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.’
‘Seems reasonable,’ Devlin
‘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.’
‘Seems reasonable,’ Devlin
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