stares.
The briefing over, Mairie caught up with him in the corridor. She was carrying a legal notepad, her usual blue fineliner pen, and a recording walkman.
‘Thanks for your help the other night,’ she said.
‘No comment.’
She knew it was a waste of time getting angry at John Rebus, so exhaled noisily instead. ‘I was first on the scene, I could have had a scoop.’
‘Come to the pub with me and you can have as many scoops as you like.’
‘That one’s so weak it’s got holes in its knees.’ She turned and walked off, Rebus watching her. He never liked to pass up the opportunity of looking at her legs.
6
Edinburgh City Mortuary was sited on the Cowgate, at the bottom of High School Wynd and facing St Ann’s Community Centre and Blackfriars Street. The building was low-built red brick and pebbledash, purposely anonymous and tucked in an out of the way place. Steep sloping roads led up towards the High Street. For a long time now, the Cowgate had been a thoroughfare for traffic, not pedestrians. It was narrow and deep like a canyon, its pavements offering scant shelter from the taxis and cars rumbling past. The place was not for the faint-hearted. Society’s underclass could be found there, when it wasn’t yet time to shuffle back to the hostel.
But the street was undergoing redevelopment, including a court annexe. First they’d cleaned up the Grassmarket, and now the city fathers had the Cowgate in their sights.
Rebus waited outside the mortuary for a couple of minutes, until a woman poked her head out of the door.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He told me to tell you he’s already gone to Bannerman’s.’
‘Thanks.’ Rebus headed off towards the pub.
Bannerman’s had been just cellarage at one time, and hadn’t been altered much since. Its vaulted rooms were unnervingly like those of the shops in Mary King’s Close. Cellars like these formed connecting burrows beneath the Old Town, worming from the Lawnmarket down to the Canongate and beyond. The bar wasn’t busy yet, and Dr Curt was sitting by the window, his beer glass resting on a barrel which served as table. Somehow, he’d found one of the few comfortable chairs in the place. It looked like a minor nobleman’s perch, with armrests and high back. Rebus bought a double whisky for himself, dragged over a stool, and sat down.
‘Your health, John.’
‘And yours.’
‘So what can I do for you?’
Even in a pub, Rebus would swear he could smell soap and surgical alcohol wafting up from Curt’s hands. He took a swallow of whisky. Curt frowned.
‘Looks like I might be examining your liver sooner than I’d hoped.’
Rebus nodded towards the pack of cigarettes on the table. They were Curt’s and they were untipped. ‘Not if you keep smoking those.’
Dr Curt smiled. He hadn’t long taken up smoking, having decided to see
Rebus knew the reporters. They were old hands mostly, and knew what to expect from Chief Inspector Lauderdale. You might walk into a Lauderdale session sniffing and baying like a bloodhound, but you shuffled out like a sleepy-faced pup. So they stayed quiet mostly, and let him have his insubstantial say.
Except for Mairie Henderson. She was down at the front, asking questions the others weren’t bothering to ask; weren’t bothering for the simple reason that they knew the answer the Chief Inspector would give.
‘No comment,’ he told Mairie for about the twentieth time. She gave up and slumped in her chair. Someone else asked a question, so she looked around, surveying the room. Rebus jerked his chin in greeting. Mairie glared and stuck her tongue out at him. A few of the other journalists looked around in his direction. Rebus smiled out their inquisitive stares.
The briefing over, Mairie caught up with him in the corridor. She was carrying a legal notepad, her usual blue fineliner pen, and a recording walkman.
‘Thanks for your help the other night,’ she said.
‘No comment.’
She knew it was a waste of time getting angry at John Rebus, so exhaled noisily instead. ‘I was first on the scene, I could have had a scoop.’
‘Come to the pub with me and you can have as many scoops as you like.’
‘That one’s so weak it’s got holes in its knees.’ She turned and walked off, Rebus watching her. He never liked to pass up the opportunity of looking at her legs.
6
Edinburgh City Mortuary was sited on the Cowgate, at the bottom of High School Wynd and facing St Ann’s Community Centre and Blackfriars Street. The building was low-built red brick and pebbledash, purposely anonymous and tucked in an out of the way place. Steep sloping roads led up towards the High Street. For a long time now, the Cowgate had been a thoroughfare for traffic, not pedestrians. It was narrow and deep like a canyon, its pavements offering scant shelter from the taxis and cars rumbling past. The place was not for the faint-hearted. Society’s underclass could be found there, when it wasn’t yet time to shuffle back to the hostel.
But the street was undergoing redevelopment, including a court annexe. First they’d cleaned up the Grassmarket, and now the city fathers had the Cowgate in their sights.
Rebus waited outside the mortuary for a couple of minutes, until a woman poked her head out of the door.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He told me to tell you he’s already gone to Bannerman’s.’
‘Thanks.’ Rebus headed off towards the pub.
Bannerman’s had been just cellarage at one time, and hadn’t been altered much since. Its vaulted rooms were unnervingly like those of the shops in Mary King’s Close. Cellars like these formed connecting burrows beneath the Old Town, worming from the Lawnmarket down to the Canongate and beyond. The bar wasn’t busy yet, and Dr Curt was sitting by the window, his beer glass resting on a barrel which served as table. Somehow, he’d found one of the few comfortable chairs in the place. It looked like a minor nobleman’s perch, with armrests and high back. Rebus bought a double whisky for himself, dragged over a stool, and sat down.
‘Your health, John.’
‘And yours.’
‘So what can I do for you?’
Even in a pub, Rebus would swear he could smell soap and surgical alcohol wafting up from Curt’s hands. He took a swallow of whisky. Curt frowned.
‘Looks like I might be examining your liver sooner than I’d hoped.’
Rebus nodded towards the pack of cigarettes on the table. They were Curt’s and they were untipped. ‘Not if you keep smoking those.’
Dr Curt smiled. He hadn’t long taken up smoking, having decided to see
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