summary of affairs,’ he noted approvingly.
Hawes had reached into a box for a leatherbound book. ‘You’re binning all of it?’
‘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
Hawes had reached into a box for a leatherbound book. ‘You’re binning all of it?’
‘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
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