The Falls

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ready to make at least a partial peace, ‘we’ll go talk to the Chief Super.’ And, as Rebus started nodding, she added: ‘Though I’m willing to bet it’s not what you would have done.’

  ‘Me?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have had the first clue, Siobhan. Know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because e-mail’s a black art as far as I’m concerned.’

  Siobhan smiled, but there was a thread running through her mind: black art … coffins used in witches’ spells … Flip’s death on a hillside called Hellbank.

  Witchcraft?

  Six of them in the cramped office at Gayfield Square: Gill Templer and Bill Pryde; Rebus and Ellen Wylie; Siobhan and Grant. Templer was the only one sitting. Siobhan had printed off all the e-mails, and Templer was sifting through them silently. Finally she looked up.

  ‘Is there any way we can identify Quizmaster?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Siobhan admitted.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Grant added. ‘I mean, I’m not sure how, but I think it’s possible. Look at these viruses, somehow the Americans always seem to be able to trace them back.’

  Templer nodded. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘The Met has a computer crime unit, doesn’t it?’ Grant went on. ‘They could have links to the FBI.’

  Templer studied him. ‘Think you’re up to it, Grant?’

  He shook his head. ‘I like computers, but this is way out of my league. I mean, I’d be happy to liaise …’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Templer turned to Siobhan. ‘This German student you were telling us about …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like a bit more detail.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Suddenly Templer’s gaze shifted to Wylie. ‘Can you run with that, Ellen?’

  Wylie looked surprised. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’re splitting us up?’ Rebus interrupted.

  ‘Unless you can think of a good reason not to.’

  ‘A doll was left at Falls, now the body’s turned up. It’s the same pattern as before.’

  ‘Not according to your coffin-maker. Different workmanship altogether, I believe he said.’

  ‘You’re putting it down to coincidence?’

  ‘I’m not putting it down to anything, and if something else crops up in connection with it, you can start back in again. But we’re on a murder case now, and that changes everything.’

  Rebus glanced towards Wylie. She was simmering – the transfer from dusty old autopsies to a background check on a student’s curious demise … it wasn’t exactly thrilling her. But at the same time she wasn’t going to throw her weight behind Rebus – too busy working on her own sense of injustice.

  ‘Right,’ Templer said into the silence. ‘For the moment, you’ll be going back to the body of the investigation – and yes, I know there’s a joke in there somewhere.’ She tidied the sheets of paper together, made to hand them back to Siobhan. ‘Can you stay behind for a sec?’

  ‘Sure,’ Siobhan said. The rest of them squeezed out of the room, glad of the fresher, cooler air. Rebus, however, loitered near Templer’s door. He stared across the room to the array of information on the far wall – faxes, photos and the rest. Someone was busy dismantling the collage, now that this was no longer a MisPer inquiry. The pace of the investigation seemed already to have slowed, not from any sense of shock or out of respect for the dead, but because things had changed: there was no need to rush, no one out there whose life they might just possibly save …

  Inside the office, Templer was asking Siobhan if she’d like to reconsider the liaison position.

  ‘Thanks,’ Siobhan replied. ‘But I don’t think so.’

  Templer leaned back in her chair. ‘Want to share the reasons with me?’

  Siobhan looked around, as though seeking out the phrases that might be hidden on the bare walls. ‘I can’t think of any offhand,’ she shrugged. ‘I just don’t fancy it right now.’

  ‘I may not fancy asking again.’

  ‘I know. Maybe I’m just too deep into this case. I want to keep working it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Templer said, dragging out the second syllable. ‘I think that’s us finished here.’

  ‘Right.’ Siobhan reached for the doorhandle, trying not to read too much into those words.

  ‘Oh, could you ask Grant to pop in?’

  Siobhan paused with the door an inch or two open, then nodded and left the room. Rebus stuck his head round.

  ‘Got two seconds, Gill?’

  ‘Just barely.’

  He wandered in anyway. ‘Something I forgot to mention …’

  ‘Forgot?’ She produced a wry smile.

  He had three sheets of fax paper in his hand. ‘These came through from Dublin.’

  ‘Dublin?’

  ‘A contact there called Declan Macmanus. I was asking about the Costellos.’

  She looked up from the sheets. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ‘We’d already looked into the family.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course: a quick phone call, and back comes the news that there are no convictions. But you know as well as I do, that’s often just the beginning of the story.’

  And in the case of the Costellos, that story was a long one. Rebus knew he had Templer hooked. When Grant Hood knocked, she told him to come back in five minutes.

  ‘Better make that ten,’ Rebus added, winking towards the young man. Then he moved three file-boxes from the spare chair and made himself comfortable.

  Macmanus had come good. David Costello had been wild in his youth: ‘the result of too much money given and not enough attention’, in Macmanus’s phrase. Wild meant fast cars, speeding tickets, verbal warnings issued where some miscreants would have found themselves behind bars. There were fights in pubs, smashed windows and phone boxes, at least two episodes when he’d relieved himself in a public place – O’Connell Bridge, mid-afternoon. Even Rebus had been impressed by this last. It was said that the eighteen-year-old David had held a record of sorts in the number of pubs he was barred from at the same time: the Stag’s Head, J. Grogan’s, Davie Byrnes, O’Donoghue’s, Doheny and Nesbitt’s, the Shelbourne … eleven in total. The previous year, an ex-girlfriend complained to police that he’d punched her in the face outside a nightclub on the banks of the Liffey. Templer looked up when she reached that part.

  ‘She’d had a few, couldn’t remember the name of the nightclub,’ Rebus said. ‘Eventually, she let it drop.’

  ‘You think maybe money changed hands?’

  He shrugged. ‘Keep reading.’

  Macmanus conceded that David Costello had cleaned up his act, pinpointing the turnaround to an eighteenth birthday party, where a friend had tried to leap between two roofs for a dare, falling short, plummeting into the alley below.

  He wasn’t killed. But there was brain damage, spinal damage … not much more than a vegetable, cared for round the clock. Rebus thought back to David’s flat – the half-bottle of Bell’s … Not a drinker, he’d thought.

  ‘Bit of a shock at that age,’ Macmanus had written. ‘Got David clean and sober in no seconds flat, otherwise he might have turned out not so much a chip off the old block as a bloody great boulder.’

  Like son, like father. Thomas Costello had managed to write off eight cars, yet never lose his driving licence. His wife Theresa had twice called police to the home when her husband was in a rage. Both times they’d found her in the bathroom, door locked but missing some splinters where Thomas had started attacking it with a carving knife. ‘Just trying to get the bloody thing open,’ he’d explained to officers the first time. ‘Thought she was going to do herself in.’

  ‘It’s not me that needs doing in!’ Theresa had yelled back. (In the margins of the fax, Macmanus had added a handwritten note to the effect that Theresa had twice taken overdoses, and that everyone in the city felt sorry for her: hard-working wife, abusive and lazy
husband who just happened to be hugely wealthy through no significant effort of his own.)

  At the Curragh, Thomas had verbally abused a tourist visitor and been ejected by stewards. He’d threatened to cut off a bookmaker’s penis after the man had asked if Mr Costello might wish finally to settle up his huge losses, losses the bookmaker had been carrying for several months.

  And so it went on. The two rooms at the Caledonian made sense now …

  ‘Lovely family,’ Templer commented.

  ‘Dublin’s finest.’

  ‘And all of it covered up by police.’

  ‘Tut tut,’ Rebus remarked. ‘We wouldn’t do that here, would we?’

  ‘Dear me, no,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘And your thinking on all this is … ?’

  ‘That there’s a side of David Costello we didn’t know about till now. And that goes for his family, too. Are they still in the city?’

  ‘They went back to Ireland a couple of days ago.’

  ‘But they’ll be coming over again?’

  She nodded. ‘Now that Philippa’s been found.’

  ‘Has David Costello been told?’

  ‘He’ll have heard. If Philippa’s parents haven’t said, the media will have.’

  ‘I’d like to have been there,’ Rebus said to himself.

  ‘You can’t be everywhere.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Okay, talk to the parents when they get here.’

  ‘And the boyfriend?’

  She nodded. ‘But not too heavy … doesn’t look good with someone who’s grieving.’

  He smiled. ‘Always thinking of the media, eh, Gill?’

  She looked at him. ‘Could you send Grant in, please?’

  ‘One impressionable young officer coming right up.’ He pulled open the door. Grant was standing there, rocking on the heels of his shoes. Rebus didn’t say anything, just gave another wink as he passed.

  Ten minutes later, Siobhan was getting a coffee from the machine when Grant found her.

  ‘What did Templer want?’ she asked, unable to stop herself.

  ‘Offered me liaison.’

  Siobhan concentrated on stirring her drink. ‘Thought it might be that.’

  ‘I’ll be on the telly!’

  ‘I’m thrilled.’

  He stared at her. ‘You could try a bit harder.’

  ‘You’re right, I could.’ They locked eyes. ‘Thanks for helping with the clues. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  Only now did he seem to realise that their partnership truly was dissolved. ‘Oh … right,’ he said. ‘Look, Siobhan …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happened in the office … I really am sorry.’

  She allowed herself a sour smile. ‘Afraid I’ll tell on you?’

  ‘No … it’s not that …’

  But it was, and they both knew it. ‘Haircut and a new suit this weekend,’ she suggested.

  He looked down at his jacket.

  ‘If you’re going to be on the box. Plain shirt: no stripes or checks. Oh, and Grant … ?’

  ‘What?’

  She reached out a finger and slipped it under his tie.

  ‘Keep this plain, too. Cartoon characters just aren’t funny.’

  ‘That’s what DCS Templer said.’ He sounded surprised, angling his head to examine the little Homer Simpson heads which decorated his tie.

  Grant Hood’s first TV appearance took place that same afternoon. He was seated next to Gill Templer as she read out a short statement concerning the finding of the body. Ellen Wylie watched on one of the office monitors. There wasn’t going to be a speaking part for Hood, but she noticed how, as the media all started asking questions, he leaned over to whisper some comment into Templer’s ear, the Chief Super nodding a response. Bill Pryde was on Templer’s other side, fielding most of the queries. Everyone wanted to know if the corpse was that of Philippa Balfour; everyone wanted to know the cause of death.

  ‘We’re not in a position to confirm identity as yet,’ Pryde stated, his words punctuated with little coughs. He looked nervous, and Wylie knew the coughs were vocal tics. She’d been the same herself, all that throat-clearing. Gill Templer glanced towards Pryde, and Hood seemed to take this as his cue.

  ‘Cause of death is also yet to be determined,’ he said, ‘with a post-mortem examination scheduled for late afternoon. As you know, another conference will take place at seven this evening, by which time we hope to have more details available.’

  ‘But the death’s being treated as suspicious?’ one journalist called out.

  ‘At this early stage, yes, we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

  Wylie stuck the end of her biro between her teeth and ground down on it. Hood was cool, no doubt about it. He’d changed his clothes: the ensemble looked brand new. Managed to wash his hair too, she thought.

  ‘There’s very little we can add right now,’ he was telling the media, ‘as you’ll no doubt appreciate. If and when an identification is made, family have to be contacted and the identification confirmed.’

  ‘Can I ask if Philippa Balfour’s family are coming to Edinburgh?’

  Hood gave the questioner a sour look. ‘I won’t deign to answer that.’ Beside him, Gill Templer was nodding agreement, marking her own distaste.

  ‘Can I ask Detective Inspector Pryde if the missing persons investigation is ongoing?’

  ‘The investigation’s ongoing,’ Pryde said determinedly, picking up some confidence from Hood’s performance. Wylie wanted to switch off the monitor, but others were watching with her, so instead she got up and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. By the time she got back, the conference was ending. Someone else turned off the monitor and put her out of her misery.

  ‘Looked good in there, didn’t he?’

  She stared at the uniform who’d asked, but there was no malice apparent. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He did all right.’

  ‘Better than some,’ another voice said. She turned her head, but there were three officers there, all Gayfield-based. None was looking at her. She reached out a hand for her coffee, but didn’t pick it up, fearing her trembling would be noticed. Instead, she turned her attention to Siobhan’s notes on the German student. She could make a start, busy herself with phone calls.

  Just as soon as she got the words better than some out of her head.

  *

  Siobhan was sending another message to Quizmaster. She’d taken twenty minutes getting it right.

  Hellbank solved. Flip’s body found there. Do you want to talk?

  It didn’t take long for him to respond.

  How did you solve it?

  Anagram of Arthur’s Seat. Hellbank the hillside’s name.

  Was it you who found the body?

  No. Was it you who killed her?

  No.

  But connected to the game. You don’t think anyone was helping her?

  I don’t know. Do you wish to continue?

  Continue?

  Stricture awaits.

  She stared at the screen. Did Flip’s death mean so little to him?

  Flip’s dead. Someone killed her at Hellbank. I need you to come forward.

  His reply took time coming through.

  Can’t help.

  I think you can, Quizmaster.

  Undergo Stricture. Perhaps we can meet there.

  She thought for a moment. What is the game’s goal? When does it end?

  There was no answer. She was aware of a figure standing behind her: Rebus.

  ‘What’s Lover Boy saying?’

  ‘“Lover Boy”?’

  ‘You seem to be spending a lot of time together.’

  ‘That’s the job.’

  ‘I suppose it is. So what’s he saying?’

  ‘He wants me to go on playing the game.’

  ‘Tell him to sod off. You don’t need him now.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  The phone rang; Siobhan picked up.
br />   ‘Yes … that’s fine … of course.’ She looked up at Rebus, but he was sticking around. When she ended the call, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  ‘The Chief Super,’ she explained. ‘Now that Grant’s got liaison, I’m to stick with the computer angle.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning find out if there’s any way of tracing Quizmaster. What do you reckon: Crime Squad?’

  ‘I doubt those buggers could spell “modem”, never mind use one.’

  ‘But they’ll have contacts in Special Branch.’

  Rebus accepted as much with a shrug.

  ‘The other thing I need to do is canvass Flip’s friends and family again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t have got to Hellbank on my own.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘You don’t think she did either?’

  ‘She needed to know London tube lines, geography and the Scots language, Rosslyn Chapel and crossword puzzles.’

  ‘A tall order?’

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Whoever Quizmaster is, he needed to know all those things too.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?’

  ‘I think maybe there were other players … not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.’

  ‘Quizmaster won’t say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  Siobhan shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’

  Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. ‘I was wrong. We need him after all, don’t we?’

  She looked at him. ‘“We”?’

  He held up his hands. ‘All I meant was, the case needs him.’

  ‘Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt …’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.’

  ‘Perish the thought, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re going to be talking to her friends …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would that include David Costello?’

  ‘We already talked to him. He said he didn’t know anything about the game.’