just how indestructible he was. He wouldn’t call it a death wish exactly; it was merely an exercise in mortality.
‘How long have you and Ms Rattray been an item then?’
Curt laughed. ‘Dear God, is that why I’m here? You want to ask me about Caroline?’
‘Just making conversation. She’s not bad though.’
‘Oh, she’s quite something.’ Curt lit a cigarette and inhaled, nodding to himself. ‘Quite something,’ he repeated through a cloud of smoke.
‘We may have a name for the victim in Mary King’s Close. It’s up to fingerprints now.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Not just to discuss Caro?’
‘I want to talk about guns.’
‘I’m no expert on guns.’
‘Good. I’m not after an expert, I’m after someone I can talk to. Have you seen the ballistics report?’ Curt shook his head. ‘We’re looking at something like a Smith and Wesson model 547, going by the rifling marks – five grooves, right-hand twist. It’s a revolver, takes six rounds of nine millimetre parabellum.’
‘You’ve lost me already.’
‘Probably the version with the three-inch rather than four-inch barrel, which means a weight of thirty-two ounces.’ Rebus sipped his drink. There were whisky fumes in his nostrils now, blocking any other smells. ‘Revolvers don’t accept silencers.’
‘Ah.’ Curt nodded. ‘I begin to see some light.’
‘A confined space like that, shaped the way it was …’ Rebus nodded past the bar to the room beyond. ‘Much the same size and shape as this.’
‘It would have been loud.’
‘Bloody loud. Deafening, you might say.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering how professional all of this really was. I mean, on the surface, if you look at the style of execution, then yes, it was a pro job, no question. But then things start to niggle.’
Curt considered. ‘So what now? Do we scour the city for recent purchasers of hearing-aids?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It’s a thought.’
‘All I can tell you, John, is that those bullets did damage. Whether meant to or not, they were messy. Now, we’ve both come up against messy killers before. Usually the facts of the mess make it easier to find them. But this time there doesn’t seem to be much evidence left lying around, apart from the bullets.’
‘I know.’
Curt slapped his hand on the barrel. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a suggestion.’
‘What is it?’
He leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. ‘Let me give you Caroline Rattray’s phone number.’
‘Bugger off,’ said Rebus.
That evening, a marked patrol car picked him up from Patience’s Oxford Terrace flat. The driver was a Detective Constable called Robert Burns, and Burns was doing Rebus a favour.
‘I appreciate it,’ said Rebus.
Though Burns was attached to C Division in the west end, he’d been born and raised in Pilmuir, and still had friends and enemies there. He was a known quantity in the Gar-B, which was what mattered to Rebus.
‘I was born in one of the pre-fabs,’ Burns explained. ‘Before they levelled them to make way for the high-rises. The high-rises were supposed to more “civilised”, if you can believe that. Bloody architects and town planners. You never find one admitting he made a mistake, do you?’ He smiled. ‘They’re a bit like us that way.’
‘By “us” do you mean the police or the Wee Frees?’ Burns was more than just a member of the Free Church of Scotland. On Sunday afternoons he took his religion to the foot of The Mound, where he spouted hellfire and brimstone to anyone who’d listen. Rebus had listened a few times. But Burns took a break during the Festival. As he’d pointed out, even his voice would be fighting a losing battle against steel bands and untuned guitars.
They were turning into the Gar-B, passing the gable end again with its sinister greeting.
‘Drop me as close as you can, eh?’
‘Sure,’ said Burns. And when they came to the dead end near the
‘How long have you and Ms Rattray been an item then?’
Curt laughed. ‘Dear God, is that why I’m here? You want to ask me about Caroline?’
‘Just making conversation. She’s not bad though.’
‘Oh, she’s quite something.’ Curt lit a cigarette and inhaled, nodding to himself. ‘Quite something,’ he repeated through a cloud of smoke.
‘We may have a name for the victim in Mary King’s Close. It’s up to fingerprints now.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Not just to discuss Caro?’
‘I want to talk about guns.’
‘I’m no expert on guns.’
‘Good. I’m not after an expert, I’m after someone I can talk to. Have you seen the ballistics report?’ Curt shook his head. ‘We’re looking at something like a Smith and Wesson model 547, going by the rifling marks – five grooves, right-hand twist. It’s a revolver, takes six rounds of nine millimetre parabellum.’
‘You’ve lost me already.’
‘Probably the version with the three-inch rather than four-inch barrel, which means a weight of thirty-two ounces.’ Rebus sipped his drink. There were whisky fumes in his nostrils now, blocking any other smells. ‘Revolvers don’t accept silencers.’
‘Ah.’ Curt nodded. ‘I begin to see some light.’
‘A confined space like that, shaped the way it was …’ Rebus nodded past the bar to the room beyond. ‘Much the same size and shape as this.’
‘It would have been loud.’
‘Bloody loud. Deafening, you might say.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering how professional all of this really was. I mean, on the surface, if you look at the style of execution, then yes, it was a pro job, no question. But then things start to niggle.’
Curt considered. ‘So what now? Do we scour the city for recent purchasers of hearing-aids?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It’s a thought.’
‘All I can tell you, John, is that those bullets did damage. Whether meant to or not, they were messy. Now, we’ve both come up against messy killers before. Usually the facts of the mess make it easier to find them. But this time there doesn’t seem to be much evidence left lying around, apart from the bullets.’
‘I know.’
Curt slapped his hand on the barrel. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a suggestion.’
‘What is it?’
He leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. ‘Let me give you Caroline Rattray’s phone number.’
‘Bugger off,’ said Rebus.
That evening, a marked patrol car picked him up from Patience’s Oxford Terrace flat. The driver was a Detective Constable called Robert Burns, and Burns was doing Rebus a favour.
‘I appreciate it,’ said Rebus.
Though Burns was attached to C Division in the west end, he’d been born and raised in Pilmuir, and still had friends and enemies there. He was a known quantity in the Gar-B, which was what mattered to Rebus.
‘I was born in one of the pre-fabs,’ Burns explained. ‘Before they levelled them to make way for the high-rises. The high-rises were supposed to more “civilised”, if you can believe that. Bloody architects and town planners. You never find one admitting he made a mistake, do you?’ He smiled. ‘They’re a bit like us that way.’
‘By “us” do you mean the police or the Wee Frees?’ Burns was more than just a member of the Free Church of Scotland. On Sunday afternoons he took his religion to the foot of The Mound, where he spouted hellfire and brimstone to anyone who’d listen. Rebus had listened a few times. But Burns took a break during the Festival. As he’d pointed out, even his voice would be fighting a losing battle against steel bands and untuned guitars.
They were turning into the Gar-B, passing the gable end again with its sinister greeting.
‘Drop me as close as you can, eh?’
‘Sure,’ said Burns. And when they came to the dead end near the
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