21

Rebus was due for further questioning at St Leonard’s at ten o’clock, so when his pager sounded at eight-fifteen, he assummed it was a reminder. But the phone number it wanted him to call was the mortuary down in the Cowgate. He called from the hospital payphone, and was put through to Dr Curt.

‘Looks like I’ve drawn the short straw,’ Curt told him.

‘You’re about to start work on Matsumoto?’

‘For my sins. Look, I’ve heard the stories ... don’t suppose there’s any truth in them?’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘Glad to hear it, John.’

Curt seemed to be struggling to say something. ‘There are questions of ethics, of course, so I can’t suggest that you come down here ...’

‘There’s something you think I should see?’

‘That I can’t say.’

Curt cleared his throat. ‘But if you happened to be here ... and the place is always very quiet this time of the morning ...’

‘I’m on my way.’

The Infirmary to the mortuary: a ten-minute walk. Curt himself was waiting to lead Rebus to the body.

The room was all white tile, bright light and stainless steel. Two of the dissecting-tables lay empty. Matsumoto’s naked body lay on the third. Rebus walked around it, stunned by what he saw.

Tattoos.

And not just the kilted piper on a sailor’s arm. These were works of art, and they were massive. A scaly green dragon, breathing pink and red fire, covered one shoulder and crept down the arm towards the wrist. Its back legs reached around the body’s neck, while its front ones rested on the chest. There were other smaller dragons, and a landscape Mount Fuji reflected in water. There were Japanese symbols and the visored face of a kendo champion. Curt put on rubber gloves, and had Rebus do the same. Then the two men rolled the body over, displaying a further gallery across Matsumoto’s back. A masked actor, something out of a Noh play, and a warrior in full armour. Some delicate flowers. The effect was mesmerising.

‘Stunning, aren’t they?’ Curt said.

‘Phenomenal.’

‘I’ve visited Japan a few times, given papers at conferences.’

‘So you recognise some of these?’

‘A few of the references, yes. Thing is, tattoos - especially on this scale - usually mean you’re a gang member.’

‘Like the Triads?’

‘The Japanese are called Yakuza. Look here.’

Curt held up the left hand. The pinkie had been severed at the first joint, the skin healed in a rough crust.

‘That’s what happens when they screw up, isn’t it?’

Rebus said, the word ‘Yakuza’ bouncing around in his head. ‘Someone cuts off a finger every time.’

‘I think so, yes,’ Curt said. ‘Just thought you might like to know.’

Rebus nodded, eyes glued to the corpse. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, I haven’t started on him yet, really. All looks fairly standard: evidence of impact with a moving vehicle. Crushed ribcage, fractures to the arms and legs.’

Rebus noticed that a bone was protruding from one calf, obscenely white against the skin. ‘There’ll be a lot of internal damage. Shock probably killed him.’