Falls

  Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s okay to be on genial terms with them all, and you should introduce yourself to the ones who matter, but never forget which side you’re on … or that there are sides. Okay?’

  He’d nodded. Then she’d given him the list of ‘majors’.

  He’d stuck to coffee and orange juice in each meeting, and was relieved to see most of the journalists doing likewise.

  You might find the “elders” running on whisky and gin,’ one younger reporter had said, ‘but not us.’

  The meeting after that had been with one of the most respected of the “elders”. He’d wanted nothing more than a glass of water: ‘The young ones drink like fish, but I find I can’t any more. And what’s your tipple of preference, DC Hood?’

  ‘This isn’t a formal occasion, Mr Gillies. Please, call me Grant.’

  ‘Then you must call me Allan … ’

  Still Grant couldn’t get Templer’s warning words out of his head. As a result, he felt he’d come over as stiff and awkward at each get- to-know. Still, one definite bonus was that Templer had arranged for him to have his own office at Fettes HQ, at least for the duration of the inquiry. She’d called it ‘prudent’, explaining that he’d be talking to journalists every day, and it was best to keep them at a distance from the main investigation. If they happened to drop into Gayfield or St Leonard’s for a briefing or even a quick chat, there was no telling what they might overhear or happen to notice.

  ‘Good point,’ he’d said, nodding.

  ‘Same goes for phone calls,’ Templer had gone on. ‘If you want to call a journalist, do so from your office, door closed. That way they’re not going to hear anything they shouldn’t in the background. One of them phones you and catches you in CID or somewhere, say you’ll call them back.’

  He’d nodded again.

  Thinking back, she’d probably reckoned he resembled one of those nodding dogs, the kind you got in the back of naff cars. He tried to shake the image away, focused on his screen. He was drafting a press release, copies to go to Bill Pryde, Gill Templer and ACC Carswell for their input and approval.

  Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on another floor in the same building. He’d already knocked on Grant’s door and come in to wish him good luck. When Grant had introduced himself as Detective Constable Hood, Carswell had nodded slowly, his eyes those of an examiner.

  ‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘no cock-ups and a result on this, we’ll have to see about doing something better for you, eh?’

  Meaning a hike to detective sergeant. Hood knew Carswell could do it, too. He’d already taken one young CID officer under his wing.

  —DI Derek Linford. Problem was, neither Linford nor Carswell had any time for John Rebus, which meant Hood would have to be careful. He’d already turned down one drink with Rebus and the rest of the crew, but was conscious that he’d spent some time alone with Rebus in a bar all too recently. It was the sort of thing which, leaked to Carswell, could put a real spanner in the works. He thought again of Templer’s words: if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws … Another image flashed in front of him, that clinch with Siobhan. He’d have to be careful from now on: careful who he spoke to and what he said, careful who he spent time with, careful what he did.

  Careful not to make enemies.

  Another knock on the door. It was one of the civilian staff. ‘Something for you,’ she said, handing over a carrier bag. Then she smiled and retreated. He opened it. A bottle inside: Jose Cuervo Gold. And along with it, a little card:

  Here’s wishing you well in your new post. Think of us as sleepy- headed children, who need to be told their daily story.

  Your news friends, the Fourth Estate.

  Grant smiled. He thought he detected the hand of Allan Gillies. Then it struck him: he’d never answered Gillies’ inquiry about his favoured drink … yet somehow Gillies had got it right. It went beyond guesswork: someone had been talking. The smile left Grant’s face. The tequila wasn’t just a gift, it was a show of strength. Just then his mobile sounded. He took it from his pocket.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘DC Hood?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Just thought I’d introduce myself, since I seemed to miss out on one of the invites.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name’s Steve Holly. You’ll have seen my byline.’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’ Holly’s was definitely not one of the names on Templer’s list of ‘majors’. Her own succinct description of him: ‘a shit’.

  ‘Well, we’ll be seeing one another at all these press conferences and such like, but I thought I’d just say hello first. Did you get the bottle?’

  When Grant didn’t reply, Holly just laughed.

  ‘He always does that, old Allan. Thinks it’s clever, but you and I know it’s just a party trick.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m not the sort for rubbish like that, as you’ll no doubt have noticed.’

  ‘Noticed?’ Grant frowned.

  ‘Think about it, DC Hood.’ With that, the line went dead.

  Grant stared at the phone, and then it dawned on him. The journalists, all they’d had from him so far were his office phone, fax and pager. He thought hard, and was sure he hadn’t given his mobile to any of them. More advice from Templer:

  ‘Once you get to know them, there’ll be one or two you really click with—it’s never the same combination for any liaison officer. Those really special ones, you might want to let have your mobile number. It’s a sign of trust. For the rest, forget it or your life won’t be your own … and with them clogging the line, how can any of your colleagues hope to contact you? Us and them, Grant, us and them … ’

  And now one of ‘them’ had his mobile number. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to get it changed.

  As for the tequila, that was going with him to the press conference. He’d hand it back to Allan Gillies, tell him he was off the alcohol these days.

  He was beginning to think that might not be so far from the truth. There were a lot of changes to be made if he was going to stay the course.

  Grant felt he was ready.

  The CID suite at St Leonard’s was emptying. Officers not involved in the murder case were clocking off for the weekend. Some would work a Saturday shift if it was offered them. Others would be on call, should a fresh case need investigating. But for most, the weekend was beginning. There was a spring in their step; they struck up choruses of old pop songs. The city had been quiet of late. A few domestics, a drug bust or two. The Drugs Squad were keeping their heads down, however, after answering a tip-off: a council house in Gracemount, silver sheeting at an upstairs bedroom window, kept closed all day and night. They’d hurtled in, ready to demolish Edinburgh’s latest cannabis supply, and had instead found a teenager’s bedroom, newly decorated. His mum had bought a moon blanket instead of curtains, thought it looked trendy …

  ‘Bloody ChangingRooms,’ one of the Drugs Squad had muttered.

  There were other incidents, but they were isolated, hardly the stuff of a crime wave. Siobhan looked at her watch. She’d called the Crime Squad earlier, asked about computers. She hadn’t even got half~ay through her explanation when Claverhouse had said, ‘Someone’s already on it. We’ll send him over.’ So now she was waiting. She’d tried Claverhouse again: no answer. He was probably on his way home or to the pub. Maybe he wasn’t sending anyone till Monday. She’d give it another ten minutes. After all, she had her own life, didn’t she? Football tomorrow if she wanted it, though it was an away match. Sunday she could go for a drive: there were all these places she’d never been—Linlithgow Palace, Falkland Palace, Traquair. A friend she hadn’t seen in months had invited her to a birthday party Saturday night. She didn’t think she’d go, but the option was always there …

  ‘Are you DC Clarke?’

  He had a briefcase with him, which he placed on the floor. She was reminde
d for a second of door-to-door salesmen, cold callers. Straightening, she saw that he was overweight, most of it around the stomach. Short hair, a tuft standing up at the back of his head. He introduced himself as Eric Bain.

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Don’t they call you “Brains”?’

  ‘Sometimes, but to be honest I prefer Eric.’

  ‘Eric it is. Make yourself comfortable.’

  Bain pulled over a chair. As he sat, the material of his light-blue shirt stretched, opening gaps between buttons at the front, exposing areas of pale-pink skin.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what have we got?’

  Siobhan explained, while Bain gave her his full concentration, his eyes fixed on hers. She noticed that his breath came in small wheezes, and wondered if there was an inhaler in one of his pockets.

  She tried for eye contact, tried to relax, but his size and proximity made her uncomfortable. His fingers were pudgy and ringless. His watch had too many buttons on it. There was hair below his chin which the morning’s razor had failed to find.

  He didn’t ask a single question throughout her speech. At the end, he asked to see the e-mails.

  ‘Onscreen, or printed out?’

  ‘Either will do.’

  She took the sheets from her shoulder-bag. Bain moved his chair even closer so he could spread them out on the desk. He made a chronological line, working from the dates at the top of each one.

  ‘These are just the clues,’ he said.

  'Yes.’

  ‘I want all the e-mails.’

  So Siobhan booted up the laptop, connecting her mobile while she was at it. ‘Shall I check for new messages?’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  There were two from Quizmaster.

  Game time is elapsing. Do you wish to continue, Seeker?

  An hour later, this had been followed by:

  Communication or cessation?

  ‘Knows her vocab, doesn’t she?’ Bain stated. Siobhan looked at him. You keep saying “he”,’ he explained. ‘Thought it might help us keep an open mind if I … ’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Do you want to reply?’

  She started to shake her head, then changed it to a shrug. ‘I’m not sure what I want to say.’

  ‘Be easier to trace her if she doesn’t shut down.’

  She looked at Bain, then typed a reply—Thinking about it—and hit ‘send’. ‘Reckon that’ll do?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it definitely ranks as “communication”.’ Bain smiled. ‘Now let me have those other messages.’

  She hooked up to a printer, only to find there was no paper. ‘Hell,’ she hissed. The store cupboard was locked and she’d no idea where the key was. Then she remembered Rebus’s file, the one he’d taken with him when they’d interviewed Albie the medical student. He’d made it look intimidatingly thick by padding it with sheets from the photocopier. Siobhan walked to Rebus’s desk, started opening drawers. Bingo: the file was there, the half-ream still tucked inside. Two minutes later she had the history of Quizmaster’s correspondence. Bain shuffled the sheets so that everything could fit on her desktop, covering it almost completely.

  ‘See all this stuff?’ he asked, pointing to the bottom halves of some of the pages. You probably never look at it, do you?’

  Siobhan had to admit as much. Beneath the word ‘Headers’ lay more than a dozen lines of extra material: Return-Path, Message- ID, X-Mailer … It didn’t mean much to her.

  ‘This,’ Bain said, drawing his lips into his mouth to moisten them, ‘is the juicy stuff.’

  ‘Can we identify Quizmaster from it?’

  ‘Not straight away, but it’s a start.’

  ‘How come some of the messages don’t have headers?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘That,’ Bain said, ‘is the bad news. If a message has no headers, it means the sender is using the same ISP you are.’

  ‘But … ’

  Bain was nodding. ‘Quizmaster has more than one account.’

  ‘He’s switching ISPs?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon. I have a friend who’s averse to paying for Internet access. Before the freeserves came along, he’d sign up with a different ISP every month. That way he took advantage of all those “first month free” deals. When time was up, he cancelled and went looking elsewhere. One whole year, he didn’t pay a penny. What Quizmaster is doing is an extension of that.’ Bain ran his finger down each list of headers, stopping at the fourth line. ‘These tell you his ISP. See? Three different providers.’

  ‘Making him harder to catch?’

  ‘Harder, yes. But he must have set up a .. .’ He noticed the look on Siobhan’s face. ‘What?’ he asked.

  'You said “he”.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Would it be simpler if we stuck to that, do you think? Not that I don’t appreciate your idea of keeping an open mind.’

  Bain thought about it. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So, as I was saying, he—or she—must have set up a payment account with each one. At least, I’d think so. Even if you’re on a month’s free trial, they’ll usually ask for some details first, including a Visa card or bank account.’

  ‘So they can start charging you when the time comes?’

  Bain nodded. ‘Everyone leaves traces,’ he said quietly, staring at the sheets. ‘They just don’t think they do.’

  ‘It’s like forensics, isn’t it? A hair, a fieck of skin …'

  ‘Exactly.’ Bain was smiling again.

  ‘So we need to talk to the service providers, get them to hand over his details?’

  ‘If they’ll talk to us.’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Siobhan said. ‘They’ll have to.’

  He glanced in her direction. ‘There are channels, Siobhan.’

  ‘Channels?’

  ‘There's a Special Branch unit deals with nothing but high-tech crime. They concentrate on hard-core mostly, track down the buyers of kiddie porn, that kind of stuff. You wouldn’t believe the stories: hard disks hidden inside other hard disks, screen-savers which hide pornographic images … ’

  ‘We need their permission?’

  Bain shook his head. ‘We need their help.’ He checked his watch. ‘And it’s too late tonight to do anything about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s Friday night in London too.’ He looked at her. ‘Buy you a drink?’

  She wasn’t going to say yes: lots of excuses ready to use. But somehow she couldn’t say no, and they found themselves across the road in The Maltings. Again, he placed his briefcase on the floor next to him as they stood at the bar.

  ‘What do you keep in there?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She shrugged. ‘Laptop, mobile phone … gadgets and floppies … I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s what you’re supposed to think.’ He hefted the briefcase on to the bar and was about to snap it open, but then paused and shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Maybe when we know one another a bit better.’ He placed it back beside his feet.

  ‘Keeping secrets from me?’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s a fine start to a working relationship.’

  They both smiled as their drinks arrived: bottled lager for her, a pint of beer for him. There were no free tables.

  ‘So what’s St Leonard’s like?’ Bain asked.

  ‘Much the same as any other station, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s not every station has a John Rebus in it.’

  She looked at him. ‘How do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s something Claverhouse said, about you being Rebus’s apprentice.’

  ‘Apprentice!’ Even with the stereo blaring, her outburst had heads turning towards them. ‘Bloody cheek!’

  ‘Easy, easy,’ Bain said. ‘It’s just something Claverhouse said.’

  ‘Then you tell Claverhouse to stick his head up his arse.

  Bain started laughing.

  ‘I’m
not joking,’ she said. But then she started laughing too.

  After two more drinks, Bain said he felt peckish and what about seeing if Howie’s had a table. She wasn’t about to say yes—didn’t really feel that hungry after the lager—but somehow she found herself unable to say no.

  Jean Burchill was working late at the Museum. Ever since Professor Devlin had mentioned Dr Kennet Lovell, Jean had been intrigued. She’d decided to do some investigating of her own, to see if the pathologist’s theory could be substantiated. She knew that she could take a short cut by talking to Devlin himself, but something stopped her. She imagined she could still smell formaldehyde on his skin and feel the cold touch of dead flesh when he took her hand. History only brought her in contact with the long dead, and then usually as mere references in books or artefacts discovered during digs. When her husband had died, his pathology report had made for grim reading, yet whoever had written it had done so with relish, lingering on the liver abnormalities, its swollen and overtaxed nature. ‘Overtaxed’ was the very word the writer had used. Easy enough, she supposed, to diagnose alcoholism after death.

  She thought of John Rebus’s drinking. It didn’t seem to her to resemble Bill’s. Bill would toy with his breakfast, then head out to the garage where he kept a bottle hidden. A couple under his belt before getting into the car. She kept finding evidence: empty bourbon bottles in the cellar, and at the back of the topmost shelf of his closet. She never said anything. Bill went on being ‘the life and soul’, ‘steady and reliable’, ‘a fun guy’, right up until the illness stopped him working, sending him to a hospital bed instead.

  She didn’t think Rebus was a secret drinker in that way. He just liked to drink. If he did it alone, that was because he didn’t have many friends. She’d asked Bill once why he drank, and he hadn’t been able to answer her. She thought probably John Rebus had answers, though he would be reluctant to give them. They’d be to do with washing away the world, scouring his mind of the problems and questions he kept stored there.