“Was a policeman,” Rebus corrected him. “Recently retired. I might not have mentioned that to your secretary.”
“So there’s no trouble then?” Cropper had pulled out a chair and was gesturing for Rebus to sit down, too.
“Cropper’s a popular name,” Rebus said, nodding towards the line of photographs.
“My grandfather and my great-grandfather,” Cropper agreed, crossing one leg over the other. “My father was the black sheep — he became a doctor.”
“In one picture,” Rebus said, “the inscription says ‘workers and managers’...”
Cropper gave a short laugh. “I know. Makes it sound as if the managers don’t do any work. I can assure you that’s not the case these days...”
“Your grandfather must have been in charge of the brewery when that accident happened,” Rebus stated.
“Accident?”
“Johnny Watt.”
Cropper’s eyes widened a little. “You’re interested in ghosts?”
Rebus offered a shrug, but didn’t say anything. The silence lengthened until Cropper broke it.
“Businesses weren’t so hot on health and safety back then, I’m afraid to say. Lack of ventilation... and nobody partnering Mr Watt.” Cropper leaned forward. “But I’ve been here the best part of twenty years, on and off, and I’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary.”
“You mean the ghost? But other people have?”
It was Cropper’s turn to shrug. “It’s a story, that’s all. A bit of shadow... a squeaky floorboard... Some people can’t help seeing things.” Cropper sat back again and placed his hands behind his head.
“Did your grandfather ever talk to you about it?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Was he still in charge when you started here?”
“He was.”
Rebus thought for a moment. “What would have happened after the accident?” he asked.
“I dare say the family would have been compensated — my grandfather was always very fair. Plenty of evidence of it in the annals.”
“Annals?”
“The brewery’s records are extensive.”
“Would they have anything to say about Johnny Watt?”
“No idea.”
“Could you maybe look?”
Cropper’s bright blue eyes drilled into Rebus’s. “Mind explaining to me why?”
Rebus thought of Albie Simms’s words: Johnny Watt was real... and he doesn’t seem to want to go away... But he didn’t say anything, just bided his time until Douglas Cropper sighed and began getting to his feet.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cropper conceded.
“Thank you, sir,” Rebus said.
“You’re supposed to be retired,” Dr Curt said.
In the past, the two men would normally have met in the city mortuary, but Rebus had arrived at the pathologist’s office at the university, where Curt maintained a full teaching load between autopsies. The desk between them was old, ornate and wooden. The wall behind Curt was lined with bookshelves, though Rebus doubted the books themselves got much use. A laptop sat on the desk, its cover closed. There was no paperwork anywhere.
“I am retired,” Rebus stated.
“Funny way of showing it...” Curt opened a drawer and lifted out a leather-bound ledger-book. A page had been marked. He opened the book and turned it to face Rebus.
“Report of the post-mortem examination,” Curt explained. “Written in the finest copper-plate lettering by Professor William Shiels.”
“Were you ever taught by him?” Rebus asked.
“Do I really look that old?”
“Sorry.” Rebus peered at the handwritten notes. “You’ve had a read?”
“Professor Shiels was a great man, John.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t.”
“Contusions... fractured skull... internal bleeding to the brain... We see those injuries most days even now.”
“Drunks on a Saturday night?” Rebus guessed. Curt nodded his agreement.
“Drink and drugs, John. Our friend Mr Watt fell eleven feet on to an inch-thick steel floor. Unconscious from the fumes, no way to defend himself...”
“The major damage was to the base of the skull,” Rebus commented, running a finger along the words on the page.
“We don’t always fall forehead first,” Curt cautioned. Something in his tone made Rebus look up.
“What is it?” he asked.
Curt gave a twitch of the mouth. “I did a bit of digging. Those vats give off carbon dioxide. Ventilation’s an issue, same now as it was back then. There are plenty of recorded cases of brewery employees falling into the vats. It’s worse if someone tries to help. They dive into the beer to rescue their friend, and come up for air... take a deep breath and suddenly they’re in as much trouble as the other fellow.”
“What a way to go...”
“I believe one or two had to climb out and go to the toilet a couple of times prior to drowning,” Curt offered. Rebus smiled, as was expected.
“Okay,” he said. “Carbon dioxide poisoning... but what is it you’re not saying?”
“The vat our friend fell into was empty, John. Hence the injuries. He didn’t drown in beer — there was no beer.”
Finally, Rebus got it.
“No beer,” he said quietly, “meaning no fermenting. No carbon dioxide.” His eyes met the pathologist’s. Curt was nodding slowly.
“So what was it caused him to pass out?” Curt asked. “Of course, he could have just tripped and fallen, but then I’d expect to see signs that he’d tried to stop his fall.”
Rebus rubbed a hand over the ledger-book. “No injuries to the hands,” he stated.
“None whatsoever,” Professor Curt agreed.
Rebus’s next stop was the National Library of Scotland, where a one-day reader’s pass allowed him access to a microfiche machine. A member of staff threaded the spool of film home and showed Rebus how to wind it to the relevant pages and adjust the focus. It was a slow process — Rebus kept stopping to read various stories and sports reports, and to smile at some of the advertisements. The film contained a year’s worth of Scotsman newspapers, the year in question being 1948. I was one year old, Rebus thought to himself. Eventually he came to news of Johnny Watt’s demise. It must have been a quiet day in the office: they’d sent a journalist and a photographer. Workers had gathered in the brewery yard. They looked numbed. The manager, Mr Joseph Cropper, had been interviewed. Rebus read the piece through twice, remembering the portrait of Douglas Cropper’s grandfather — stern of face and long of sideburn. Then he spooled forwards through the following seven days. There was coverage of the funeral, along with another photograph. Rebus wondered if the horse pulling the carriage had been borrowed from the brewery. Warriston Cemetery was the destination. Watt and his family had lived in the Stockbridge area for umpteen generations. He had no wife, but three brothers and a sister. Watt had died at the age of twenty, and had served a year in the army towards the end of World War Two. Rebus paused for a moment, pondering that: you survived a war, only to die in your home town three years later. Watt had only been working at the brewery for eleven months. Joseph Cropper told the reporter that the young man had been “full of energy, a hard worker with excellent prospects”. In the photo showing the procession into the cemetery, Cropper was central. There was a woman next to him, identified as his wife. She wore black, her eyes to the ground, her husband gripping her arm. She was skinny and slight, in contrast to the man she’d married. Rebus leaned in a little further towards the screen, then wound the film back to the previous photo. Twenty minutes later, he was still looking.