‘Ardbeg, right?’
Rebus nodded, sucked at where some had spilled on to the back of his hand, then, picturing a small boy with news to impart, raised the glass and downed it.
He took the set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the main door of the tenement block. The keys were shiny new, cut just that day. His shoulder rubbed against the wall as he headed for the stairs, and he kept a tight grip on the banister as he climbed. The second and third shiny keys unlocked the door to Philippa Balfour’s flat.
There was no one inside, and the alarm hadn’t been set. He switched on the lights. The loose rug underfoot seemed to want to wrap itself around his ankles, and he had to fight his way loose, holding on to the wall. The rooms were just as he’d left them, except that the computer was now missing from its desk, having been transferred to the station, where Siobhan was certain someone from Balfour’s Internet service provider could help bypass the password.
In the bedroom, someone had removed the neat pile of David Costello’s clothes from the chair. Rebus presumed the culprit to be Costello himself. He wouldn’t have done so without permission – nothing left the flat unless okayed by the bosses. Forensics would have checked the clothes first, maybe taken samples from them. Already there were rumours of belt-tightening. A case like this, the cost could spiral skywards like smoke.
In the kitchen, Rebus poured himself a big glass of water and went through to sit in the drawing room, pretty much where David Costello had sat. A little of the water dribbled down his chin. The paintings on the walls – framed abstracts – were playing tricks, moving with him as he moved his eyes. He bent down to place the empty glass on the floor, and ended up on his hands and knees. Some bastard had spiked the drinks, only explanation. He turned and sat down, closed his eyes for a moment. MisPers: sometimes you worried in vain; they either turned up, or didn’t want to be found. So many of them … photos and descriptions were always passing through the office, the faces slightly out of focus as though they were in the process of becoming ghosts. He blinked open his eyes and raised them to the ceiling, with its ornate cornicing. Big flats, the New Town had, but Rebus preferred it where he lived: more shops, not quite so smug …
The Ardbeg, it had to’ve been spiked. He probably wouldn’t drink it again. It would come with its own ghost. He wondered what had happened to the boy: had it been accident or design? The boy would be a parent himself these days, maybe even a grandparent. Did he still dream about the sister he’d killed? Did he remember the young, nervous uniform standing behind the reception desk? Rebus ran his hands over the floor. It was bare wood, sanded and sealed. They hadn’t taken the boards up, not yet. He felt for a gap between two planks and dug his nails in, but couldn’t get any purchase. Somehow he knocked the glass and it started rolling, the noise filling the room. Rebus watched it until it stopped in the doorway, progress blocked by a pair of feet.
‘What in the hell’s going on?’
Rebus stood up. The man in front of him was in his mid-forties, hands in the pockets of a three-quarter-length black woollen overcoat. The man opened his stance a little, filling the doorway.
‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.
The man slid a hand from his pocket, angled it towards his ear. He was holding a mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.
‘I’m a police officer.’ Rebus reached into his own pocket, brought out his warrant card. ‘DI Rebus.’
The man studied the card and handed it back. ‘I’m John Balfour,’ he said, his voice losing a little of its edge. Rebus nodded; he’d already figured as much.
‘Sorry if I …’ Rebus didn’t finish the sentence. As he put the warrant card away, his left knee unlocked for a second.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ Balfour said.
‘Sorry, yes. Retirement do. Not on duty or anything, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then might I ask what you’re doing in my daughter’s flat?’
‘You might,’ Rebus agreed. He looked around. ‘Just wanted to … well, I suppose I …’ But he couldn’t find the words.
‘Will you leave, please?’
Rebus bowed his head a little. ‘Of course.’ Balfour moved so that Rebus could pass him without any contact. Rebus stopped in the hallway, half turned, ready with a further apology, but Philippa Balfour’s father had walked over to the drawing-room window and was staring out at the night, hands gripping the shutters at either side.
He walked downstairs quietly, halfway sober now, closed the main door after him, not looking back, not looking up at the first-floor window. The streets were deserted, pavements glistening from an earlier downpour, street light reflected in them. Rebus’s shoes were the only noise to be heard as he started the climb back up the slope: Queen Street, George Street, Princes Street, and then North Bridge. People were heading home from pubs, seeking taxis and lost friends. Rebus took a left at the Tron Kirk and headed down the Canongate. A patrol car was parked kerbside, two bodies inside: one awake, the other asleep. They were detective constables from Gayfield, and had either drawn the short straw or were disliked by their boss: no other way to explain this thankless night-shift. Rebus was just another passer-by to the one who was awake. He had a newspaper folded in front of him, angled towards what light there was. When Rebus thumped the roof of the patrol car, the paper flew, landing on the head of the sleeper, who jerked awake and clawed at the smothering sheets.
As the passenger-side window was wound down, Rebus leaned on the sill. ‘Your one o’clock alarm call, gentlemen.’
‘I nearly shat myself,’ the passenger said, trying to gather up his newspaper. His name was Pat Connolly, and he’d spent his first few years in CID waging a campaign against the nickname ‘Paddy’. His colleague was Tommy Daniels, who seemed at ease – as he did in all things – with his own nickname of ‘Distant’. Tommy to Tom-Tom to Distant Drums to Distant was the logic behind the name, but it also said much about the young man’s character. Having been so rudely awakened from sleep, upon seeing and recognising Rebus all he’d done was roll his eyes.
‘Could’ve fetched us a coffee,’ Connolly was complaining.
‘Could have,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Or maybe a dictionary.’ He glanced towards the newspaper crossword. Less than a quarter of the grid had been filled in, while the puzzle itself was ringed by doodles and unsolved anagrams. ‘Quiet night?’
‘Apart from foreigners asking directions,’ Connolly said. Rebus smiled and looked up and down the street. This was the heart of tourist Edinburgh. A hotel up by the traffic lights, a knitwear shop across the road. Fancy gifts and shortbread and whisky decanters. A kiltmaker’s only fifty yards away. John Knox’s house, hunched against its neighbours, half hidden in scowling shadow. At one time, the Old Town had been all there was of Edinburgh: a narrow spine running from the Castle to Holyrood, steep vennels leading off like crooked ribs. Then, as the place became ever more crowded and insanitary, the New Town had been built, its Georgian elegance a calculated snub to the Old Town and those who couldn’t afford to move. Rebus found it interesting that while Philippa Balfour had chosen the New Town, David Costello had elected to live in the heart of the Old.
‘Is he home?’ he said now.
‘Would we be here if he wasn’t?’ Connolly’s eyes were on his partner, who was pouring tomato soup from a thermos. Distant sniffed the liquid hesitantly, then took a quick gulp. ‘Actually, you could be the very man we want.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Oh aye?’
‘Settle an argument. Deacon Blue, Wages Day – first album or second?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It has been a quiet night.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection: ‘Second.’
‘Ten notes you owe me,’ Connolly told Distant.
‘Mind if I ask one?’ Rebus had crouched down, felt his knees crack with the effort.
‘Fire away,’ Connolly said.
‘What do you do if you need a pee?’
Connolly smiled. ‘If Distant’s asleep, I ju
st use his thermos.’
The mouthful of soup almost exploded from Distant’s nostrils. Rebus straightened up, feeling the blood pound in his ears: weather warning, force-ten hangover on its way.
‘You going in?’ Connolly asked. Rebus looked at the tenement again.
‘Thinking about it.’
‘We’d have to make a note.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Just come from the Farmer’s leaving do?’
Rebus turned towards the car. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Well, you’ve had a drink, haven’t you? Might not be the best time for a house call … sir.’
‘You’re probably right … Paddy,’ Rebus said, making for the door.
‘Remember what you asked me?’
Rebus had accepted a black coffee from David Costello. Popped two paracetamol from their foil shroud and washed them down. Middle of the night, but Costello hadn’t been asleep. Black T-shirt, black jeans, bare feet. He’d made an off-licence run at some point: the bag was lying on the floor, the half-bottle of Bell’s sitting not far from it, top missing but only a couple of decent measures down. Not a drinker then, Rebus surmised. It was a non-drinker’s idea of how you handled a crisis – you drank whisky, but had to buy some first, and no point lashing out on a whole bottle. A couple of drinks would do you.
The living room was small, the flat itself reached from a turreted stairwell, winding ever upwards, the stone steps worn concave. Tiny windows. They’d planned this building in a century where heat was a luxury. The smaller the windows, the less heat you lost.
The living room was separated from the kitchen only by a step and what looked like partition walls. An open doorway, double-width. Signs that Costello liked to cook: pots and pans hanging from butcher’s hooks. The living area was all books and CDs. Rebus had trawled the latter: John Martyn, Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell. Laid-back but cerebral. The books looked like stuff from Costello’s English Literature course.
Costello was seated on a red futon; Rebus had chosen one of two straight-backed wooden chairs. They looked like the stuff he saw on Causewayside, placed outside shops for which the description ‘antique’ encompassed school desks from the sixties and green filing cabinets salvaged from office refits.
Costello ran his hand through his hair, didn’t say anything.
‘You asked if I thought you did it,’ Rebus said, answering his own question.
‘Did what?’
‘Killed Flip. I think that’s how you phrased it: “You think I killed her, don’t you?”’
Costello nodded. ‘It’s so obvious, isn’t it? We’d fallen out. I accept that you have to regard me as a suspect.’
‘David, right now you’re the only suspect.’
‘You really think something’s happened to her?’
‘What do you think?’
Costello shook his head. ‘I’ve done nothing but rack my brains since this all started.’
They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘What are you doing here?’ Costello asked suddenly.
‘As I said, it’s on my way home. You like the Old Town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bit different from the New. You didn’t want to move nearer Flip?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe it says something about the pair of you, the parts of town you prefer.’
Costello laughed drily. ‘You Scots can be so reductive.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Old Town versus New, Catholic/Protestant, east coast/west … Things can be a mite more complicated than that.’
‘Attraction of opposites, that’s all I was getting at.’ There was another silence between them. Rebus scanned the room.
‘Didn’t make a mess then?’
‘Who?’
‘The search party.’
‘Could have been worse.’
Rebus took a sip of coffee, pretended to savour it. ‘You wouldn’t have left the body here though, would you? I mean, only perverts do that sort of thing.’ Costello looked at him. ‘Sorry, I’m being … I mean, it’s just theoretical. I’m not trying to say anything. But the forensics, they weren’t looking for a body. They deal in things you and me can’t even see. Flecks of blood, fibres, a single hair.’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Juries eat that stuff up. The old idea of policing, it’s going out the window.’ He put down the gloss-black mug, reached into a pocket for his cigarette packet. ‘Mind if I … ?’
Costello hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ll take one from you if that’s all right.’
‘Be my guest.’ Rebus took one out of the packet, lit it, then tossed both packet and lighter to the younger man. ‘Roll yourself a joint if you like,’ he added. ‘I mean, if that’s your thing.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Student life must be a bit different these days.’
Costello exhaled, studying the cigarette as if it was something alien to him. ‘I’d assume it is,’ he said.
Rebus smiled. Just two grown-ups having a smoke and a chat. The wee sma’ hours and all that. A time for honesty, the outside world asleep, no one eavesdropping. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves. ‘How did you and Flip meet?’ he asked, picking a book at random and flipping through it.
‘Dinner party. We clicked straight away. Next morning, after breakfast, we took a walk through Warriston Cemetery. That was when I first felt that I loved her … I mean, that it wasn’t just going to be a one-night stand.’
‘You like films?’ Rebus said. He was noticing that one shelf seemed to be all books about movies.
Costello looked over towards him. ‘I’d like to try writing a script some day.’
‘Good for you.’ Rebus had opened another book. It seemed to be a sequence of poems about Alfred Hitchcock. ‘You didn’t go to the hotel?’ he asked after a pause.
‘No.’
‘But you’ve seen your parents?’
‘Yes.’ Costello took another draw, sucking the life from the cigarette. He realised he’d no ashtray and looked around for something suitable: candle-holders, one for Rebus and one for him. Turning from the bookshelves, Rebus’s foot brushed something: a metal toy soldier, no more than an inch high. He stooped to pick it up. The musket had been snapped off, the head twisted over to one side. He didn’t think he was responsible. Rebus placed it quietly on a shelf before sitting down again.
‘Did they cancel the other room then?’ he asked.
‘They sleep in separate rooms, Inspector.’ Costello looked up from where he’d been tidying the tip of the cigarette against the rim of the makeshift ashtray. ‘Not a crime, is it?’
‘I’m not best placed to judge. My wife left me more years ago than I can remember.’
‘I’ll bet you do remember.’
Rebus smiled again. ‘Guilty.’
Costello rested his head against the back of the futon, stifled a yawn.
‘I should go,’ Rebus said.
‘Finish your coffee at least.’
Rebus had already finished it, but nodded anyway, not about to leave unless pushed out. ‘Maybe she’ll turn up. People do things sometimes, don’t they? Take a notion to head for the hills.’
‘Flip was hardly the hill-heading type.’
‘But she could have had a mind to take off somewhere.’
Costello shook his head. ‘She knew they were waiting for her in the bar. She wouldn’t have forgotten that.’
‘No? Say she’d just met someone else … you know, an impulse thing, like in that advert.’
‘Someone else?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
Costello’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t know. It was one of the things I thought about – whether she’d met someone else.’
‘You dismissed it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because something like that, she’d have told me. That’s the way Flip is: doesn’t matter if it’s a grand??
?s worth of designer dress or a Concorde flight courtesy of her parents, she can’t keep it to herself.’
‘Likes attention?’
‘Don’t we all, from time to time?’
‘She wouldn’t pull a stunt, would she, just to get us all looking for her?’
‘Fake her own disappearance?’ Costello shook his head, then stifled another yawn. ‘Maybe I should get some sleep.’
‘What time’s the press conference?’
‘Early afternoon. Something to do with catching the main news bulletins.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t be nervous out there, just be yourself.’
Costello stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Who else could I be?’ He made to hand the packet and lighter back to Rebus.
‘Keep them. Never know when you might feel the need.’ He got to his feet. The blood was beating in his skull now, despite the paracetamol. That’s the way Flip is: Costello had spoken of her in the present tense – a casual remark, or something more calculated? Costello stood up too, now, and he was smiling, though without much humour.
‘You never did answer that question, did you?’ he said.
‘I’m keeping an open mind, Mr Costello.’
‘Are you now?’ Costello slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Will I see you at the press conference?’
‘Could be.’
‘And will you be on the lookout for slips of the tongue? Something like your forensic bods?’ Costello’s eyes narrowed. ‘I may be the only suspect, but I’m not stupid.’
‘Then you’ll appreciate we’re on the same side … unless you know differently?’
‘Why did you come here tonight? You’re not on duty, are you?’
Rebus took a step closer. ‘Know what they used to think, Mr Costello? They thought murder victims kept an imprint of their killer on their eyeballs – last thing they ever saw. Some killers, they gouged out the eyes after death.’
‘But we’re not so naïve these days, Inspector, are we? You can’t hope to know someone, to get the measure of them, just from eye contact.’ Costello leaned in towards Rebus, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Take a good long look, because the exhibit’s about to close.’