Falls

  ‘It’s Rebus here. I need a favour.’

  ‘And what makes you think I’d be daft enough to oblige?’

  ‘Are your questions always this tough?’

  ‘Bugger off back under your rock, Rebus.’

  ‘Nothing I’d like better, but your mum’s adopted it, says it loves her more than you ever did.’ It was the only way to deal with Claverhouse: sarcasm at twelve paces.

  ‘She’s right, I’m a mean bastard at heart, which brings me back to my first question.’

  ‘The tough one? Let’s put it this way then: sooner you help me, sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious.’

  ‘Christ, man, why didn’t you say? Fire away.’

  Rebus smiled into the receiver. ‘I need an in.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘The gardai in Dublin.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Philippa Balfour’s boyfriend. I want a background check.’

  ‘I put a tenner on him at two-to-one.’

  ‘Best reason I can think of for helping me out.’

  Claverhouse was thoughtful. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Don’t move from that number.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Rebus put the phone down and sat back in his chair. Then he noticed something across the room. It was the Farmer’s old chair. Gill must have turfed it out only for someone to claim it. Rebus wheeled it over to his own desk, made himself comfortable. He thought about what he’d said to Claverhouse: sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious. It had been part of the routine, but a large chunk of him wanted it anyway, wanted that hazy oblivion that only drink could provide. Oblivion: the name’ of one of Brian Auger’s bands, Oblivion Express. He had their first album somewhere, A Better Land. A bit too jazzy for his taste. When the phone rang, he picked it up, but it was still ringing: his mobile. He fished it from his pocket, put it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘John?’

  ‘Hello, Jean. I was meaning to call you.’

  ‘Is this an all right time?’

  ‘Sure. Has that journo been hassling you?’ His desk phone started ringing: Claverhouse probably. Rebus got up from the Farmer’s chair, walked across the office and out of the door.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Jean was saying. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging, as you asked. I’m afraid I haven’t found very much.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Well, it’s taken me all day …'

  ‘I’ll have a look at it tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Tomorrow would be fine.’

  ’Unless you’re free tonight …?’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘I promised a friend I’d go see her. She’s just had a baby.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. We’ll meet tomorrow. Are you okay to come to the station?’

  'Yes.’

  They agreed a time and Rebus went back into the CID room, ending the call. He got the feeling she was pleased with him, pleased that he’d asked to meet this evening. It was what she’d been hoping for, some hint that he was still interested, that it wasn’t just work for him.

  Or he could be reading too much into it. Back at his desk, he called Claverhouse.

  ‘I’m a disappointed man,’ Claverhouse said.

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave my desk, and I stuck to my word.’

  ‘Then how come you didn’t pick up the phone?’

  ‘Someone caught me on my mobile.’

  ‘Someone who means more to you than I do? Now I really am hurt.”

  ‘It was my bookie. I owe him two hundred notes.’

  Claverhouse was silent for a moment. ‘This cheers me immensely,’ he said. ‘Right, the person you want to speak to is Declan Macmanus.’

  Rebus frowned. ‘Wasn’t that Elvis Costello’s real name?’

  ‘Well, he obviously passed it on to someone in need.’ Claverhouse gave Rebus the number in Dublin, including the international code. ‘Not that I suppose the cheap bastards at St Leonard’s will let you make an international call.’

  ‘Forms will have to be filled in,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Thanks for your help, Claverhouse.’

  ‘Are you going for that drink now?’

  ‘I think I better had. Don’t want to be conscious when my bookie finds me.’

  'You have a point. Here’s to bad horses and good whisky.’

  ‘And vice versa,’ Rebus rejoined, ending the call. Claverhouse was right: the main phones at St Leonard’s were blocked for international calls, but Rebus had the feeling the Chief Super’s phone would be okay. Only problem was, Gill had locked her door. Rebus thought for a second, then remembered that the Farmer had kept a spare key for emergencies. He crouched down at Gill’s office door and peeled back the corner of carpet next to the jamb. Bingo: the Yale was still there. He inserted it into the lock and was inside her office, door closed after him.

  He looked at her new chair but decided to stay standing, resting against the edge of her desk. He couldn’t help thinking of the Three Bears: who’s been sitting in my chair? And who’s been making calls from my phone?

  His call was answered after half a dozen rings. ‘Can I speak to … ’ he suddenly realised that he didn’t have a rank for Macmanus … ’to Declan Macmanus, please.’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ The woman’s voice had that seductive Irish lilt. Rebus imagined raven hair and a full body.

  ‘Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police in Scotland.’

  ‘Hold, please.’

  While he held, the full body had become a pint of slow-poured Guinness, the beer seemingly shaped to fit its glass.

  ‘DI Rebus?’ The voice was crisp, no-nonsense.

  ‘DI Claverhouse at the Scottish Crime Squad gave me your number.’

  ‘That was generous of him.’

  ‘Sometimes he just can’t help himself.’

  ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about this case we’ve got, a MisPer called Philippa Balfour.’

  ‘The banker’s daughter? It’s been all over the papers here.’

  ‘Because of the connection with David Costello?’

  ‘The Costellos are well known, Inspector, part of the Dublin social fabric, you might say.’

  'You’d know better than me, which is the reason I’m calling.’

  ‘Ah, is it now?’

  ‘I want to know a bit more about the family.’ Rebus started doodling on a sheet of paper. ‘I’m sure they’re blemish-free, but it would put my mind at rest if I had some evidence of that.’

  ‘As to “blemish-free”, I’m not sure I can give that guarantee.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Every family has its dirty laundry, does it not?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Maybe I could send you the Costellos’ laundry list. How would that be?’

  ‘That would be fine.’

  ‘Do you happen to have a fax number there?’

  Rebus recited it. You’ll need the international code,’ he warned.

  ‘I think I can manage that. How confidential would this information remain?’

  ‘As confidential as I can make it.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word then. Are you a rugby man, Inspector?’

  Rebus got the feeling he should answer yes. ‘Only as a spectator.’

  ‘I like to come to Edinburgh for the Six Nations. Maybe we’ll meet for a drink next time.’

  ‘I’d like that. Let me give you a couple of numbers.’ This time he recited his office number and his mobile.

  ‘I’ll be sure to look you up.’

  'You do that. I owe you a large malt.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to it.’ There was a pause. You’re not really a rugby man at all, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Rebus admitted. There was laughter on the line.

  ‘But you’re hone
st, and that’s a start. Goodbye, Inspector.’

  Rebus put the phone down. It struck him that he still didn’t know Macmanus’s rank, or anything much about him at all. When he looked ,down at the doodles covering the sheet of paper in front of him, he found he’d drawn half a dozen coffins. He waited twenty minutes for Macmanus to get back to him, but the fax machine was playing dead.

  He hit the Maltings first, and followed it up with the Royal Oak, before making for Swany’s. Just the one drink in each pub, starting with a pint of Guinness. It had been a while since he’d tried the stuff; it was good but filling. He knew he couldn’t do too many, so switched to IPA and finally a Laphroaig with the merest drizzle of water. Then it was a taxi to the Oxford Bar, where he demolished the last corned beef and beetroot roll on the shelf and followed it with a main course of a Scotch egg. He was back on the IPA, needed something to wash down the food. A few of the regulars were in. The back room had been taken over by a party of students, and no one in the front bar was saying much, as if the sounds of enjoyment from upstairs were somehow blasphemous. Harry was behind the bar, and clearly relishing the prospect of the revellers’ departure. When someone was dispatched to fetch another round, Harry kept up a steady stream of comments along the lines of ‘you’ll be heading off soon … going to a club … the night’s young … ’ The young man, his face so shiny it might have been polished, just grinned inanely, taking none of it in. Harry shook his head in disgust. When the drinker headed off, tray laden with slopping pints, one of the regulars informed Harry that he was losing his touch. The stream of profanities which followed seemed, to everyone present, evidence to the contrary.

  Rebus had come here in a vain attempt to flush all those little coffins out of his mind. He kept imagining them, seeing them as the work of one man, one killer … and wondering if there were any more of them, lying rotting on barren hillsides perhaps, or tucked away in crevasses, or turned into macabre ornaments in their finders’ garden sheds … Arthur’s Seat and Falls and Jean’s four coffins. He saw a continuity there, and it filled him with dread. I want to be cremated, he thought, or maybe strung up in a tree the way Aborigines do it. Anything but the strict confines of a box … anything but that.

  When the door opened, everyone turned to examine the new arrival. Rebus straightened his back, trying not to show surprise. It was Gill Templer. She saw him immediately and smiled, unbuttoning her coat and taking off her scarf.

  ‘Thought I might find you here,’ she said. ‘I tried phoning, but got your machine.’

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Gin and tonic.’

  Harry had heard the order and was already reaching for a glass. ‘Ice and lemon?’ he asked.

  ‘Please.’

  Rebus noticed that the other drinkers had shifted a little, giving Rebus and Gill as much privacy as the cramped front bar would allow. He paid for the drink and watched Gill gulp at it.

  ‘I needed that,’ she said.

  Rebus lifted his own glass and toasted her. ‘Slainte.’ Then he took a sip. Gill was smiling.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘rude of me to just hammer it like that.’

  ‘Rough day?’

  ‘I’ve had better.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘A couple of things. As usual, you haven’t been bothering to keep me up to date with any progress.’

  ‘There’s not much to report.’

  ‘It’s a dead end then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just need a few more days.’ He lifted his glass again.

  ‘Then there’s the small matter of your doctor’s appointment.’

  Yes, I know. I’ll get round to it, promise.’ He nodded towards the pint. ‘This is my first tonight, by the way.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be right,’ Harry muttered, busying himself drying glasses.

  Gill smiled, but her eyes were on Rebus. ‘How are things with Jean?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Fine. She’s concentrating on the historical side.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  Now Rebus looked at Gill. ‘Does the matchmaker service come free?’

  ‘I was just wondering.’

  ‘And you came all this way to ask?’

  ‘Jean’s been hurt before by an alcoholic, it’s how her husband went.’

  ‘She told me. Don’t worry on that score.’

  She looked down at her drink. ‘How’s it working out with Ellen Wylie?’

  ‘I’ve no complaints.’

  ‘Has she said anything about me?’

  ‘Not really.’ Rebus had finished his drink, waved his glass to signal as much. Harry put down the tea-cloth and started pouring. Rebus felt awkward. He didn’t like Gill being here like this, dropping in and catching him off-guard. He didn’t like that the regulars were listening to every word. Gill seemed to sense his discomfort.

  ‘Would you rather we did this at the office?’

  He shrugged again. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Enjoying the new job?’

  ‘I think I’ll manage.’

  ‘I’d put money on it.’ He pointed to her glass, offered a refill. Gill shook her head. ‘I should be going. This was just a quick one before home.’

  ‘Same here.’ Rebus made a show of checking his watch.

  ‘I’ve got the car outside …'

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I like to walk, keeps me fit.’

  Behind the bar, Harry snorted. Gill wrapped the scarf back around her neck.

  ‘Maybe see you tomorrow then,’ she said.

  'You know where my office is.’

  She studied her surroundings—walls the colour of a used cigarette-filter, dusty prints of Robert Burns—and began to nod. Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ Then she gave a little wave which seemed to take in the whole bar, and was gone.

  'Your boss?’ Harry guessed. Rebus nodded. ‘Swap you,’ the barman said. The regulars started laughing. Another student appeared from the back room, the list of required drinks scribbled on the back of an envelope.

  ‘Three IPA,’ Harry began to recite, ‘two lager tops, a gin, lime and soda, two Becks and a dry white wine.’

  The student looked at the note, then nodded in amazement. Harry winked at his audience.

  ‘Might be students, but they’re not the only smart bastards round here.’

  Siobhan sat in her living room, staring at the message on the laptop’s screen. It was in response to an e-mail she’d send to Quizmaster, informing him that she was now working on the second clue.

  I forgot to tell you, from now on you’re against the clock. In twenty-four hours’ time, the next clue becomes void.

  Siobhan got to work on the keyboard: I think we should meet. I have some questions. She hit ‘send’, then waited. His reply was prompt.

  The game will answer your questions.

  She hit more keys: Did Flip have anyone helping her? Is anyone else playing the game?

  She waited for several minutes. Nothing. She was in the kitchen, pouring another half-glass of Chilean red, when she heard the laptop telling her she had a message. Wine splashed on to the back of her hand as she dashed back through.

  Hello, Siobhan.

  She stared at the screen. The sender’s address was a series of numbers. Before she could reply, the computer told her she had another message.

  Are you there? Your light’s on.

  She froze, the screen seeming to shimmer. He was here! Right outside! She walked quickly to the window. Down below, a car was parked, headlights still on.

  Grant Hood’s Alfa.

  He waved up at her. Cursing, she ran to the front door, down the stairs and out of the tenement.

  ‘Is that your idea of a joke?’ she hissed.

  Hood, easing himself from the driver’s seat, seemed stunned by her reaction.

  ‘I just had Quizmaster online,’ she explained. ‘I thought you were him.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Just exactly how did you do that?’

  Hood held up hi
s mobile phone. ‘It’s a WAP,’ he explained sheepishly. ‘Just got it today. Sends e-mails, the lot.’

  She snatched it from him and studied it. ‘Jesus, Grant.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to … '

  She handed back the phone, knowing damned well what he’d wanted: to show off his latest gadget.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I’ve cracked it.’

  She stared at him. ‘Again?’ He shrugged. ‘How come you always wait till late at night?’

  ‘Maybe that’s when I do my best thinking.’ He glanced up at the tenement. ‘So are you going to invite me in, or do we go on giving the neighbours a free show?’

  She looked around. It was true that heads were silhouetted at a couple of windows. ‘Come on then,’ she said.

  Upstairs, the first thing she did was check the laptop, but Quizmaster hadn’t replied.

  ‘I think you scared him off,’ Hood said, reading the onscreen dialogue.

  Siobhan fell on to the sofa and picked up her glass. ‘So what have you got for us tonight, Einstein?’

  ‘Ah, that famous Edinburgh hospitality,’ Hood said, eyeing the glass.

  'You’re driving.’

  ‘One glass can’t hurt.’

  Siobhan got up again, uttering a slight groan of protest, and headed for the kitchen. Hood reached into the bag he’d brought with him and started pulling out maps and guidebooks.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Siobhan asked, handing him a tumbler and starting to pour. She sat down, drained her own glass, refilled it, and placed what was left of the bottle on the floor.