Siobhan handed over her card. ‘If I’m not in the office, the pager will always find me.’
‘Okay.’ Claire slipped the card into one of her files.
‘Sure you’re all right?’
Claire nodded, stood up, clutching her files to her chest. ‘I’ve got another class,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to miss it.’
‘Dr Curt tells us you’re related to Kennet Lovell?’
She looked at him. ‘On my mother’s side.’ She paused, as if expecting a follow-up question, but Rebus didn’t have one.
‘Thanks again,’ Siobhan said.
They watched as she started to leave. Rebus was holding the door open for her. ‘Just one thing, Claire?’
She stopped beside him, staring up. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘You told us you used to know Falls.’ Rebus waited till she’d nodded. ‘Does that mean you’ve not been there recently?’
‘I might have passed through.’
He nodded acceptance of this. She made to leave again. ‘You know Beverly Dodds though,’ he added.
‘Who?’
‘I think she made that bracelet you’re wearing.’
Claire lifted her wrist. ‘This?’ It looked very much like the one Jean had bought: polished stones drilled and threaded. ‘Flip gave it to me. Said something about it being “good magic”.’ She shrugged. ‘Not that I believe in it, of course …’
Rebus watched her leave, then closed the door. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, turning back into the room.
‘I don’t know,’ Siobhan admitted.
‘A bit of acting going on?’
‘The tears seemed real enough.’
‘Isn’t that what acting’s all about?’
Siobhan sat down in Claire’s chair. ‘If a killer’s hiding in there, it’s buried deep.’
‘Seven fin high: say Flip didn’t come up to her at a bar. Say Claire already knew what it meant.’
‘Because she’s the Quizmaster?’ Siobhan shook her head.
‘Or another player,’ Rebus said.
‘Then why bother telling us anything?’
‘Because …’ But Rebus couldn’t think of an answer for that.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m wondering.’
‘Her father?’ Rebus guessed.
Siobhan nodded. ‘There’s something she was holding back.’
‘So why did her family move?’
Siobhan was thoughtful, but couldn’t think of a quick answer.
‘Her old school might tell us,’ Rebus said. While Siobhan went to ask the secretary for a phone book, Rebus called Bev Dodds’s number. She answered on the sixth ring.
‘It’s DI Rebus,’ he said.
‘Inspector, I’m a bit pushed at the moment …’
He could hear other voices. Tourists, he guessed, probably deciding what to buy. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘I ever asked you if you knew Philippa Balfour.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Do you mind if I ask you now?’
‘Not at all.’ She paused. ‘The answer is no.’
‘You never met her?’
‘Never. Why do you ask?’
‘A friend of hers is wearing a bracelet she says Philippa gave her. It looks to me like one of yours.’
‘Quite possible.’
‘But you didn’t sell it to Philippa?’
‘If it’s one of mine, chances are she bought it in a shop. There’s a craft shop in Haddington takes my work, and another in Edinburgh.’
‘What’s the name of the one in Edinburgh?’
‘Wiccan Crafts. It’s on Jeffrey Street, if you’re interested. Now, if you don’t mind …’ But Rebus had already put down the phone. Siobhan was coming back in with the number for Flip’s old school. Rebus made the call, putting the speaker on so Siobhan could listen. The headmistress had been one of the teachers during Flip and Claire’s time there.
‘Poor, poor Philippa, it’s terrible news … and what her family must be going through,’ the headmistress said.
‘I’m sure they’ve got every support,’ Rebus commiserated, trying to get as much sincerity into his voice as he could.
There was a long sigh at the other end of the line.
‘But actually, I’m phoning in connection with Claire.’
‘Claire?’
‘Claire Benzie. It’s part of the background, trying to build up a picture of Philippa. I believe she and Claire were good friends at one time.’
‘Pretty good, yes.’
‘They lived near one another, too?’
‘That’s right. Out East Lothian way.’
Rebus had a thought. ‘How did they get to school?’
‘Oh, Claire’s father usually drove them in. Either him or Philippa’s mother. A lovely lady, I do grieve for her so …’
‘Claire’s father worked in Edinburgh then?’
‘Oh, yes. Some sort of lawyer.’
‘Is that why the family moved? Was it to do with his work?’
‘Dear me, no. I think they were evicted.’
‘Evicted?’
‘Well, one shouldn’t gossip, but with him being deceased I don’t suppose it matters.’
‘We’ll hold it in strictest confidence,’ Rebus said, looking at Siobhan.
‘Well, it’s just that the poor man made some bad investments. I believe he was always a bit of a gambler, and it looks like this time he went too far, lost thousands … his house … the lot.’
‘How did he die?’
‘I think you’ve guessed. He booked into a seaside hotel quite shortly thereafter, and took an overdose of some kind of tablets. It’s quite a tumble after all, isn’t it, from lawyer to bankrupt … ?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Many thanks for that.’
‘Yes, I’d better go. I’ve some sort of curriculum meeting to attend.’ Her tone told Rebus this was a regular occurrence, and not one to be savoured. ‘Such a pity, two families torn apart by tragedy.’
‘Goodbye then,’ Rebus said, putting down the phone. He looked at Siobhan.
‘Investments?’ she echoed.
‘And who would he trust if not the father of his daughter’s best friend?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘John Balfour’s about to bury his daughter,’ she reminded him.
‘Then we’ll talk to someone else at the bank.’
Siobhan smiled. ‘I know just the man …’
Ranald Marr was at Junipers, so they drove out to Falls. Siobhan asked if they could stop and look at the waterfall. A couple of tourists were doing the same thing. The man was taking a photo of his wife. He asked Rebus if he’d take one of the pair of them together. His voice was Edinburgh.
‘What brings you here?’ Rebus asked, feigning innocence.
‘Same thing as you most likely,’ the man said, positioning himself next to his wife. ‘Make sure you get the wee waterfall in.’
‘You mean you’re here because of the coffin?’ Rebus said, peering through the view-finder.
‘Aye, well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?’
‘She is that,’ Rebus said.
‘Sure you’re getting us in?’ the man asked worriedly.
‘Perfect,’ Rebus said, pressing the button. When the film was developed, there’d be a picture of sky and trees, nothing more.
‘Wee tip,’ the man said, taking his camera back. He nodded towards one of the trees. ‘She’s the one found the coffin.’
Rebus looked. There was a crude sign pinned to the tree, advertising Bev Dodds’s Pottery. A hand-drawn map showed her cottage. ‘Pottery for Sale, Teas and Coffees.’ She was branching out.
‘Did she show you it?’ Rebus asked, knowing fine well the answer. The Falls coffin was locked away with the others at St Leonard’s.
The tourist shook his head in disappointment. ‘Police are holding on to it.’
Rebus nodded. ‘So where’s your next stop?’
‘Thought we’d go look at Junipers,’ his wife said. ?
??Always supposing we can find it. Took us half an hour to find this place.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘They don’t believe in signposts out here, do they?’
‘I know where Junipers is.’ Rebus spoke authoritatively. ‘You head back down the lane, left through the town. There’s a housing scheme on the right called Meadowside. Drive into it and you’ll see Junipers just beyond.’
The man beamed. ‘Magic, thanks a lot.’
‘No problem,’ Rebus told him. The tourists waved their goodbyes, eager to be back on the trail.
Siobhan sidled over towards Rebus. ‘Completely erroneous?’
‘They’ll be lucky to get out of Meadowside with four tyres still on their car.’ He grinned at her. ‘My good deed for the day.’
Back in the car, Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘How do you want to play this?’
‘First off, I want to know if Marr’s a Mason.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll handle that.’
‘Then I think we dive straight in with Hugo Benzie.’
Rebus was still nodding. ‘Which one of us asks the questions?’
Siobhan sat back. ‘Let’s play it by ear, see which one of us Marr prefers.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘You don’t agree?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s almost exactly what I’d have said, that’s all.’
She turned towards him, held his eyes. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
Rebus’s face cracked into a smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide,’ he said, turning the ignition.
The gates at Junipers were being protected by two uniforms, including Nicola Campbell, the WPC he’d met on his first visit. A lone reporter had parked his car on the verge across the road. He was drinking something from a flask, watched Rebus and Siobhan draw up at the gates, then went back to his crossword. Rebus wound down his window.
‘No more phone taps?’ he asked.
‘Not now there’s no kidnap,’ Campbell replied.
‘What about Brains?’
‘Back at the Big House: something came up.’
‘I see there’s one vulture.’ Rebus meant the reporter. ‘Any ghouls?’
‘A few.’
‘Well, a couple more may be on their way. Who’s up there?’ Rebus pointed through the gates.
‘DCS Templer, DC Hood.’
‘Planning the next press conference,’ Siobhan guessed.
‘Who else?’ Rebus asked Campbell.
‘The parents,’ she told him, ‘house staff … someone from the funeral home. And a family friend.’
Rebus nodded. He turned to Siobhan. ‘Wonder if we’ve talked to the staff: sometimes they see and hear things …’ Campbell was opening the gates.
‘DS Dickie interviewed them,’ Siobhan said.
‘Dickie?’ Rebus put the car into gear, crawled through the gates. ‘That clock-watching wee nyaff ?’
She looked at him. ‘You want to do it all yourself, don’t you?’
‘Because I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.’
‘Thanks very much.’
He took his eyes off the windscreen. ‘There are exceptions,’ he said.
Four cars were parked in the driveway outside the house, the same driveway Jacqueline Balfour had come stumbling down, thinking Rebus her daughter’s abductor.
‘Grant’s Alfa,’ Siobhan commented.
‘Chauffeuring the boss.’ Rebus guessed that the black Volvo S40 belonged to the funeral home, leaving a bronze Maserati and a green Aston Martin DB7. He couldn’t decide which belonged to Ranald Marr and which to the Balfours, and said as much.
‘The Aston’s John Balfour’s,’ Siobhan told him. He looked at her.
‘Is that a guess?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘It’s in the notes.’
‘You’ll be telling me his shoe size next.’
A maid answered the door. They showed their warrant cards and were ushered into the hall. The maid headed off without saying anything. Rebus had never really seen anyone walking on tiptoe before. No voices could be heard anywhere.
‘This place is straight out of Cluedo,’ Siobhan murmured, studying the wood panelling, the paintings of Balfours past. There was even a suit of armour at the foot of the stairs. A stack of unopened mail sat on a table next to the armour. The same door the maid had disappeared through was opening now. A tall, middle-aged and efficient-looking woman walked towards them. Her face was composed but unsmiling.
‘I’m Mr Balfour’s personal assistant,’ she said in a voice not much above a whisper.
‘It’s Mr Marr we were hoping to talk to.’
She bowed her head to acknowledge as much. ‘But you must appreciate that this is an extremely difficult time …’
‘He won’t talk to us?’
‘It’s not a case of “won’t”.’ She was becoming irritated.
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Tell you what then, I’ll just go tell Detective Chief Superintendent Templer that Mr Marr is holding up our inquiry into Miss Balfour’s murder. If you could show me the way … ?’
She stared daggers at him, but Rebus wasn’t about to blink, never mind flinch.
‘If you’ll wait here,’ she said finally. When she spoke, Rebus saw her teeth for the first time. He managed a polite ‘thank you’ as she headed back towards the door.
‘Impressive,’ Siobhan commented.
‘Her or me?’
‘The general combat.’
He nodded. ‘Two more minutes, I’d have been reaching for that suit of armour.’
Siobhan walked over to the table and flicked through the mail. Rebus joined her.
‘Thought we’d have been opening it,’ he said, ‘looking for ransom demands.’
‘We probably were,’ Siobhan answered, studying the postmarks. ‘But this is all yesterday’s and today’s.’
‘Keeping the postman busy.’ Several of the envelopes were card-sized and black-edged. ‘Hope the PA opens them.’
Siobhan nodded. Ghouls again, for whom the death of someone well known was an invitation to become obsessed. You never knew who’d be sending a condolence card. ‘It should be us checking them.’
‘Good point.’ After all, the killer could be a ghoul, too.
The door opened again. This time, Ranald Marr, in black suit and tie, white shirt, strode towards them, looking upset by the interruption.
‘What is it this time?’ he asked Siobhan.
‘Mr Marr?’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘DI Rebus. I just want to say how sorry we are that we’ve had to intrude.’
Marr, accepting the apology, also accepted Rebus’s hand. Rebus had never joined ‘the craft’, but his father had taught him the handshake one drunken night, back when Rebus had been in his teens.
‘As long as it’s not going to take long,’ Marr said, pushing for advantage.
‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’
‘Along here.’ Marr led them into one of two hallways. Rebus caught Siobhan’s eye and nodded, answering her question. Marr was a Mason. She pursed her lips, looked thoughtful.
Marr had opened another door, leading into a large room filled with a wall-length bookcase and a full-size billiard table. When he flicked on the lights – the room, like the rest of the house, was curtained in a show of mourning – the green baize was illuminated. Two chairs sat against one wall, a small table between them. On the table sat a silver tray laid with a decanter of whisky and some crystal tumblers. Marr sat down and poured himself a drink. He gestured towards Rebus, who shook his head, Siobhan likewise. Marr raised his glass.
‘Philippa, God rest her soul.’ Then he drank deeply. Rebus had smelt the whisky on his breath, knew this wasn’t his first of the day. Probably not the first time he’d made the toast either. If they’d been alone together, they would have exchanged information about one another’s home lodge – and Rebus might have been in trouble – but with Siobhan here, he was safe. He rolled a red ba
ll across the table, where it rebounded from the cushion.
‘So,’ Marr said, ‘what is it you want this time?’
‘Hugo Benzie,’ Rebus said.
The name caught Marr by surprise. His eyebrows lifted, and he took another pull on his drink.
‘You knew him?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Not very well. His daughter was at school with Philippa.’
‘Did he bank with you?’
‘You know I can’t discuss the bank’s business. It wouldn’t be ethical.’
‘You’re not a doctor,’ Rebus said. ‘You just keep people’s money for them.’
Marr’s eyes narrowed. ‘We do a sight more than that.’
‘What? You mean lose money for them too?’
Marr leaped to his feet. ‘What the hell has this got to do with Philippa’s murder?’
‘Just answer the question: did Hugo Benzie have his money invested with you?’
‘Not with us, through us.’
‘You advised him?’
Marr refilled his glass. Rebus glanced towards Siobhan. She knew her place in this, was keeping quiet, standing in the shadows beyond the baize.
‘You advised him?’ Rebus asked again.
‘We advised him against taking risks.’
‘But he wouldn’t listen?’
‘What’s life without a bit of risk: that was Hugo’s philosophy. He gambled … and lost.’
‘Did he hold Balfour’s responsible?’
Marr shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Poor bugger just did away with himself.’
‘What about his wife and daughter?’
‘What about them?’
‘Did they bear a grudge?’
He shook his head again. ‘They knew what kind of man he was.’ He put his glass down on the rim of the billiard table. ‘But what’s this got … ?’ Then he seemed to realise. ‘Ah, you’re still looking for motives … and you think a dead man has risen from his grave to seek revenge on Balfour’s Bank?’
Rebus rolled another ball across the table. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
Siobhan walked forward now, and handed the sheet of paper to Marr. ‘You remember I asked about games?’
‘Yes.’
‘This clue here.’ She pointed to the one relating to Rosslyn Chapel. ‘What do you make of it?’
He narrowed his eyes in concentration. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said, handing it back.
‘Can I ask if you’re a member of a masonic lodge, Mr Marr?’