get the case only through the PPLC, which meant not without Rebus.
‘Maybe later, Derek,’ the Farmer was saying. ‘Nobody’s going to bother much about a mouldy old skeleton when we’ve got Roddy Grieve on our hands.’
‘It wasn’t that mouldy, sir,’ Rebus felt bound to say. ‘And it’ll still need investigating.’
‘Naturally,’ Watson snapped. ‘But there are priorities, John. Even you’ve got to see that.’ Watson held a hand out, palm upwards. ‘Hell, is it starting to snow?’
‘Might persuade some of the audience to head indoors,’ Rebus said.
The Farmer grunted in agreement. ‘Well, if it’s going to start snowing, Derek, you might as well show me this fireplace of yours.’
Derek Linford looked as though he’d melt with pleasure, and started leading the Farmer indoors, leaving Rebus out in the cold, where he allowed himself a cigarette and a little smile. Let Linford work on the Farmer . . . that waythey might get both cases, a workload to keep Rebus busy through the winter’s darkest weeks, and the perfect excuse to ignore Christmas for another year.
7
Identification was a formality, albeit a necessary one. The public entered the mortuary by a door in High School Wynd, and were immediately faced by a door marked Viewing Room. There were chairs for them to sit in. If they chose to wander, they’d come across a desk with a department store mannequin seated behind it. The mannequin was dressed in a white lab coat and had a moustache pencilled below its nose – a rare, if bizarre, example of humour, given the surroundings.
It would be some time before Gates and Curt could get round to doing an autopsy, but, as Dougie reassured Rebus, there was ‘plenty of room in the fridge’. There wasn’t nearly so much space in the reception area outside the Viewing Room. Roddy Grieve’s widow was there. So were his mother and sister. His brother Cammo was flying up from London. An unwritten rule stated that the media kept clear of the mortuary, no matter how juicy the story. But a few of the most rapacious vultures had gathered on the pavement across the road. Rebus, stepping outside for a cigarette, approached them. Two journalists, one photographer. They were young and lean and had little or no respect for old rules. They knew him, shuffled their feet but made no attempt to move.
‘I’m going to ask nicely,’ Rebus said, shaking a cigarette from its pack. He lit it, then offered the pack around. The three shook their heads. One was fiddling with his mobile phone, checking messages on its tiny screen.
‘Anything for us, DI Rebus?’ the other reporter asked.
Rebus stared at him, seeing immediately that it was no good appealing to reason.
‘Off the record, if you like,’ the reporter persisted.
‘I don’t mind being quoted,’ Rebus said quietly. The reporter lifted a tape-recorder from his jacket pocket.
‘Bit closer, please.’
The reporter obliged, switched the machine on.
Rebus was careful to enunciate slowly and clearly. After eight or nine words, the reporter flicked the machine off, the look on his face somewhere between a sneer and a grudging smile. Behind him, his colleagues were staring at their shoes.
‘Need a spell-check for any of that?’ Rebus asked. Then he crossed the road and headed back into the mortuary.
The ID was over, the paperwork complete. The family members looked numb. Even Linford looked a bit shaken: maybe it was another of his acts. Rebus approached the widow.
‘We can arrange for a couple of cars . . .’
She sniffed back tears. ‘No, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.’ She blinked, eyes finally focusing on him. ‘A taxi should be coming.’ The deceased’s sister came across, leaving her mother stony-faced and straight-backed on one of the chairs.
‘Mum has a funeral home she wants to use, if that’s all right with you.’ Lorna Cordover was speaking to the widow, but it was Rebus who answered.
‘You realise we can’t release the
‘Maybe later, Derek,’ the Farmer was saying. ‘Nobody’s going to bother much about a mouldy old skeleton when we’ve got Roddy Grieve on our hands.’
‘It wasn’t that mouldy, sir,’ Rebus felt bound to say. ‘And it’ll still need investigating.’
‘Naturally,’ Watson snapped. ‘But there are priorities, John. Even you’ve got to see that.’ Watson held a hand out, palm upwards. ‘Hell, is it starting to snow?’
‘Might persuade some of the audience to head indoors,’ Rebus said.
The Farmer grunted in agreement. ‘Well, if it’s going to start snowing, Derek, you might as well show me this fireplace of yours.’
Derek Linford looked as though he’d melt with pleasure, and started leading the Farmer indoors, leaving Rebus out in the cold, where he allowed himself a cigarette and a little smile. Let Linford work on the Farmer . . . that waythey might get both cases, a workload to keep Rebus busy through the winter’s darkest weeks, and the perfect excuse to ignore Christmas for another year.
7
Identification was a formality, albeit a necessary one. The public entered the mortuary by a door in High School Wynd, and were immediately faced by a door marked Viewing Room. There were chairs for them to sit in. If they chose to wander, they’d come across a desk with a department store mannequin seated behind it. The mannequin was dressed in a white lab coat and had a moustache pencilled below its nose – a rare, if bizarre, example of humour, given the surroundings.
It would be some time before Gates and Curt could get round to doing an autopsy, but, as Dougie reassured Rebus, there was ‘plenty of room in the fridge’. There wasn’t nearly so much space in the reception area outside the Viewing Room. Roddy Grieve’s widow was there. So were his mother and sister. His brother Cammo was flying up from London. An unwritten rule stated that the media kept clear of the mortuary, no matter how juicy the story. But a few of the most rapacious vultures had gathered on the pavement across the road. Rebus, stepping outside for a cigarette, approached them. Two journalists, one photographer. They were young and lean and had little or no respect for old rules. They knew him, shuffled their feet but made no attempt to move.
‘I’m going to ask nicely,’ Rebus said, shaking a cigarette from its pack. He lit it, then offered the pack around. The three shook their heads. One was fiddling with his mobile phone, checking messages on its tiny screen.
‘Anything for us, DI Rebus?’ the other reporter asked.
Rebus stared at him, seeing immediately that it was no good appealing to reason.
‘Off the record, if you like,’ the reporter persisted.
‘I don’t mind being quoted,’ Rebus said quietly. The reporter lifted a tape-recorder from his jacket pocket.
‘Bit closer, please.’
The reporter obliged, switched the machine on.
Rebus was careful to enunciate slowly and clearly. After eight or nine words, the reporter flicked the machine off, the look on his face somewhere between a sneer and a grudging smile. Behind him, his colleagues were staring at their shoes.
‘Need a spell-check for any of that?’ Rebus asked. Then he crossed the road and headed back into the mortuary.
The ID was over, the paperwork complete. The family members looked numb. Even Linford looked a bit shaken: maybe it was another of his acts. Rebus approached the widow.
‘We can arrange for a couple of cars . . .’
She sniffed back tears. ‘No, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.’ She blinked, eyes finally focusing on him. ‘A taxi should be coming.’ The deceased’s sister came across, leaving her mother stony-faced and straight-backed on one of the chairs.
‘Mum has a funeral home she wants to use, if that’s all right with you.’ Lorna Cordover was speaking to the widow, but it was Rebus who answered.
‘You realise we can’t release the
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