‘Nothing in writing?’ Siobhan repeated.
‘You were here when the skeletons were found?’ Judith Lennox asked.
Siobhan tried to ignore her, focused on Mangold instead. ‘You’re trying to tell me...’
‘It was Mag Lennox, wasn’t it? It was her skeleton you found.’
Siobhan stared at the woman. ‘What makes you say that?’
Judith Lennox squeezed shut her eyes. ‘I had a premonition. I’d been trying to arrange tours of the medical faculty... they wouldn’t let me. Wouldn’t even let me see the skeleton...’ Her eyes burned with zeal. ‘I’m her descendant, you know.’
‘Are you?’
‘She laid a curse on this country, and on anyone who would do her harm or mischief.’ Lennox nodded to herself.
Siobhan thought of Cater and McAteer: not much sign of any curse befalling them. She thought of saying as much, but remembered her promise to Curt.
‘All I know is, the skeletons were fake,’ Siobhan stressed.
‘My point exactly,’ Mangold broke in. ‘So why are you so bloody interested?’
‘It would be nice to have an explanation,’ Siobhan said quietly. She thought back to the scene in the cellar, the way her whole body had contracted at the sight of the infant... placing her coat gently over the bones.
‘They found skeletons in the grounds of Holyrood,’ Lennox was saying. ‘Those were real enough. And a coven in Gilmerton.’
Siobhan knew of the ‘coven’: a series of chambers buried beneath a bookmaker’s shop. But last she’d heard, it had been proven to belong to a blacksmith. Not a view she guessed would be shared by the historian.
‘And that’s as much as you can tell me?’ she asked Mangold instead.
He opened his arms again, gold bracelets sliding over his wrists.
‘In which case,’ said Siobhan, ‘I’ll let you get back to work. It was nice to meet you, Miss Lennox.’
‘And you,’ the historian said. She pushed a palm forwards. Siobhan took a step back. Lennox had her eyes closed again, lashes fluttering. ‘Make use of that energy. It is replenishable.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
Lennox opened her eyes, focusing on Siobhan. ‘We give some of our life force to our children. They are the true replenishment...’
The look Mangold gave Siobhan was mostly apologetic, partly self-pitying: his time with Judith Lennox, after all, still had a ways to run...
Rebus had never seen children in a mortuary before, and the sight offended him. This was a place for professionals, for adults, for the widowed. It was a place for unwelcome truths about the human body. It was the antithesis of childhood.
Then again, what was childhood to the Yurgii children but confusion and desperation?
Which didn’t stop Rebus pinning one of the guards to the wall. Not physically, of course, not using his hands. But by dint of placing himself at an intimidating proximity to the man and then inching forward, until the guard had his back to the wall of the waiting area.
‘You brought kids here?’ Rebus spat.
The guard was young; his ill-fitting uniform offered no protection against someone like Rebus. ‘They wouldn’t stay,’ he stammered. ‘Bawling and grabbing on to her...’ Rebus had turned his head to look at where the seated mother was folding the children in towards her, showing no interest in this scene, and in turn being embraced by her friend in the headscarf, the one from Whitemire. The boy, however, was watching intently. ‘Mr Traynor thought it best to let them come.’
‘They could have stayed in the van.’ Rebus had seen it outside: custodial blue with bars on its windows, a toughened grille between the front seats and the benches in the back.
‘Not without their mum...’
The door was opening, a second guard entering. This man was the elder. He held a clipboard. Behind him came the white-coated figure of Bill Ness, who ran the mortuary. Ness was in his fifties, with Buddy Holly glasses. As ever, he was chewing a piece of gum. He went over to the family and offered the rest of the packet to the children, who reacted by moving even closer to their mother. Left standing in the doorway was Ellen Wylie. She was there to witness the ID procedure. She hadn’t known Rebus was coming, and he’d since told her that she was welcome to the job.
‘Everything all right here?’ the elder guard was asking Rebus now.
‘Hunky dory,’ Rebus said, taking a couple of paces back.
‘Mrs Yurgii,’ Ness was coaxing, ‘we’re ready when you are.’
She nodded and tried rising to her feet, had to be helped up by her friend. She placed a hand on either child’s head.
‘I’ll stay here with them, if you like,’ Rebus said. She looked at him, then whispered something to the children, who gripped her all the harder.
‘Your mum’ll just be through that door,’ Ness told them, pointing. ‘We’ll only be a minute...’
Mrs Yurgii crouched in front of son and daughter, whispered more words to them. Her eyes were glazed with tears. Then she lifted either child on to a chair, smiled at them, and backed away towards the door. Ness held it open for her. Both guards followed her, the elder glaring a warning towards Rebus: Keep an eye on them. Rebus didn’t even blink.
When the door closed, the girl ran towards it, placing her hands against its surface. She said nothing, and wasn’t crying. Her brother went to her, put his arm around her and led her back to where they’d been sitting. Rebus crouched down, resting his back against the wall opposite. It was a desolate spot: no posters or notices, no magazines. Nothing to pass the time because no one passed time here. Usually you waited only a minute, enough time for the body to be moved from its refrigerated shelf to the viewing room. And afterwards, you left swiftly, not wishing to spend another minute in this place. There wasn’t even a clock, for, as Ness had said once to Rebus, ‘Our clients are out of time.’ One of countless puns which helped him and his colleagues do the job they did.
‘My name’s John, by the way,’ Rebus told the children. The girl was transfixed by the door, but the boy seemed to understand.
‘Police bad,’ he stated with passion.
‘Not here,’ Rebus told him. ‘Not in this country.’
‘In Turkey, very bad.’
Rebus nodded acceptance of this. ‘But not here,’ he repeated. ‘Here, police good.’ The boy looked sceptical, and Rebus didn’t blame him. After all, what did he know of the police? They had accompanied the Immigration officials, taking the family into custody. The Whitemire guards probably looked like police officers, too: anyone in a uniform was suspect. Anyone in authority.
They were the people who had made his mother cry, his father disappear.
‘You want to stay here? In this country?’ Rebus asked. This concept was beyond the lad. He blinked a few times, until it was clear he wasn’t about to answer.
‘What toys do you like?’
‘Toys?’
‘Things you play with.’
‘I play with my sister.’
‘You play games, read books?’
Again, the question seemed unanswerable. It was as if Rebus were quizzing him on local history or the rules of rugby.
The door opened. Mrs Yurgii was sobbing quietly, supported by her friend, the officials behind them sombre, as befitted the moment. Ellen Wylie nodded at Rebus to let him know identity had been confirmed.
‘That’s us then,’ the elder guard stated. The children were clinging to their mother again. The guards started manoeuvring all four figures towards the opposite door, the one leading back to the outside world, the land of the living.