‘By no means,’ Devlin tutted. ‘The volume in your hand, for example, an early edition of Donaldson’s anatomical sketches, I intend to offer to the College of Surgeons.’
‘You still see Professor Gates?’ Rebus asked.
‘Oh, Sandy and I enjoy the occasional tincture. He’ll be retiring himself soon enough, I don’t doubt, making way for the young. We fool ourselves that this makes life cyclical, but of course it’s anything but, unless you happen to practise Buddhism.’ He smiled at what he saw as this little joke.
‘Just because you’re a Buddhist doesn’t mean you’ll come back again though, does it?’ Rebus said, delighting the old man further. Rebus was staring at a framed news report on the wall to the right of the fireplace: a murder conviction dated 1957. ‘Your first case?’ he guessed.
‘Actually, yes. A young bride bludgeoned to death by her husband. They were in the city on honeymoon.’
‘Must cheer the place up,’ Hawes commented.
‘My wife thought it macabre too,’ Devlin admitted. ‘After she died, I put it back up.’
‘Well,’ Hawes said, dropping the book back into its box and looking in vain for somewhere to sit, ‘sooner we’re finished, the sooner you can get back to your clear-out.’
‘A pragmatist: good to see.’ Devlin seemed content to let the three of them stand there, in the middle of a large and threadbare Persian carpet, almost afraid to move for fear that a domino effect would ensue.
‘Is there any order, sir?’ Rebus asked. ‘Or can we move a couple of boxes on to the floor?’
‘Better to take our tête-à-tête into the dining room, I think.’
Rebus nodded and made to follow, his gaze drifting to an engraved invitation on the marble mantelpiece. It was from the Royal College of Surgeons, something to do with a dinner at Surgeons’ Hall. ‘Black/white tie and decorations’ it said along the bottom. The only decorations he had were in a box in his hall cupboard. They went up every Christmas, if he could be bothered.
The dining room was dominated by a long wooden table and six un-upholstered, straight-backed chairs. There was a serving-hatch — what Rebus’s family would have called a ‘bowley-hole’ — through to the kitchen, and a dark-stained sideboard spread with a dusty array of glassware and silver. The few framed pictures looked like early examples of photography: posed studio shots of Venetian boat-life, maybe scenes from Shakespeare. The tall sash window looked out on to gardens at the rear of the building. Down below, Rebus could see that Mrs Jardine’s gardener had shaped her plot — either by accident or design — so that from above it resembled a question mark.
On the table lay a half-finished jigsaw: central Edinburgh photographed from above. ‘Any and all help,’ Devlin said, waving a hand expansively over the puzzle, ‘will be most gratefully received.’
‘Looks like a lot of pieces,’ Rebus said.
‘Just the two thousand.’
Hawes, who had at last introduced herself to Devlin, was having trouble getting comfortable on her chair. She asked how long Devlin had been retired.
‘Twelve... no, fourteen years. Fourteen years...’ He shook his head, marvelling at time’s ability to speed up even as the heartbeat slowed.
Hawes looked at her notes. ‘At the first interview, you said you’d been home that evening.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you didn’t see Philippa Balfour?’
‘Your information is correct thus far.’
Rebus, deciding against the chairs, leaned back, putting his weight on the windowsill, and folded his arms.
‘But you knew Ms Balfour?’ he asked.
‘We’d exchanged pleasantries, yes.’
‘She’s been your neighbour for the best part of a year,’ Rebus said.
‘You’ll recall that this is Edinburgh, DI Rebus. I’ve lived in this apartment nearly three decades — I moved in when my wife passed away. It takes time to get to know one’s neighbours. Often, I’m afraid, they move on before one has had the opportunity.’ He shrugged. ‘After a while, one ceases trying.’
‘That’s pretty sad,’ Hawes said.
‘And you live where...?’
‘If I could just,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘bring us back to the matter in hand.’ He’d moved off the windowsill, hands now resting on the table-top. His eyes were on the loose pieces of the jigsaw.
‘Of course,’ Devlin said.
‘You were in all evening, and didn’t hear anything untoward?’
Devlin glanced up, perhaps appreciative of Rebus’s final word. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a pause.
‘Or see anything?’
‘Ditto.’
Hawes wasn’t just looking uncomfortable now; she was clearly irritated by these responses. Rebus sat down across from her, trying for eye contact, but she was ready with a question of her own.
‘Have you ever had a falling-out with Ms Balfour, sir?’
‘What is there to fall out about?’
‘Nothing now,’ Hawes stated coldly.
Devlin gave her a look and turned towards Rebus. ‘I see you’re interested in the table, Inspector.’
Rebus realised that he’d been running his fingers along the grain of the wood.
‘It’s nineteenth-century,’ Devlin went on, ‘crafted by a fellow anatomist.’ He glanced towards Hawes, then back to Rebus again. ‘There was something I remembered... probably nothing important.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘A man standing outside.’
Rebus knew that Hawes was about to say something, so beat her to it. ‘When was this?’
‘A couple of days before she vanished, and the day before that, too.’ Devlin shrugged, all too aware of the effect his words were having. Hawes had reddened; she was dying to scream out something like when were you going to tell us? Rebus kept his voice level.
‘On the pavement outside?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
Another shrug. ‘In his twenties, short dark hair... not cropped, just neat.’
‘Not a neighbour?’
‘It’s always possible. I’m merely telling you what I saw. He seemed to be waiting for someone or something. I recall him checking his watch.’
‘Her boyfriend maybe?’
‘Oh no, I know David.’
‘You do?’ Rebus asked. He was still casually scanning the jigsaw.
‘To talk to, yes. We met a few times in the stairwell. Nice young chap...’
‘How was he dressed?’ Hawes asked.
‘Who? David?’
‘The man you saw.’
Devlin seemed almost to relish the glare which accompanied her words. ‘Jacket and trousers,’ he said, glancing down at his cardigan. ‘I can’t be more specific, never having been a follower of fashion.’
Which was true: fourteen years ago, he’d worn similar cardigans under his green surgeon’s smock, along with bowties which were always askew. You could never forget your first autopsy: those sights, smells and sounds which were to become familiar. The scrape of metal on bone, or the whispering of a scalpel as it parted flesh. Some pathologists carried a cruel sense of humour and would put on an especially graphic performance for any ‘virgins’. But never Devlin; he’d always focused on the corpse, as if the two of them were alone in the room, that intimate final act of filleting carried out with a decorum bordering on ritual.
‘Do you think,’ Rebus asked, ‘that if you thought about it, maybe let your mind drift back, you could come up with a fuller description?’
‘I rather doubt it, but of course if you think it important...’
‘Early days, sir. You know yourself, we can’t rule anything out.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Rebus was treating Devlin as a fellow professional... and it was working.
‘We might even try to put together a photofit,’ Rebus went on. ‘That way, if it turns out to be a neighbour or someone anyone knows, we can eliminate him straight away.’