Falls

  ‘Many thanks for coming along, Mr Winfield,’ he snapped. The young man almost leapt from his chair. The window was closed tight, the room stifling. Three chairs—two on one side of the narrow table, one on the other. Winfield had been facing those two empty chairs. Tape recorders and a video recorder were bolted to the wall where it met the table. There were scratched names on the table itself, evidence of time being whittled away by previous occupants called things like Shug, Jazz and Bomber. A No Smoking sign on the wall, defaced with ballpoint pen, and a video camera mounted where wall met ceiling, peering down on proceedings should anyone decide a video record was required.

  Rebus ensured his chair-legs made the maximum noise as he scraped them in towards the table. He’d thrown a bulky folder down: no names on it. Winfield seemed mesmerised. He couldn’t know it was full of blank sheets of paper borrowed from one of the photocopiers.

  Rebus rested his hand on the folder and smiled at Winfield.

  ‘It must have come as a terrible shock.’ A quiet voice, soothing, solicitous … Siobhan sat down beside her thuggish colleague. ‘I’m DC Clarke, by the way. This is DI Rebus.’

  ‘What?’ the young man said. Perspiration made his forehead shine. His short brown hair came to a widow’s peak. There was acne on his chin.

  ‘The news of Flip’s murder,’ Siobhan continued. ‘It must have been a shock.’

  'Y-es … absolutely.’ He sounded English, but Rebus knew he wasn’t. Private education south of the border had ironed out all trace of his Scottish roots. Father a businessman in Hong Kong until three years ago, divorced from the mother, who lived in Perthshire.

  'You knew her well then?’

  Winfield kept his eyes on Siobhan. ‘I suppose so. I mean, she was Camille’s friend really.’

  ‘Camille’s your girlfriend?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Foreign, is she?’ Rebus barked.

  ‘No … ’ The eyes strayed to Rebus, but only for a second. ‘No, she’s from Staffordshire.’

  ‘Like I said, foreign.’

  Siobhan glanced at Rebus, worried he was milking his role. As Winfield stared down at the table-top, Rebus gave Siobhan a wink of reassurance.

  ‘Hot in here, isn’t it, Albert?’ Siobhan paused. 'You don’t mind me calling you Albert?’

  ‘No … no, that’s fine.’ He glanced up at her again, but whenever he did his eyes were drawn towards her neighbour.

  ‘Would you like me to open a window?’

  ‘Wonderful, yes.’

  Siobhan looked at Rebus, who pushed his chair back with as much noise as possible. The windows were narrow, fixed high on the external wall. Rebus stood on tiptoe to open one of them, pulling it in three or four inches. The breeze swept over him.

  ‘Better?’ Siobhan asked.

  'Yes, thanks.’

  Rebus stayed standing, over to Winfield’s left. He folded his arms and rested against the wall, directly below the camera.

  ‘Just a few follow-up questions really,’ Siobhan was saying.

  ‘Right … fine.’ Winfield nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘So you wouldn’t say you knew Flip that well?’

  ‘We went out together … in a group, I mean. Dinner some- times …'

  ’At her flat?’

  ‘Once or twice. And at mine.’

  'You live down near the Botanics?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Nice part of town.’

  ‘It’s my father’s place.’

  ‘He lives there?’

  ‘No, he’s … I mean, he bought it for me.’

  Siobhan looked towards Rebus.

  ‘All right for some,’ he muttered, arms still folded.

  ‘I can’t help it if my father has money,’ Winfield complained.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ Siobhan agreed.

  ‘What about Flip’s boyfriend?’ Rebus asked.

  Winfield found himself looking at Rebus’s shoes. ‘David? What about him?’

  Rebus bent down, waved a hand in Winfield’s direction. ‘I’m up here, son.’ He straightened. Winfield held his gaze for all of three seconds.

  ‘Just wondering if you consider him a friend,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit awkward now … I mean, it was awkward. They kept splitting up, getting back together again … ’

  ‘And you took Flip’s side?’ Siobhan guessed.

  ‘I had to, what with Camille and everything … ’

  'You say they kept splitting up. Whose fault was it?’

  ‘I just think they had this personality clash … you know how opposites attract? Well, sometimes you get the inverse of that.’

  ‘I didn’t have the benefit of a university education, Mr Winfield,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe you could spell that out for me.’

  ‘I just mean that they were similar in lots of ways, and that made their relationship difficult.’

  ‘They argued?’

  ‘It was more that they couldn’t let an argument lie. There had to be a winner and a loser, no middle ground.’

  ‘Did these disagreements ever turn violent?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But David’s got a temper on him?’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘No more so than anyone else.’

  Rebus walked over to the table. It only took him a couple of steps. He leaned forward so that his shadow covered Winfield. ‘But you’ve seen him lose the rag?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No?’

  Siobhan cleared her throat, a sign that she thought Rebus had hit a wall. ‘Albert,’ she said, her voice like a balm, ‘did you know that Flip liked to play computer games?’

  ‘No,’ he said, looking surprised.

  ‘Do you play them?’

  ‘I used to play Doom in first year … maybe pinball in the student union.

  ‘Computer pinball?’

  ‘No, just pinball.’

  ‘Flip was playing a game online, a sort of variation on a treasure hunt.’ Siobhan unfolded a sheet of paper and slid it across the table. ‘Do these clues mean anything to you?’

  He read with a frown, then expelled some air. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  'You’re studying medicine, aren’t you?’ Rebus interrupted.

  ‘That’s right. I’m in my third year.’

  ‘I bet it’s hard work,’ Siobhan said, sliding the sheet of paper back towards her.

  'You wouldn’t believe it,’ Winfield laughed.

  ‘I think we might,’ Rebus said. ‘In our line of work, we see doctors all the time.’ Though some of us, he could have added, do our best to avoid them …

  ‘I’m assuming you know something of the carotid artery then?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘I know where it is,’ Winfield admitted, looking puzzled.

  ‘And what it does?’

  ‘It’s an artery in the neck. Actually, there are two of them.’

  ‘Carrying blood to the brain?’ Siobhan said.

  ‘I had to look it up in a dictionary,’ Rebus told Winfield. ‘It’s from the Greek, meaning sleep. Know why that is?’

  ‘Because compression of the carotid causes you to black out.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘That’s right, a deep sleep. And if you keep on pressing … '

  ‘Christ, is that how she died?’

  Siobhan shook her head. ‘We think she was rendered unconscious, then strangled afterwards.’

  In the silence that followed, Winfield looked wildly from one detective to the other. Then he started rising to his feet, fingers gripping the table’s edge.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you don’t think … ? For pity’s sake, you think it was me?’

  ‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered. In truth, Winfield hadn’t got very far up; it looked like his knees were refusing to lock.

  ‘We know it wasn’t you,’ Siobhan said firmly. The student fell back on to his chair, nearly toppling it.

  ‘We know it wasn’t you because you’ve got an alibi: you were with everyone else in the bar that nig
ht, waiting for Flip.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘that’s right.’

  ‘So you’ve nothing to worry about,’ Rebus said, backing off from the table. ‘Unless you know better.’

  'No, I …I'm …'

  ‘Anyone else in your group like to play games, Albert?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Nobody. I mean, Trist has a few games for his computer Tomb Raider, that sort of thing. But probably everyone does.’

  ‘Probably,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘No one else in your circle studies medicine?’

  Winfield shook his head, but Siobhan could see he was having a thought. ‘There’s Claire,’ he said. ‘Claire Benzie. I’ve only met her once or twice at parties, but she was a friend of Flip’s … from school days, I think.’

  ‘And she’s studying medicine?’

  'Yes.’

  ‘But you don’t really know her?’

  ‘She’s a year below me, and a different specialism. God, that’s right … , He looked up at Siobhan, then to Rebus. ‘Of all the bloody things, she wants to be a pathologist … ’

  'Yes, I know Claire,’ Dr Curt said, leading them down one of the corridors. They were in part of the medical faculty at the university, in a block behind McEwan Hall. Rebus had been here before: it was where both Curt and Gates had their teaching offices. But he’d never been to the lecture halls. Curt was leading them there now. Rebus had asked if he was feeling better. Gastric problems, Curt had explained. 'Very pleasant girl,’ he said now, ‘and a good student. I hope she stays with us.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She’s only in second year, she could yet change her mind.’

  ‘Are there many female pathologists?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Not many, no … not in this country.’

  ‘It’s a weird decision to take, isn’t it?’ Rebus said. ‘When you’re that young, I mean.’

  ‘Not really,’ Curt mused. ‘I was always one for dissecting the frogs at biology.’ He beamed a smile. ‘And I’d rather treat the deceased than the living: no anxious diagnoses, no expectant families, fewer negligence claims …’ He stopped at a set of doors and peered through the glass upper half. 'Yes, in here.’

  The lecture room was small and antiquated: wood veneer on the walls, curved wooden benches rising steeply. Curt checked his watch. ‘Only another minute or two.’

  Rebus peered inside. Someone he didn’t know was lecturing to a few dozen students. There were fresh diagrams on the blackboard, and a podium where the lecturer stood brushing chalk from his hands.

  ‘Not a cadaver on view,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘We tend to keep those for the practicals.’

  ‘Are you still having to use the Western General?’

  ‘We are, and it’s a blessed nuisance with the traffic.’

  The autopsy suite at the mortuary was out of commission. Fear of hepatitis allied to a ventilation system past its prime. No sign of funding for a new unit, which meant one of the city hospitals was bearing the brunt of the pathologists’ needs.

  ‘The human body is a fascinating machine,’ Curt was saying. 'You only really get a sense of that post mortem. A hospital surgeon will concentrate on one particular area of the body, but we have the luxury of unlimited access.’

  Siobhan’s look said she wished he’d stop being so remorselessly cheery on the subject. ‘It’s an old building,’ she remarked.

  ‘Not that old really, in the context of the university. The medical school was based at Old College in earlier times.’

  ‘That’s where they took Burke’s body?’ Rebus added.

  'Yes, after he was hanged. A tunnel led into Old College. The bodies were all brought in that way—by dead of night in some cases.’ He looked to Siobhan. ‘The Resurrection Men.’

  ‘Good name for a band.’

  He graced her flippancy with a scowl. ‘Body snatchers,’ he said.

  ‘And the skin was flayed from Burke’s body?’ Rebus went on.

  'You know a bit about it.’

  ‘I didn’t until recently. Does the tunnel still exist?’

  ‘Part of it.’

  ‘I’d be interested to see it sometime.’

  ‘Devlin’s your man.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Unofficial historian of the medical faculty’s early days. He’s written pamphlets on the subject … self-published, but pretty enlightening.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I know he knows a bit about Burke and Hare. He has a theory that Dr Kennet Lovell placed the coffins on Arthur’s Seat.’

  ‘Ah, the ones that’ve been in the papers of late?’ Curt frowned in thought. ‘Lovell? Well, who’s to say he isn’t right?’ He broke off and frowned again. ‘Funny you should mention Lovell actually.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Claire told me recently she’s descended from him.’ There was a sound of movement from inside. ‘Ah, Dr Easton’s finished. They’ll all filter out this way; we’d better stand back, lest we’re stampeded to death.’

  ‘They’re keen then?’ Siobhan said.

  ‘Keen to be back in the fresh air, yes.’

  Only a few of the students bothered to glance in their direction. Those who did seemed to know who Curt was, some acknowledging him with a bow, smile or word. Finally, with the hall three-quarters empty, Curt went up on to his toes.

  ‘Claire? Could you spare a minute?’

  She was tall and thin with short blonde hair and a long straight nose. Her eyes were an almost oriental shape, like tilted almonds. She carried two folders beneath one arm. There was a mobile phone in her hand. She’d been studying it on her way out of the lecture theatre: checking for messages perhaps. She came forwards with a smile.

  ‘Hello, Dr Curt.’ Her voice was almost playful.

  ‘Claire, these police officers would like a word.’

  ‘It’s about Flip, isn’t it?’ Her face had fallen, all humour lost to it, and the voice had taken on a sombre tone.

  Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘A few follow-up questions.’

  ‘I keep thinking maybe it wasn’t her, maybe there’s been a mistake .. .’ She looked to the pathologist. ‘Did you … ?’

  Curt shook his head, but it was less a denial than a refusal to answer the question. Rebus and Siobhan knew Curt had been one of the pathologists at the Philippa Balfour autopsy. The other had been Professor Gates.

  Claire Benzie knew it too. Her eyes were still on Dr Curt. ‘Have you ever had to … you know … on someone you knew?’

  Curt glanced in Rebus’s direction, and Rebus knew he was thinking of Conor Leary.

  ‘It’s not a necessity,’ Curt was explaining to his student. ‘Something like that happens, you can be excused on compassionate grounds.’

  ‘We’re allowed compassion then?’

  ‘The occasional handful, yes.’ This put the smile back on to her face, albeit fleetingly.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ she asked Siobhan.

  'You know we’re treating Flip’s death as homicide?’

  ‘That’s what the news said this morning.’

  ‘Well, we just need your help to clear up a few things.’

  'You can use my office,’ Curt said.

  As they walked, two by two, back down the corridor, Rebus watched Claire Benzie’s back. She was holding her folders in front of her, discussing her recent lecture with Dr Curt. Siobhan glanced at him and frowned, wondering what he was thinking. He shook his head: not important. But all the same, he thought Claire Benzie was interesting. The morning her friend’s murder is announced, and she’s able to attend a lecture, talk about it afterwards, even with two detectives right behind her …

  One explanation: displacement. She was pushing thoughts of Flip aside, replacing them with the routine. Keeping busy to keep from bursting into tears.

  Another: she was self-possession itself, Flip’s demise a minor intrusion in her universe.

  Rebus knew which version he preferred, but he wasn’t sure it was nece
ssarily the right one …

  Dr Curt shared a secretary with Professor Gates. They passed through the secretary’s office: two doors next to one another, Curt and Gates. Curt turned the doorhandle and ushered them inside.

  ‘I’ve got one or two things to do,’ he said. ‘Just close the door after you when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rebus said.

  But, having brought them here, Curt seemed suddenly reluctant to leave his student alone with the two detectives.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Dr Curt,’ Claire reassured him, as if she’d understood his hesitation. Curt nodded and left them. It was a cramped, airless room. A glass-fronted bookcase took up one whole wall. It was filled to overflowing. More books and documents covered every bit of shelf space, and while Rebus was sure there was a computer somewhere on the desk, he couldn’t place it: more documents, files and folders, learned journals, empty envelopes …

  ‘Doesn’t throw much out, does he?’ Claire Benzie said. ‘Ironic when you think what he does to a corpse.’

  The statement, so casually made, startled Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘God, sorry,’ Claire said, placing a hand over her mouth. ‘They should hand out diplomas in bad taste with this course.’

  Rebus was thinking of autopsies past: of innards tossed into pails, organs severed and placed on scales …

  Siobhan was resting against the desk. Claire had dropped into the visitor’s chair, which looked like a remnant from a 1970s dining-room suite. Rebus was left with standing in the middle of the floor or taking Curt’s chair. He opted for the latter.

  ‘So,’ Claire said, placing her folders on the floor by her feet, ‘what is it you want to know?’

  'You were at school with Flip?’

  ‘For a few years, yes.

  They’d already been through the notes from Claire Benzie’s first interview. Two of the Gayfleld Square contingent had talked to her, gleaning little.

  'You lost touch?’

  ‘Sort of.. . a few letters and e-mails. Then she started her history of art course and I found out I’d been accepted by Edinburgh.’