Falls

  ‘Split it down the middle?’ Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, took three fivers from his pocket.

  Outside, he asked how she was getting home.

  ‘My car’s at St Leonard’s: need a lift?’

  ‘Nice night for a walk,’ he said, looking up at the clouds. ‘Just promise me you will go home, take a break … ’

  ‘Promise, Mum.’

  ‘And now that you’ve convinced yourself that Quizmaster didn’t kill Flip … '

  'Yes?’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to bother with the game any more, do you?’ She blinked, told him she supposed he was right. But he could see she didn’t believe it. The game was her part of the case. She couldn’t just let it go … He knew he’d have felt the same way.

  They parted on the pavement, Rebus heading back to the flat. When he got in, he called Jean, but she wasn’t at home. Maybe another late night at the Museum, but she wasn’t answering there either. He stood in front of his dining table, staring at the’ case notes there. He’d pinned some sheets to the wall, detailing the four women—Jesperson, Gibbs, Gearing and Farmer. He was trying to answer a question: why would the killer leave the coffins? Okay, they were his ‘signature’, but that signature had not been recognised. It had taken the best part of thirty years for someone to realize that there even was a signature. If the killer had hoped to be identified with his crimes, wouldn’t he have repeated the exercise, or tried some other method: a note to the media or the police? So say they weren’t a signature as such; say his motive had been … what? Rebus saw them as little memorials, holding meaning only for the person who’d left them there. And couldn’t the same be said for the Arthur’s Seat coffins? Why had the person responsible not come forward in some form? Answer: because once found, the coffins had ceased to have meaning for their creator. They’d been memorials, never meant to be found or associated with the Burke and Hare killings …

  Yes, there were connections between those coffins and the ones Jean had identified. Rebus was wary of adding the Falls coffin to the list, but he felt a connection there, too—a looser connection, to be sure, but still powerful.

  He’d checked his answering-machine, just the one message: his solicitor, concerning a retired couple who would show the flat to potential buyers, relieving him ofthe burden. He knew he’d have to take his little collage down before then, hide everything away, do some tidying …

  He tried Jean’s number again, but there was still no answer. Stuck a Steve Earle album on: The Hard Way.

  Rebus didn’t know of any other …

  You’re lucky I didn’t change my name,’ Jan Benzie said. Jean had just explained how she’d called every Benzie in the phone book. ‘I’m married to Jack McCoist these days.’

  They were sitting in the drawing room of a three-storey townhouse in the city’s west end, just off Palmerston Place. Jan Benzie was tall and thin, and wore a knee-length black dress with a sparkling brooch just above her right breast. The room reflected her elegance: antiques and polished surfaces, thick walls and floors muffling any sound.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  ‘There’s not much I can add to what I told you on the phone.’ Jan Benzie sounded distracted, as if part of her was elsewhere. Maybe that was why she’d agreed to the appointment in the first place … It’s been rather a strange day, Miss Burchill,’ she said now.

  ‘Oh?’

  But Jan Benzie just shrugged one shoulder and asked again if Jean would like something to drink.

  ‘I don’t want to keep you. You said Patricia Lovell was a relation?’

  ‘Great-great-grandmother … something like that.’

  ‘She died very young, didn’t she?’

  You probably know more about her than I do. I’d no idea she was buried at Calton Hill.’

  ‘How many children did she have?’

  ‘Just the one, a girl.’

  ‘Do you know if she died in childbirth?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Jan Benzie laughed at the absurdity of the question.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jean said, ‘I know this must all sound a bit ghoulish … ’

  ‘A bit. You say you’re researching Kennet Lovell?’

  Jean nodded. ‘Would your family have any of his papers?’

  Jan Benzie shook her head. ‘None.’

  'You’ve no relatives who might …’

  ‘I really don’t think so, no.’ She moved an arm towards the occasional table next to her chair, lifted her cigarette packet and eased one out. ‘Do you …’

  Jean shook her head and watched Jan Benzie light the cigarette with a slim gold lighter. The woman seemed to do everything in slow motion. It was like watching a film at the wrong speed.

  ‘It’s just that I’m looking for some correspondence between Dr Lovell and his benefactor.’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was one.’

  ‘A kirk minister back in Ayrshire.’

  ‘Really?’ Jan Benzie said, but Jean could tell she wasn’t interested. Right now, the cigarette between her fingers meant more to her than anything else.

  Jean decided to plough on. ‘There’s a portrait of Dr Lovell in Surgeons’ Hall. I think maybe it was executed at the minister’s behest.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘He had several wives, Dr Lovell, did you know that?’

  ‘Three, wasn’t it? Not so many, really, in the scheme of things.’ Benzie seemed to grow thoughtful. ‘I’m on my second … who’s to say it’ll stop there?’ She examined the ash at the end of her cigarette. ‘My first committed suicide, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’ She paused. ‘Don’t suppose I can expect the same of Jack.’

  Jean wasn’t sure what she meant, but Jan Benzie was studying her, seeming to expect some reply. ‘I suppose,’ Jean said, ‘it would look a bit suspicious, losing two husbands.’

  ‘And yet Kennet Lovell can lose three wives … ?’

  Jean’s thinking exactly …

  Jan Benzie had risen to her feet, walked over to the window. Jean took another look around the room. All the artefacts, the paintings and framed photographs, candlesticks and crystal ash trays … she got the feeling none of it belonged to Benzie. It had come with her marriage to Jack McCoist, part of the baggage he brought.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better be going. Sorry again to have …'

  ‘No trouble,’ Benzie said. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ Suddenly there were voices out in the hall, and the sound of the front door being closed. The voices began ascending the staircase, coming closer.

  ‘Claire and my husband,’ Jan said, sitting back down again, arranging herself the way an artist’s model might. The door burst open and Claire Benzie stormed into the room. To Jean’s eye, she bore no physical resemblance to her mother, but perhaps that was partly down to her entrance, the way she crackled with energy.

  ‘I don’t bloody care,’ she was saying. ‘They can lock me up if they want, throw away the bloody key!’ She was pacing the room as Jack McCoist walked in. He had his wife’s slow movements, but they seemed merely the result of fatigue.

  ‘Claire, all I’m saying is …’ He leaned down to peck his wife’s cheek. ‘What a bloody awful time we’ve had,’ he informed her. ‘Cops crawling over Claire like lice. Is there any way you can control your daughter, darling?’ His words died as he straightened and saw they had a visitor. Jean was rising to her feet.

  ‘I really should be going,’ she said.

  ‘Who the hell’s this?’ Claire snarled.

  ‘Ms Burchill is from the Museum,’ Jan explained. ‘We’ve been talking about Kennet Lovell.’

  ‘Christ, not her as well!’ Claire tossed her head back, then dropped on to one of the room’s two sofas.

  ‘I’m researching his life,’ Jean explained for McCoist’s benefit
. He was pouring himself a whisky at the drinks cabinet.

  ‘At this time of night?’ was all he said.

  ‘His portrait’s hanging in some hall somewhere,’ Jan Benzie told her daughter. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘Of course I bloody did! It’s in the museum at Surgeons’ Hall.’ She looked at Jean. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

  ‘No, actually …'

  ‘Well, wherever you’re from, why don’t you piss off back there? I’m just out of police custody and—’

  'You will not speak like that to a guest in this house!’ Jan Benzie yelped, springing from her chair. ‘Jack, tell her.’

  ‘Look, I really should … ’ Jean’s words were swamped as a three- way argument started. She backed away, heading for the door.

  'You’ve no bloody right … !'

  ‘Christ, anyone would think it was you they interrogated!’

  ‘That’s still no excuse for …'

  ‘Just one quiet drink, is that too much to … '

  They didn’t seem to notice as Jean opened the door, closing it again behind her. She walked down the carpeted stairs on tiptoe, and opened the front door as quietly as she could, escaping into the street, where, finally, she let out a huge breath of air. Walking away, she glanced back towards the drawing-room window, but couldn’t see anything. The houses here had walls so thick, they could double as padded cells, and it felt like that was just what she’d escaped from.

  Claire Benzie’s temper had been something to behold.

  13

  Wednesday morning, there was still no sigu of Ranald Marr. His wife Dorothy had called Junipers and spoken to John Balfour’s PA. She was reminded in no uncertain terms that the family had a funeral to see to, and that the PA didn’t feel able to disturb either Mr or Mrs Balfour further until some time thereafter.

  ‘They’ve lost a daughter, you know,’ the PA said haughtily.

  ‘And I’ve lost my fucking husband, you bitch!’ Dorothy Marr spat back, recoiling ever so slightly afterwards as she realised it was probably the first time she’d used a swear-word in her adult life. But it was too late to apologise: the PA had already put down the phone and was informing a lesser member of the Balfour staff not to accept any further calls from Mrs Marr.

  Junipers itself was full of people: family members and friends were gathering there. Some, having travelled far, had stayed the previous night, and were now wandering the many corridors in search of something resembling breakfast. Mrs Dolan the cook had decided that hot food would not be seemly on such a day, so her usual vapour trail of sausage, bacon and eggs or pungent kedgeree could not be followed. In the dining room sat an array of cereal packets and preserves, the latter home-made but not including Mrs Dolan’s blackcurrant and apple, which had been Flip’s favourite since childhood. She’d left that particular jar back in the pantry. Last time anyone had eaten some, it had been Flip herself on one of her infrequent visits.

  Mrs Dolan was telling her daughter Catriona as much, as Catriona comforted her and handed over another paper handkerchief. One of the guests, sent to enquire whether coffee and cold milk might be available, put his head round the kitchen door, but withdrew again, embarrassed to be witnessing the indomitable Mrs Dolan brought low like this.

  In the library, John Balfour was telling his wife that he didn’t want ‘any bloody police thickos’ at the cemetery.

  ‘But, John, they’ve all worked so hard,’ his wife was saying, ‘and they’ve asked to be there. Surely they’ve as much right as …’ Her voice died away.

  ‘As who?’ His voice had grown less angry, but suddenly colder.

  ‘Well,’ his wife said, ‘all these people we don’t know …'

  'You mean people I know? You’ve met them at parties, functions. Jackie, for Christ’s sake, they want to pay their respects.’

  His wife nodded and stayed quiet. After the funeral, there would be a buffet lunch back at Junipers, not just for close family but for all her husband’s associates and acquaintances, nearly seventy of them. Jacqueline had wanted a much smaller affair, something that could be accommodated in the dining room. As it was, they’d had to order a marquee, which had been installed on the back lawn. An Edinburgh firm—run by another of her husband’s clients, no doubt—was doing the catering. The lady owner was busy out there now, supervising the unloading of tables, cloths, crockery and cutlery from what seemed a never-ending series of small vans. Jacqueline’s small victory so far had been to widen the circle of invitees to include Flip’s own friends, though this had not been without its awkward moments. David Costello, for example, would have to be invited, along with his parents, though she’d never liked David and felt he held the family in mild distaste. She was hoping they would either fail to turn up, or would not linger.

  ‘Silver lining, in a way,’ John was droning on, hardly aware of her presence in the room. ‘Something like this, it binds them all to Balfour’s, makes it harder for them to make a move elsewhere …'

  Jacqueline rose shakily to her feet.

  ‘We’re burying our daughter, John! This isn’t about your~bloody business! Flip’s not part of some … commercial transaction!’

  Balfour glanced towards the door, making sure it was closed. ‘Keep your voice down, woman. It was only a … I didn’t mean … ’ He slumped on to the sofa suddenly, face in his hands. You’re right, I wasn’t thinking … God help me.’

  His wife sat down next to him, took his hands and lowered them from his face. ‘God help both of us, John,’ she said.

  Steve Holly had managed to persuade his boss at the paper’s Glasgow HQ that he needed to be on the scene as early as possible. He’d also, knowing the geographical illiteracy rampant in Scotland, managed to persuade him that Falls was a lot further away from Edinburgh than was actually the case, and that Greywalls Hotel would make an ideal overnight stop. He hadn’t bothered explaining that Greywalls was in Gullane, and consequently wasn’t much more than a half-hour’s drive from Edinburgh, or that Gullane, as the crow flew, wasn’t exactly between Falls and Edinburgh. But what did it matter? He’d had his overnighter, joined by his girlfriend Gina, who wasn’t really his girlfriend but just someone he’d dated a few times over the previous three months. Gina had been keen, but had worried about getting to work the next morning, so then Steve had fixed a taxi for her. He knew how he’d wing it, too: he’d say his car broke down and he’d used the taxi himself to get back to town …

  After a fabulous dinner and a walk around the garden—designed by someone called Jekyll apparently—Steve and Gina had made ample use of their ample bed before sleeping like logs, so that the first they knew of it, Gina’s cab was waiting and Steve had to tuck into breakfast alone, which would have been his preference anyway. But then the first disappointment: the newspapers … all of them broadsheets. He’d stopped in Gullane and bought the competition on his way out to Falls, leaving them on the passenger seat and flicking through them as he drove, cars flashing and tooting at him as he took more than his share of road.

  ‘Bollocks!’ he’d yelled from his window, giving each sheep-shagger and country bumpkin the finger as he got on the mobile, wanting to make sure Tony the photographer was primed for the cemetery shoot. He knew Tony had been out to Falls a couple of times to see Bev, or ‘the Potty Potter’ as Steve had come to call her. He thought Tony reckoned he was in there. His advice had been simple: ‘She’s a nutter, mate—you might get a shag, but two-to-one you wake up with your old wotsit sliced off and lying beside you in the bed.’ To which Tony had laughed and said he just wanted to persuade Bev into some ‘art poses’ for his ‘portfolio’. So when Steve got through to Tony this morning, his first words, as usual, were:

  ‘Got her on your potter’s wheel yet, mate?’

  Then, also as usual, he started laughing at his own joke, which was what he was doing when he happened to glance in the rearview and caught the cop car up his bahooky, lights flashing. No idea how long it had been there.

  ?
??Have to call you back, Tony,’ he said, braking and pulling on to the verge. ‘Just make sure you get to the church on time.’

  ‘Morning, officers,’ he said, stepping out of the car.

  ‘And a good morning to you, Mr Holly,’ one of the uniforms said.

  Which was when Steve Holly remembered he wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with the Lothian and Borders Police.

  Ten minutes later, he was back on the road, the cops tailing him to prevent, as they’d put it themselves, ‘further infractions’. When his mobile went, he thought about not answering, but it was Glasgow, so he mirror-signal-manoeuvred back on to the verge and took the call, watching the cops stop ten yards back.

  'Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Think you’re a clever little bastard, don’t you, Stevie Boy?’

  His boss.

  ‘Not right this second, no,’ Steve Holly said.

  ‘Friend of mine plays golf in Gullane. It’s practically in Edinburgh, you turd. And the same goes for Falls. So any notion you had of turning that little trip round as expenses can now be stuck well and truly up your arse.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Where are you anyway?’

  Holly looked around at fields and drystane dykes. There was the distant drone of a tractor.

  ‘I’m scoping out the cemetery, waiting for Tony to turn up. I’ll head to Junipers in a couple of mins, follow them to the church.’

  ‘Oh aye? Care to confirm that?’

  ‘Confirm what?’

  ‘That outright fucking lie that just tripped off your tongue!’

  Holly licked his lips. ‘I don’t follow.’ What was it, did the paper have a tracking device fixed to his car?

  ‘Tony phoned the picture editor not five minutes ago. The picture editor who happened to be standing next to my bloody desk. Guess where your missing photographer was calling from?’

  Holly said nothing.

  ‘Go on, take a wild stab, because that’s what I’m going to take at you next time I see you.’

  ‘The cemetery?’ Holly said.

  ‘That your final answer? Maybe you want to phone a friend.’