Holly felt his anger rise: best defence was attack, right? ‘Look,’ he hissed, ‘I’ve just given your paper the story of the year, scooped every competitor you’ve got, bar none. And this is how you go and treat me? Well, stuff your miserable paper and stuff you. Get someone else out here to cover the funeral, someone who knows the story the way I do. Meantime I think maybe I’ll be making a couple of calls to the competition—on my time, my phone bill. If that’s okay with you, you chiselling bastard. And if you want to know why I’m not at the cemetery, I’ll tell you. It’s because I’ve been stopped by a couple of Lothian’s finest. They won’t let me shake them off now I’ve gone and shat on them in print. You want the patrol car’s licence plate? Give me a second, maybe they’ll speak to you themselves!’
Holly shut up, but made sure he was breathing hard into the mouthpiece.
‘For once,’ the voice from Glasgow eventually said, ‘and maybe they should carve this on my tombstone, I think I may actually have heard Steve Holly tell the truth.’ There was another pause, and then a chuckle. ‘We’ve got them worried then?’
We … Steve Holly knew he was home and dry.
‘I’ve got what looks like a permanent escort, just in case I’m thinking of taking a hand off the wheel to pick my nose.’
‘So you’re not driving as we speak?’
‘Up on the verge, indicators going. And, with all due respect, boss, that’s another five minutes I’ve just wasted talking to you … Not that I don’t always enjoy our little tete-a’-tetes.’
Another chuckle. ‘An, fuck it, bit of steam needs to be let off now and then, eh? Tell you what, put that hotel through to accounts, okay?’
‘Right, boss.’
‘And get your raggedy arse back on the road.’
‘Ten-four, boss. This is the shining sword of truth, signing off.’ Holly cut the call, exhaled heavily, and did what he’d been told to do: got his raggedy arse back on that road …
The village of Falls had neither church nor cemetery, but there was a small, little-used church—more the size of a chapel, really—just off the road between Falls and Causland. The family had picked the spot and arranged everything, but secretly those friends of Flip’s who’d been able to attend thought the tranquillity and isolation out of keeping with Flip’s character. They couldn’t help feeling she’d have wanted something livelier, somewhere in the city itself, where people walked their dogs or went for a Sunday stroll, and where, in darkness, lively biker parties and furtive couplings might take place.
The graveyard here was too neat and compact, the graves too old and looked after. Flip would have wanted wild, straggling creepers and mosses, briar bushes and long wet grass. But then, when they considered, they realised she wouldn’t care one way or the other, because she was dead and that was the end of it. At that moment, perhaps for the first time, they were able to separate loss from numb shock, and to feel the pangs of a life left incomplete.
There were too many people for the church. The doors were left open so that the short service could be heard outside. The day was cool, the ground heavy with dew. Birds played in the trees, agitated at this unique invasion. Cars lined the main road, the hearse having discreetly pulled away, heading back to Edinburgh. Liveried drivers stood beside several of the vehicles, cigarettes in hands. Rollers, Mercs, Jags …
Nominally, the family had worshipped in a city church, and the minister had been persuaded to lead the service, though he was used to seeing the Balfours only at Christmas, and then not for the past two or three years. He was a thorough man, who had checked his script with the mother and father, asking solicitous questions whose answers would help him bulk out Flip’s biography, but he was also bemused by the attentions of the media. Being used to encountering cameras only at weddings and christenings, when one was pointed in his direction for the first time, he gave a beaming smile, only afterwards realising the inappropriateness of his action. These were not carnationed relatives but journalists, keeping their distance from the solemnities and their lenses trained only so far. Though the graveyard itself could be viewed clearly from the roadway, there’d be no photos of the coffin being lowered, or the parents by the graveside. Permission had been granted for one photograph only: of the coffin being carried from the church.
Of course, once the mourners were off church property, they would be reckoned fair game again.
‘Parasites,’ one of the guests, a Balfour’s client of long standing, had hissed. All the same, he knew he’d be buying more than one paper next morning, just to see if he figured in any of the spreads.
With the pews and side aisles being crammed, the police officers present kept their own distance, to the back of the crowd at the church doors. Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell stood with hands clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed. Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer was next to Detective Inspector Bill Pryde, just behind Carswell. Other officers were further off still, patrolling what grounds there were. Flip’s killer was still out there, and so, if the two could be differentiated, was Ranald Marr. Inside the church, John Balfour kept turning his head, examining each face as if looking for someone. Only those who knew the workings of Balfour’s Bank guessed who this missing face belonged to …
John Rebus was standing by the far wall, dressed in his good suit and a long green raincoat, its collar up. He kept thinking how bleak the surroundings were: typical bare hillside dotted with sheep; dull yellow gorse bushes. He’d read the noticeboard just inside the churchyard gate. It told him the building dated back to the seventeenth century, and that local farmers had raised the contributions necessary for its construction. At least one Templar grave had been found inside the low stone wall, leading historians to believe that a former chapel and burying place must have rested on this site.
‘The headstone from this Templar grave,’ he’d read, ‘can now be seen in the Museum of Scotland.’
He’d thought then of Jean, who, walking in a place like this, would notice things he couldn’t see, telltale signs from the past. But then. Gill had come towards him, face set, hands deep in pockets, and had asked what he thought he was doing there.
‘Paying my respects.’
He’d noticed Carswell move his head slightly, noting Rebus’s presence.
‘Unless there’s a law against it,’ he’d added, walking away.
Siobhan was about. fifty yards from him, but so far had acknowledged his presence only with a wave of her gloved hand. Her eyes were on the hillside, as if she thought the killer might suddenly reveal himself there. Rebus had his doubts. As the service ended, the coffin was carried out, and the cameras began their short work. The journalists present were studying the scene carefully, jotting mental paragraphs, or else speaking very quietly into mobile phones. Idly, Rebus wondered which service they were using: he still couldn’t get a signal out here on his.
The TV cameras, which had recorded the exit of the pall-bearers from the church, switched off and hung from their cameramen's arms. There was silence outside the churchyard walls as within, broken only by the slow crunching of feet over gravel and the occasional sob from a mourner.
John Balfour had one arm around his wife. Some of Flip’s student friends were hugging each other, faces buried in shoulders and chests. Rebus recognised faces: Tristram and Tina, Albert and Camille … No sign of Claire Benzie. He spotted some of Flip’s neighbours, too, including Professor Devlin, who had come bustling up to talk to him earlier, asking about the coffins, whether there’d been any progress. When Rebus had shaken his head, Devlin had asked how he was feeling.
‘Only, I sense a certain frustration,’ the old man had said.
‘That’s how it is sometimes.’
Devlin had studied him. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a pragmatist, Inspector.’
‘I’ve always found pessimism a great comforter,’ Rebus had told him, moving away.
Now, Rebus watched the rest of the procession. There was a smattering of poli
ticians, including the MSP Seona Grieve. David Costello preceded his parents out of the church, blinking at the sudden light, digging sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipping them on.
Victim’s eyes catching the likeness of the killer .
Anyone looking at David Costello would see only their own reflection. Was that precisely what Costello wanted them to see? Behind him, his mother and father walked their separate and very distinct walks, more like nodding acquaintances than spouses. As the crowd lost its shape, David found himself next to Professor Devlin. Devlin stuck out a hand for David to shake, but the young man just stared at it, until Devlin withdrew and patted his arm instead.
But now something was happening … A car arriving, door slamming, and a man dressed casually—woollen V-neck and grey slacks—jogging up the road and in through the churchyard gates. Rebus recognised an unshaven and bleary-eyed Ranald Marr, guessed at once that Marr had slept in his Maserati, saw Steve Holly’s face crease as he wondered what was going on. The procession had just reached the graveside when Marr caught it up. He walked straight to the front and stood in front of John and Jacqueline Balfour. Balfour released his grip on his wife, hugged Marr instead, the gesture returned. Templer and Pryde were looking to Colin Carswell, who made a motion with his hands, palms down. Easy, he was saying. We go easy.
Rebus didn’t think any of the reporters had noticed Carswell; too busy trying to make sense of this curious interruption. And then he saw that Siobhan was staring into the grave, eyes flickering to the coffin and back, as if she could see something there. All at once, she turned her back on proceedings and started walking between the tombstones, as if searching for something she’d dropped.
‘For I am the Resurrection and the Life,’ the minister was saying. Marr was standing beside John Balfour now, eyes on the coffin and nothing else. Off to one side, Siobhan was still moving between the graves. Rebus didn’t think any of the reporters could see her: the mourners formed a barrier between her and them. She crouched down in front of one stubby gravestone, seemed to be reading its inscription. Then she rose to her feet again and moved off, but more slowly now, without the same sense of urgency. When she turned, she saw that Rebus was watching her. She flashed him a quick smile, which for some reason he didn’t find reassuring. Then she was on the move again, round to the rear of the mourning party, and out of his immediate sight.
Carswell was muttering something to Gill Templer: instructions on how to deal with Marr. Rebus knew they’d probably let him leave the churchyard, but insist on accompanying him immediately afterwards. Maybe they’d head to Junipers, do the questioning there; more likely, Marr wouldn’t be seeing the marquee and the finger buffet. Instead, it would be an interview room at Gayfield and a mug of greyish tea.
‘Ashes to ashes … ’
Rebus couldn’t help it; found the first few bars of the Bowie tune bouncing through his head.
A couple of the reporters were already preparing to head off, either back to the city or up the road to Junipers, where they could make a tally of the invited guests. Rebus slipped his hands into the pockets of the raincoat, started a slow patrol of the churchyard’s perimeter. Earth was raining on to Philippa Balfour’s coffin, the last rain the polished wood would ever feel. Her mother sent a cry up into the sky. It was carried by the breeze towards the surrounding hills.
Rebus found himself standing in front of a small headstone. Its owner had lived from 1876 to 1937. Not quite sixty-one when he died, missing the worst of Hitler, and maybe just too old to have fought in the First World War. He’d been a carpenter, probably serving the surrounding farms. For a second, Rebus remembered the coffin-maker. Then he went back to the name on the headstone—Francis Campbell Finlay—and had to suppress a smile Siobhan had looked at the box in which lay the remains of Flip Balfour, and she’d thought: boxing. Then she’d looked at the grave itself and realised that it was a place where the sun didn’t shine. Quizmaster’s clue had been leading her right here, but it was only once she’d arrived that she’d been able to work it out. She’d gone looking for Frank Finlay, and found him. Rebus wondered what else she’d found when she crouched in front of the headstone. He glanced back to where the mourners were departing the churchyard, the chauffeurs stubbing out their cigarettes and preparing to open car doors. He couldn’t see Siobhan, but Carswell himself had taken Ranald Marr to one side so they could have a discussion, Carswell doing the talking, Marr responding with resigned nods of the head. When Carswell put out his hand, Marr dropped his car keys into it.
Rebus was the last to leave. Some of the cars were making three- point turns. A tractor-trailer was waiting to get past. Rebus didn’t recognise the driver. Siobhan was standing on the verge, leaning her arms on her car roof, in no hurry. Rebus crossed the road, nodded a greeting.
‘Thought we might see you here,’ was all she said. Rebus leaned one of his own arms on the roof. ‘Get a bollocking, did you?’
‘Like I told Gill, it’s not against the law.’
'You saw Marr arriving?’
Rebus nodded. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Carswell’s driving him up to the house. Marr wants a couple of minutes with Balfour to explain things.’
‘What things?’
‘We’re next in line.’
‘Doesn’t sound to me like he’s about to confess to murder.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘I was wondering … ’ Rebus let the utterance fade.
She tore her eyes away from the spectacle of Carswell attempting a three-pointer in the Maserati. 'Yes?’
‘The latest clue: Stricture. Any more ideas?’ Stricture, he was thinking, as in confinement. There was nothing in life quite as confining as a coffin …
She blinked a couple of times, then shook her head. ‘What about you?’
‘I did wonder if “boxing” might mean putting things in boxes.’
‘Mmm.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe.’
‘Want me to keep trying?’
‘Can’t do any harm.’ The Maserati was roaring down the road, Carswell having applied just too much pressure to the accelerator.
‘I suppose not.’ Rebus turned to face her. You heading on to Junipers?’
She shook her head. ‘Back to St Leonard’s.’
‘Things to do, eh?’
She took her arms off the car roof, slid her right hand into the pocket of her black Barbour jacket. ‘Things to do,’ she agreed.
Rebus noticed that she held the car keys in her left hand. He wondered what was in that right-hand pocket.
‘Ca’ canny then, eh?’ he said.
‘See you back at the ranch.’
‘I’m still on the blacklist, remember?’
She took her hand out of her pocket, opened her driver’s-side door. ‘Right,’ she said, getting in. He leaned down to peer through the window. She offered him a brief smile and nothing more. He took a step back as the car came to life, wheels sliding before finding tarmac.
She’d done just what he’d have done: kept to herself whatever it was she’d found. Rebus jogged to where his own car was parked and made set to follow.
Driving back through Falls, Rebus slowed a little outside Bev Dodds’ cottage. He’d half expected to see her at the funeral. The interment had brought with it a number of sightseers, though police cars each end of the road had dissuaded the casual intruder. Parking space was at a premium in the village, too, though most Wednesdays he had the feeling there’d be room to spare. The potter’s makeshift sign had been replaced with something more eye-catching and professionally made. Rebus pushed a little harder on the accelerator, keeping Siobhan’s car in view. The coffins were still in the bottom drawer of his desk. He knew Dodds wanted the one from Falls back in her possession. Maybe he’d be charitable, pick it up this afternoon and drop it off Thursday or Friday. One more excuse to visit the ranch, where he could have another go at Siobhan—always supposing that was where she was headed …
He rememb
ered there was a half-bottle of whisky under his driver’s seat. He really did feel like a drink—it was what you did after funerals. The alcohol washed away death’s inevitability. ‘Tempting,’ he said to himself, slotting home a cassette tape. Early Alex Harvey: The Faith Healer. Problem was, early Alex Harvey wasn’t too far removed from late Alex Harvey. He wondered how big a part alcohol had played in the Glasgow singer’s demise. You started making a line of booze deaths, it would just refuse ever to come to an end …
‘You think I killed her, don’t you?’
Three of them in the interview room. An unnatural hush outside the door: whispers and tippy-toes and phones snatched up almost before they could ring. Gill Templer, Bill Pryde, and Ranald Marr.
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mr Marr,’ Gill said.
‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’
‘Just a few follow-up questions, sir,’ Bill Pryde said.
Marr snorted, not inclined to grace such a remark with anything more.
‘How long did you know Philippa Balfour, Mr Marr?’
He looked to Gill Templer. ‘Since she was born. I was her godfather.’
Gill made a note of this. ‘And when did the two of you start feeling a physical attraction for one another?’
‘Who says we did?’
‘Why did you leave home like that, Mr Marr?’
‘It’s been a very stressful time. Look,’ Marr shifted in his chair, ‘should I have a lawyer present, do you think?’
‘As you were informed earlier, that’s entirely up to you.’
Marr thought about it, then shrugged. ‘Proceed,’ he said.
‘Were you having a relationship with Philippa Balfour?’
‘What sort of relationship?’
Bill Pryde’s voice was a bear-growl. ‘The sort her dad would string you up by the balls for.’
‘I think I take your meaning.’ Marr looked as though he was thinking through his answer. ‘Here’s what I will say: I’ve spoken to John Balfour and he has taken a responsible attitude to that conversation. The talk we had—whatever I said to him—has no bearing on this case. And that’s pretty much it.’ He sat back in his chair.