It was easy enough. There were only four ‘cubicles’: desks separated by free-standing partition walls. No one was working in any of them. The small coffin was sitting next to Holly’s keyboard, a couple of test Polaroids lying on top. Rebus congratulated himself: this was best-case-scenario stuff. If Holly had been here, there’d have been questions to parry, maybe a bit of grief. He took the opportunity to give the work-space a once-over. Phone numbers and news clippings pinned to the walls, a two-inch-high Scooby Doo stuck to the top of the monitor. A Simpsons desk calendar, covered with doodles, on a page three weeks out of date. A memo recorder, its battery compartment open and empty. There was a newspaper headline taped to the side of the monitor: ‘Super Cally Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious’. Rebus had a little smile: it was a modern classic, referred to a football match. Maybe Holly was a Rangers fan, maybe he just appreciated a joke. As he was about to leave, he noticed Jean’s name and phone number on the wall near the desk. He tore it down and pocketed it, then saw other numbers beneath... his own, plus Gill Templer’s. Beneath these were other names: Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Ellen Wylie. The reporter had home numbers for Templer and Clarke. Rebus couldn’t know if Holly had copies, but he decided to take the lot with him.
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?’