Free Let It Bleed by Ian Rankin

Mary Finlay. ‘No …’ He screwed shut his eyes. ‘Mary Finch.’
    Rebus stared at him. ‘Maisie Finch?’
    Davidson thought again. ‘That’s it, Maisie.’
    ‘She lives next door to the McAnallys.’
    ‘Did then, too. She’d known them for years.’
    ‘Christ,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I’ve just sent her down to the mortuary to help Tresa McAnally identify her husband.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Do me a favour, will you? Lend me a car and a driver.’
    ‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you myself.’
    But by the time they reached the mortuary, it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back towards the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.

10
    ‘He what?’ Rebus said.
    He was on the phone from St Leonard’s to Dr Curt at the university’s Pathology Department. They kept Curt and his colleagues busy, no mistake about that. On top of police work, Curt had a full teaching load in the Faculty of Medicine, and did crossover lectures to law students too.
    But then Curt had an advantage over mere mortals: he never slept. You could call him out at any hour, and he was always alert. You could catch him in his office at eight in the morning.
    It was actually eight-fifteen, and Rebus was nursing a large black decaf coffee from the early-opening deli on the Pleasance.
    ‘Morning deafness, John?’ Dr Curt said. ‘I repeat, he was dying anyway.’
    ‘Dying how?’
    ‘Great big bloody tumours. Pancreas and large colon to start with. The man must have been in agony. I’m willing to bet the toxicology tests show the presence of powerful painkillers.’
    ‘You mean he was out of his box?’
    ‘He’d have to be to stand the pain.’
    Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’
    ‘Haven’t you heard of voluntary euthanasia, self-inflicted in this case?’
    ‘Yes, but with a sawn-off shotgun?’
    ‘Well, that’s not my department. I can give you effect, not cause.’
    Rebus terminated the call and went to see his chief inspector.
    Gill Templer had made more changes to Lauderdale’s office. She’d brought in a few framed photographs of nieces and nephews, and a thriving yucca plant had appeared. There were also a couple of cards wishing her well in her new job.
    ‘I hear you were at that suicide last night,’ she said, motioning for him to sit.
    He nodded distractedly. ‘There’s something not right about it.’
    ‘Oh?’
    So he set out what he knew. Gill Templer listened with her chin resting on both hands, a gesture he knew of old. He recognised the perfume she was wearing, too.
    ‘Hmm,’ she said when he’d finished, ‘a lot of questions. But are they any of our concern?’
    He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Give me a day or two, I might have an answer.’
    ‘Those two lads on the bridge,’ she said. ‘Another suicide, another connection with the district council.’
    ‘I know. It could just be coincidence.’
    ‘I don’t see how it could be anything else. OK, take a day or two, see what you come up with. But report back to me regularly – at least a couple of times a day.’
    Rebus stood up. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re already managing to sound like a chief inspector.’
    ‘John,’ she said warningly, ‘remember what I said.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?’
    Gill Templer shook her head. She was already getting down to some paperwork.
    Rebus left her office – it was hers now, no doubt about it – and walked straight into Siobhan Clarke.
    ‘Any news on Paul Duggan?’
    ‘He’s coming in for a chat this afternoon.’
    ‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘Need me along?’
    She shook her head. ‘Brian and me have perfected our Jekyll and Hyde routine.’
    ‘Which one of you plays Hyde?’
    She ignored this.