In their minds, she was already a Missing Person, what police called a ‘MisPer’, but they’d waited till next morning before calling Flip’s mother at the family home in East Lothian. Mrs Balfour had wasted no time, dialling 999 immediately. After receiving what she felt was short shrift from the police switchboard, she’d called her husband at his London office. John Balfour was the senior partner in a private bank, and if the Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police wasn’t a client, someone certainly was: within an hour, officers were on the case – orders from the Big House, meaning Force HQ in Fettes Avenue.
David Costello had unlocked the flat for the two CID men. Within, they found no signs of a disturbance, no clues as to Philippa Balfour’s whereabouts, fate, or state of mind. It was a tidy flat: stripped floors, fresh paint on the walls. (The decorator was being interviewed, too.) The drawing room was large, with twin windows rising from floor level. There were two bedrooms, one turned into a study. The designer kitchen was smaller than the pine-panelled bathroom. There was a lot of David Costello’s stuff in the bedroom. Someone had piled his clothes on a chair, then placed some books and CDs on top, crowning the structure with a wash-bag.
When asked, Costello could only assume it was Flip’s work. His words: ‘We’d had a falling-out. This was probably her way of dealing with it.’ Yes, they’d had arguments before, but no, she’d never piled up all his stuff, not that he could remember.
John Balfour had travelled to Scotland by private jet – loaned him by an understanding client – and was at the New Town flat almost before the police.
‘Well?’ had been his first question. Costello himself offered an answer: ‘I’m sorry.’
Much had been read into those words by CID officers, discussing the case in private. An argument with your girlfriend turns nasty; next you know, she’s dead; you hide the body but, confronted by her father, innate breeding takes over and you blurt out a semi-confession.
I’m sorry.
So many ways to read those two short words. Sorry we argued; sorry you’ve been troubled; sorry this has happened; sorry I didn’t look after her; sorry for what I’ve done …
And now David Costello’s parents were in town, too. They’d taken two rooms at one of the best hotels. They lived on the outskirts of Dublin. The father, Thomas, was described as ‘independently wealthy’, while the mother, Theresa, worked as an interior designer.
Two rooms: there’d been some discussion back at St Leonard’s as to why they’d need two rooms. But then, when David was their only son, why did they bother to live in an eight-bedroom house?
There’d been even more discussion about what St Leonard’s was doing in a New Town case. The nearest cop shop to the flat was Gayfield Square, but additional officers had been drafted in from Leith, St Leonard’s and Torphichen.
‘Someone’s been pulling strings,’ was the universal view. ‘Drop everything, some posh bit’s done a runner.’
Privately, Rebus didn’t disagree.
‘Do you want anything?’ he said now. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
Costello shook his head.
‘Mind if I … ?’
Costello looked at him, seeming not to understand. Then realisation dawned. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s …’ He started to gesture.
‘I know where it is, thanks,’ Rebus said. He closed the door after him and stood for a moment in the hallway, glad to be out of the stifling drawing room. His temples throbbed and the nerves behind his eyes felt stretched. There were sounds coming from the study. Rebus stuck his head round the door.
‘I’m putting the kettle on.’
‘Good idea.’ Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke didn’t take her eyes from the computer screen.
‘Anything?’
‘Tea, please.’
‘I meant—’
‘Nothing yet. Letters to friends, some of her essays. I’ve got about a thousand e-mails to go through. Her password would help.’
‘Mr Costello says she never told him.’
Clarke cleared her throat.
‘What does that mean?’ Rebus asked.
‘It means my throat’s tickly,’ Clarke said. ‘Just milk in mine, thanks.’
Rebus left her and went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and searched for mugs and tea-bags.
‘When can I go home?’
Rebus turned to where Costello was standing in the hall.
‘Might be better if you didn’t,’ Rebus told him. ‘Reporters and cameras … they’ll keep on at you, phoning day and night.’
‘I’ll take the phone off the hook.’
‘Be like being a prisoner.’ Rebus watched the young man shrug. He said something Rebus didn’t catch.
‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t stay here,’ Costello repeated.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know … it’s just …’ He shrugged again, ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead. ‘Flip should be here. It’s almost too much. I keep remembering that the last time we were here together, we were having a row.’
‘What was it about?’
Costello laughed hollowly. ‘I can’t even remember.’
‘This was the day she disappeared?’
‘The afternoon, yes. I stormed out.’
‘You argue a lot then?’ Rebus tried to make the question sound casual.
Costello just stood there, staring into space, head shaking slowly. Rebus turned away, separated two Darjeeling tea-bags and dropped them into the mugs. Was Costello unravelling? Was Siobhan Clarke listening from behind the study door? They were babysitting Costello, yes, part of a team running three eight-hour shifts, but they’d brought him here for another reason, too. Ostensibly, he was on hand to explain names that occurred in Philippa Balfour’s correspondence. But Rebus had wanted him there because just maybe it was the scene of the crime. And just maybe David Costello had something to hide. The betting at St Leonard’s was even money; you could get two-to-one at Torphichen, while Gayfield had him odds-on favourite.
‘Your parents said you could move into their hotel,’ Rebus said. He turned to face Costello. ‘They’ve booked two rooms, so one’s probably going spare.’
Costello didn’t take the bait. He watched the detective for a few seconds more, then turned away, putting his head around the study door.
‘Have you found what you’re looking for?’ he asked.
‘It could take some time, David,’ Siobhan said. ‘Best just to let us get on with it.’
‘You won’t find any answers in there.’ He meant the computer screen. When she didn’t answer, he straightened a little and angled his head. ‘You’re some sort of expert, are you?’
‘It’s something that has to be done.’ Her voice was quiet, as though she didn’t want it to carry beyond the room.
He seemed about to add something, but thought better of it, and stalked back towards the drawing room instead. Rebus took Clarke’s tea through.
‘Now that’s class,’ she said, examining the tea-bag floating in the mug.
‘Wasn’t sure how strong you’d want it,’ Rebus explained. ‘What did you think?’
She considered for a moment. ‘Seems genuine enough.’
‘Maybe you’re just a sucker for a pretty face.’
She snorted, fished the tea-bag out and tipped it into the waste-bin. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘So what’s your thinking?’
‘Press conference tomorrow,’ Rebus reminded her. ‘Reckon we can persuade Mr Costello to make a public appeal?’
Two detectives from Gayfield Square had the evening shift. Rebus headed home and started to fill a bath. He felt like a long soak, and squeezed some washing-up liquid under the hot tap, remembering it was something his parents had done for him when he was a kid. You came in muddy from the football pitch, and it was a hot bath with washing-up liquid. It wasn’t that the family couldn’t afford bubble-bath: ‘It’s just washing liquid at a posh price,’ his mother had said.
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Philippa Balfour’s bathroom had boasted over a dozen different ‘balms’, ‘bathing lotions’ and ‘foaming oils’. Rebus did his own stock-take: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and a single toothbrush, plus a bar of soap. In the medicine cabinet: sticking plasters, paracetamol and a packet of condoms. He looked in the packet – one left. The sell-by was the previous summer. When he closed the cabinet, he met the gaze of his reflection. Grey-faced, hair streaked grey, too. Jowly, even when he stuck out his chin. Tried smiling, saw teeth which had missed their last two appointments. His dentist was threatening to strike him from his list.
‘Get in line, pal,’ Rebus muttered, turning away from the mirror before undressing.
The retirement party for Detective Chief Superintendent ‘Farmer’ Watson had commenced at six. It was actually the third or fourth party of its kind, but was to be the last – and the only official gathering. The Police Club on Leith Walk had been decked out with streamers, balloons and a huge banner which read FROM UNDER ARREST TO A WELL-DESERVED REST. Someone had dumped a bale of straw on the dance-floor, completing the farmyard scene with an inflatable pig and sheep. The bar was doing roaring business when Rebus arrived. He’d passed a trio of departing Big House brass on his way in. Checked his watch: six-forty. They’d given the retiring DCS forty minutes of their valuable time.
There’d been a presentation earlier in the day at St Leonard’s. Rebus had missed it; he’d been babysitting at the time. But he’d heard about the speech made by Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell. Several officers from the Farmer’s previous postings – some now retired themselves – were on hand to say a few words. They’d stuck around for the evening’s proceedings, and looked to have been drinking the afternoon away: ties discarded or hanging limply askew, faces shiny with alcoholic heat. One man was singing, his voice battling the music from the ceiling-mounted loudspeakers.
‘What can I get you, John?’ the Farmer said, leaving his table to join Rebus at the bar.
‘Maybe a small whisky, sir.’
‘Half-bottle of malt over here when you’ve a minute!’ the Farmer roared at the barman, who was busy topping up pints of lager. The Farmer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Rebus. ‘Did you see those buggers from the Big House?’
‘Passed them as I came in.’
‘Bloody orange juices all round, then a quick handshake before home.’ The Farmer was concentrating on not slurring his words, overcompensating as a result. ‘Never really understood the phrase “biscuit-ersed” before, but that’s what those lot were: biscuit-ersed to a man!’
Rebus smiled, told the barman to make it an Ardbeg.
‘A bloody double, mind,’ the Farmer ordered.
‘Been enjoying a drink yourself, sir?’ Rebus asked.
The Farmer blew out his cheeks. ‘Few old pals came to see me off.’ He nodded in the direction of the table. Rebus looked, too. He saw a posse of drunks. Beyond them stood tables spread with a buffet: sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps and peanuts. He saw faces he knew from all the Lothian and Borders Divisional HQs. Macari, Allder, Shug Davidson, Roy Frazer. Bill Pryde was in conversation with Bobby Hogan. Grant Hood was standing next to a couple of Crime Squad officers called Claverhouse and Ormiston, and trying not to look as though he was sucking up to them. George ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers was finding that DC Phyllida Hawes and DS Ellen Wylie weren’t about to fall for his chat-up lines. Jane Barbour from the Big House was exchanging gossip with Siobhan Clarke, who’d at one time been attached to Barbour’s Sex Offences Unit.
‘If anyone knew about this,’ Rebus said, ‘the bad guys would have a field day. Who’s left to mind the store?’
The Farmer laughed. ‘It’s a skeleton crew at St Leonard’s, all right.’
‘Good turn-out. Wonder if I’d get as many at mine.’
‘More, I’d bet.’ The Farmer leaned close. ‘The brass would all be there for a start, just to make sure they weren’t dreaming.’
It was Rebus’s turn to smile. He lifted his glass, toasted his boss. They both savoured their drinks, then the Farmer smacked his lips.
‘How long d’you think?’ he asked.
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’ve not got my thirty yet.’
‘Can’t be long though, can it?’
‘I’m not counting.’ But he was lying: most weeks he thought about it. ‘Thirty’ meant thirty years of service. That was when your pension hit the max. It was what a lot of officers lived for: retirement in their fifties and a cottage by the sea.
‘Here’s a story I don’t often tell,’ the Farmer said. ‘My first week on the force, they had me working the front desk, graveyard shift. This young lad – not even in his teens – comes in, walks straight up to the desk. “I’ve broke my wee sister,” he says.’ The Farmer’s eyes were staring into space. ‘I can see him now, the way he looked, the exact words … “I’ve broke my wee sister.” I hadn’t a clue what he meant. Turned out he’d pushed her down the stairs, killed her.’ He paused, took another gulp of whisky. ‘My first week on the force. Know what my sergeant said? “It can only get better.”’ He forced a smile. ‘I’ve never been sure he was right …’ Suddenly his arms went into the air, the smile broadening into a grin. ‘Here she is! Here she is! Just when I thought I was being stood up.’
His embrace almost swamped DCI Gill Templer. The Farmer planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re not the floor-show by any chance?’ he asked. Then he mimed a slap to his forehead. ‘Sexist language – are you going to report me?’
‘I’ll let it go this time,’ Gill said, ‘in exchange for a drink.’
‘My shout,’ Rebus said. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Long vodka.’
Bobby Hogan was yelling for the Farmer to go settle an argument.
‘Duty calls,’ the Farmer said by way of an apology, before heading unsteadily across the floor.
‘His party piece?’ Gill guessed.
Rebus shrugged. The Farmer’s speciality was naming all the books of the Bible. His record was just under a minute; no way would it be challenged tonight.
‘Long vodka,’ Rebus told the barman. He raised his whisky glass. ‘And a couple more of these.’ He saw Gill’s look. ‘One’s for the Farmer,’ he explained.
‘Of course.’ She was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Fixed a date for your own bash?’ Rebus asked.
‘Which one is that?’
‘I just thought, first female DCS in Scotland … got to be worth a night out, hasn’t it?’
‘I drank a Babycham when I heard.’ She watched the barman dribble angostura into her glass. ‘How’s the Balfour case?’
Rebus looked at her. ‘Is this my new Chief Super asking?’
‘John …’
Funny how that single word could say so much. Rebus wasn’t sure he caught all the nuances, but he caught enough.
John, don’t push this.
John, I know there’s a history between us, but that’s long dead.
Gill Templer had worked her arse off to get where she was now, but she was also under the microscope – plenty of people would want her to fail, including some she probably counted as friends.
Rebus just nodded and paid for the drinks, tipping one of the whiskies into the other glass.
‘Saving him from himself,’ he said, nodding towards the Farmer, who was already on to the New Testament.
‘Always the willing martyr,’ Gill said.
A cheer went up as the Farmer’s recitation finished. Someone said it was a new record, but Rebus knew it wasn’t. It was just another gesture, another version of the gold watch or mantel-clock. The malt tasted of seaweed and peat, but Rebus knew that whenever he drank Ardbeg from now on, he’d think of a small boy walking through the doors of a police station …
Siobhan Clarke was making her way across the room.
‘Congratulations,’ she said.
The two women shook hands.
‘Thanks, Siobhan,’ Gill said. ‘Ma
ybe it’ll be you one day.’
‘Why not?’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Glass ceiling’s what truncheons are for.’ She punched her fist into the air above her head.
‘Need a drink, Siobhan?’ Rebus asked.
The two women shared a look. ‘About all they’re good for,’ Siobhan said with a wink. Rebus left the pair of them laughing.
The karaoke started at nine. Rebus went to the toilets and felt the sweat cooling on his back. His tie was already off and in his pocket. His jacket was slung over one of the chairs near the bar. Personnel at the party changed as some headed off, either to prepare for the night shift or because their mobile or pager had news for them. Others arrived, having been home to change out of work clothes. A female officer from the St Leonard’s comms room had turned up in a short skirt, the first time Rebus had seen her legs. A rowdy quartet from one of the Farmer’s postings in West Lothian arrived bearing photos of the Farmer from a quarter-century before. They’d slipped a few doctored prints into the mix, grafting the Farmer’s head on to beefcake bodies, some of them in positions which went several leagues beyond compromising.
Rebus washed his hands, splashing some of the water on to his face and the back of his neck. Then of course there was only an electric hand-drier, so he had to use his handkerchief as a towel. Which was when Bobby Hogan walked in.
‘See you’re bottling it too,’ Hogan said, making for the urinals.
‘Ever heard me sing, Bobby?’
‘We should do a duet: “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”.’
‘We’d be about the only buggers who knew it.’
Hogan chuckled. ‘Remember when it was us that were the young turks?’
‘Long dead,’ Rebus said, half to himself. Hogan thought he’d misheard, but Rebus just shook his head.
‘So who’s next for the golden cheery-bye?’ Hogan asked, ready to head out again.
‘Not me,’ Rebus stated.
‘No?’
Rebus was wiping at his neck again. ‘I can’t retire, Bobby. It would kill me.’
Hogan snorted. ‘Same here. But then the job’s killing me too.’ The two men studied one another, then Hogan winked and yanked open the door. They walked back out into the heat and noise, Hogan opening his arms wide to greet an old friend. One of the Farmer’s cronies pushed a glass towards Rebus.