The Falls (29 page)

Outside, he tried Siobhan’s mobile, but got a recording saying his call couldn’t be connected. There was a ticket on his car, no sign of the warden. They were known around town as ‘Blue Meanies’ because of their uniform. Rebus, probably the only person who’d seen
Yellow Submarine
in the cinema without benefit of drugs, appreciated the name, but cursed the ticket anyway, stuffing it in his glove compartment. He smoked a cigarette on the crawl back to St Leonard’s. So many of the streets now, you couldn’t go the way you wanted. Unable to take a left on to Princes Street, and with traffic stalled at Waverley Bridge due to roadworks, he ended up taking The Mound, turning off down Market Street. He had Janis Joplin on the stereo, ‘Buried Alive in the Blues’. Had to be better than a living death on Edinburgh’s roads.

Back at the office, Ellen Wylie looked like she could sing some blues of her own.

‘Fancy a little trip?’ Rebus asked.

She perked up. ‘Where?’

‘Professor Devlin, you’re invited too.’

‘Sounds most intriguing.’ He wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, but a V-neck jumper, sagging beneath the arms but too short at the back. ‘Would this be some sort of mystery tour?’

‘Not exactly. We’re visiting a funeral parlour.’

Wylie stared at him. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

But Rebus shook his head, pointing towards the coffins arranged on his desk. ‘If you want an expert opinion,’ he said, ‘you need to ask an expert.’

‘Self-evidently,’ Devlin agreed.

The undertaker’s was a short walk from St Leonard’s. Last time Rebus had been in a funeral parlour was when his father had died. He’d walked forward, touched the old man’s forehead, the way his father had taught him when his mother had died:
if you touch them, Johnny, you’ll never need fear the dead
. Somewhere in the city, Conor Leary was settling into his own box. Death and taxes: shared by everyone. But Rebus had known some criminals who’d never paid a bawbee’s tax in their life. It didn’t matter: when the time was right, their box was still waiting.

Jean Burchill was already there. She rose from the chair in the reception area, as if glad of some company. The mood was sombre, despite the sprays of fresh-cut flowers. Idly, Rebus wondered if they got a discount from whoever did their wreaths. The walls were wood-panelled, and there was a faint smell of furniture polish. The brass doorhandles gleamed. Underfoot, the floor was tiled with marble, black and white squares like a chessboard. Rebus made the introductions. While shaking Jean’s hand, Devlin asked, ‘And what is it exactly that you curate?’

‘Nineteenth-century,’ she explained. ‘Belief systems, social concerns …’

‘Ms Burchill is helping us form a historical perspective,’ Rebus said.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Devlin looked to her for help.

‘I put together the display of the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

Devlin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, but how fascinating! And there may be some correlation with the current spate?’

‘I’m not sure you could call it a “spate”,’ Ellen Wylie argued. ‘Five coffins over a thirty-year period.’

Devlin seemed taken aback. Perhaps he wasn’t often pulled up for his vocabulary. He gave Wylie a look, then turned to Rebus. ‘But
is
there some historical connection?’

‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.’

The inner door opened and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, dressed in dark suit, crisp white shirt, and grey shimmering tie. His hair was short and silver, his face long and pale.

‘Mr Hodges?’ Rebus asked. The man acknowledged as much with a bow. Rebus shook his hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ Rebus introduced the others.

‘It was,’ Mr Hodges said in a near-whisper, ‘one of the more remarkable requests I’ve received. However, Mr Patullo is waiting for you in my office. Would you care for any tea?’

Rebus assured him they’d be fine, and asked if Hodges would lead the way.

‘As I explained on the phone, Inspector, these days the majority of coffins are made along what could be described as an assembly-line process. Mr Patullo is that rare woodworker who will still produce a casket to order. We’ve been using his services for years, certainly for as long as I’ve been with the firm.’ The hall they trooped along was wood-panelled like the reception area, but with no exterior lighting. Hodges opened a door and ushered them inside. The office was spacious, completely lacking in clutter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected: displays of bereavement cards, brochures for coffins maybe. But the only clue that this office belonged to an undertaker was the very lack of any outward clues. It went beyond discretion. The clients who came in here didn’t want reminding of the visit’s purpose, and Rebus didn’t suppose it made the undertaker’s job any easier if people were bursting into tears every two minutes.

‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Hodges said, closing the door. He’d arranged enough seats for them, but Patullo was standing beside the opaque window. He carried a flat tweed cap, the brim of which he worried between the fingers of both hands. The fingers themselves were gnarled, the skin like parchment. Rebus reckoned Patullo had to be in his mid-seventies. He still had a good head of thick silver hair, and his eyes were clear, if wary. But he held himself with a stoop, and his hand trembled when Rebus made to shake it.

‘Mr Patullo,’ he said, ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to meet us.’

Patullo shrugged, and Rebus made one more round of introductions before telling everyone to sit down. He had the coffins in a carrier bag, and brought them out now, laying them on the unblemished surface of Mr Hodges’s desk. There were four of them – Perth, Nairn, Glasgow, plus the more recent one from Falls.

‘I’d like you to take a look, please,’ Rebus said, ‘and tell us what you see.’

‘I see some wee coffins.’ Patullo’s voice was hoarse.

‘I meant in terms of craftsmanship.’

Patullo reached into his pocket for his glasses, then got up and stood in front of the display.

‘Pick them up if you like,’ Rebus said. Patullo did so, examining the lids and the dolls, peering closely at the nails.

‘Carpet tacks and small wood nails,’ he commented. ‘The joints are a bit rough, but working to this scale …’

‘What?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t expect to see anything as detailed as a dovetail.’ He went back to his examination. ‘You want to know if a coffin-maker made these?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t think so. There’s a bit of skill here, but not that much. The proportions are wrong, the shape’s too much of a diamond.’ He turned each coffin over to examine its underside. ‘See the pencil marks here where he made his outline?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He measured up, then he cut with a saw. Didn’t do any planing, just some sandpaper.’ He looked at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘You want to know if they’re all by the same hand?’

Again, Rebus nodded.

‘This one’s a bit cruder,’ Patullo said, holding up the Glasgow coffin. ‘Different wood, too. The rest are pine, this is balsa. But the joints are the same, as are the measurements.’

‘So you think it’s the same person?’

‘As long as my life didn’t depend on it.’ Patullo picked up another coffin. ‘Now this one, the proportions are different. Joints aren’t so tidy. Either a rushed job, or my guess would be it’s by someone else.’

Rebus looked at the coffin. It was the one from Falls.

‘So we’ve got two different people responsible?’ Wylie said. When Patullo nodded, she blew air from her mouth and rolled her eyes. Two culprits made for twice the work, and halved the chance of getting a result.

‘A copycat?’ Rebus guessed.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Patullo admitted.

‘Which brings us to …’ Jean Burchill dipped a hand into her shoulder-bag, produced a box, which she opened. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was one of the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Rebus had asked her to bring it, and she made eye contact with him now, letting him know what she’d already told him in the café: that she was putting her job on the line. If it was discovered that she’d sneaked an artefact out of the Museum, or if anything happened to it … she’d be dismissed on the spot. Rebus nodded his head, letting her know he understood. She got up and placed the coffin on the desk.

‘It’s rather delicate,’ she told Patullo. Devlin, too, had risen to his feet, and Wylie wanted a better look also.

‘My goodness,’ Devlin gasped, ‘is that what I think it is?’

Jean just nodded. Patullo didn’t pick the coffin up, but bent down so his eyes were close to the level of the desk.

‘What we’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘is whether you think the coffins you’ve just looked at could be modelled on this.’

Patullo rubbed his cheek. ‘This is a much more basic design. Still well made, but the sides are a lot straighter. It’s not the casket shape we’d recognise today. The lid has been decorated with iron studs.’ He rubbed his cheek again, then straightened up, gripping the edge of the desk for support. ‘They’re not copies of it. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’

‘I’ve never seen one outside the Museum,’ Devlin said, shuffling forward so he could take Patullo’s place. He beamed at Jean Burchill. ‘You know, I have a theory as to who made them.’

Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

Devlin turned his attention to Rebus. ‘You remember that portrait I showed you? Dr Kennet Lovell?’ When Rebus nodded, Devlin turned back to Jean. ‘He was the anatomist who carried out Burke’s autopsy. Afterwards, I think he carried a weight of guilt over the whole affair.’

Jean was interested. ‘Had he been buying corpses from Burke?’

Devlin shook his head. ‘There’s no historical indication that such was the case. But like many an anatomist of the day, he probably bought his share of bodies without asking too many questions as to provenance. The thing is,’ Devlin licked his lips, ‘our Dr Lovell was also interested in carpentry.’

‘Professor Devlin,’ Rebus told Jean, ‘owns a table he made.’

‘Lovell was a good man,’ Devlin was saying, ‘and a good Christian.’

‘He left them to commemorate the dead?’ Jean asked.

Devlin shrugged, glanced around. ‘I’ve no evidence, of course …’ His voice tailed off, as though he realised his animation maybe looked foolish.

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Jean conceded, but Devlin only shrugged again, as though realising he was being patronised.

‘Like I say, it’s well enough made,’ Patullo commented.

‘There are other theories,’ Jean said. ‘Maybe witches or sailors made the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

Patullo nodded. ‘Sailors used to be good woodworkers. In some cases it was a necessity, for others it passed a long voyage.’

‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘thanks again for your time, Mr Patullo. Can we get someone to drive you home?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

They said their goodbyes, and Rebus directed his party to the Metropole café, where they ordered coffees and squeezed into one of the booths.

‘One step forward, two steps back,’ Wylie said.

‘How do you reckon?’ Rebus asked.

‘If there’s no connection between the other coffins and the one at Falls, we’re chasing a wild goose.’

‘I don’t see that,’ Jean Burchill interrupted. ‘I mean, maybe I’m speaking out of turn here, but it seems to me whoever left that coffin at Falls had to get the idea from somewhere.’

‘Agreed,’ Wylie said, ‘but it’s far more likely they got it from a trip to the Museum, wouldn’t you say?’

Rebus was looking at Wylie. ‘You’re saying we should ditch the four previous cases?’

‘I’m saying their only relevance here is if they connect to the Falls coffin, always supposing
it
has anything to do with the Balfour disappearance. And we can’t even be sure of
that
.’ Rebus started to say something, but she hadn’t finished. ‘If we go to DCS Templer with this – as we should – she’ll say the same thing I’m saying now. We’re getting further and further away from the Balfour case.’ She raised her cup to her lips and sipped.

Rebus turned to Devlin, who was sitting next to him. ‘What do you think, Professor?’

‘I’m forced to agree, reluctant though I am to be cast back into the darkness of an old man’s retirement.’

‘There was nothing in the autopsy notes?’

‘Nothing as yet. It looks very much as if both women were alive when they went into the water. Both bodies sustained some injuries, but that’s not so unusual. The river would have rocks in it, so that the victim may have hit her head when falling. As to the victim in Nairn, the tides and sealife can do terrible things to a body, especially one that’s been in the water for some time. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

‘Everything’s useful,’ Jean Burchill said. ‘If it doesn’t rule something in, it can help rule other things out.’

She looked to Rebus, hoping he might smile at hearing his own words paraphrased, but his mind was elsewhere. He was worried Wylie was right. Four coffins left by the same person, one by someone completely different, no connection between the two. The problem was, he felt there
was
a connection. But it wasn’t something he could make someone like Wylie comprehend. There were times when instinct had to take over, no matter what the protocol. Rebus felt this was one of those times, but doubted Wylie would go along with it.

And he couldn’t blame her for that.

‘Maybe if you could give the notes a final look,’ he asked Devlin.

‘Gladly,’ the old man said, bowing his head.

‘And talk to the pathologists from either case. Sometimes they remember things …’

‘Absolutely.’

Rebus turned his attention to Ellen Wylie. ‘Maybe you should make your report to DCS Templer. Tell her what we’ve done. I’m sure there’s work for you on the main investigation.’

She straightened her back. ‘Meaning you’re not giving up?’

Rebus gave a tired smile. ‘I’m close to. Just a couple more days.’

‘To do what exactly?’

‘Convince myself it’s a dead end.’

The way Jean looked at him across the table, he knew she wanted to offer him something, some form of comfort: a squeeze of the hand maybe, or a few well-intentioned words. He was glad there were other people present, making the gesture impossible. Otherwise he might have blurted something out, something about comfort being the last thing he needed.