Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Grant.’

  Siobhan turned the sound down on the TV. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I think maybe I’ve cracked it.’

  Siobhan swivelled her legs so her feet were on the floor. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I’d rather show you.’

  There seemed to be a lot of background noise on the line. She stood up. ‘Are you on your mobile?’ she asked.

  'Yes.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Parked right outside.’

  She walked over to the window and looked out. Sure enough, his Alfa was sitting in the middle of the street. Siobhan smiled. ‘Find a parking space then. My buzzer’s second from the top.’

  By the time she’d taken the dirty dishes through to the sink, Grant was at her intercom. She checked anyway that it was him, then pressed the button to let him into the tenement. She was standing by the open door when he hauled himself up the last few steps.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t keep it to myself.’

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, closing the door after him.

  ‘Thanks. Two sugars.’

  They took the coffees into the living room. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

  ‘I like it.’

  He sat down next to her on the sofa and placed his coffee mug on the table. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a London A-Z.

  ‘London?’ she said.

  ‘I went through all the kings I could think of from history, then anything else to do with the word king.’ He held up the book so its back cover was showing. A map of the London Underground.

  ‘King’s Cross?’ she guessed.

  He nodded. ‘Take a look.’

  She took the book from him. He could hardly sit still in his seat. ‘Seven fins high is king,’ he said.

  ‘And you think the king is King’s Cross?’

  He slid across the sofa, his finger tracing the light-blue line which went through the station. ‘Do you see?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said grimly. ‘So you’d better tell me.’

  ‘Go one stop north of King’s Cross.’

  ‘Highbury and Islingron?’

  ‘And again.’

  ‘Finsbury Park … then Seven Sisters.’

  ‘Now backwards,’ he said. He was practically bouncing on the spot.

  ‘Don’t wet yourself,’ she said. Then she looked at the map again. ‘Seven Sisters … Finsbury Park … Highbury and Islingion … King’s Cross.’ And saw it. The exact same sequence, but abbreviated.’Seven … Fins … High Is … King.’ She looked at Grant. He was nodding. ‘Well done you,’ she added, meaning it. Grant leaned over and gave her a hug, which she squirmed out of. Then he leapt from the sofa and clapped his hands together.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it myself,’ he said. ‘The way it just suddenly screamed at me. It’s the Victoria Line.’

  She nodded, couldn’t think of anything to say. It was indeed a section of London Underground’s Victoria Line.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ she said at last.

  He sat down again, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘That’s what we have to work out next.’

  She slid across the sofa a little, making some space between them, then lifted her pad and read from it. “’This queen dines well before the bust.”’ She looked at him, but he just shrugged.

  ‘Could the answer be in London?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Buckingham Palace? Queen’s Park Rangers?’ He shrugged. ‘Could be London.’

  ‘All these Underground stops … what do they mean?’

  ‘They’re all on the Victoria Line,’ was all he could think to say. Then they stared at one another.

  ‘Queen Victoria,’ they said in unison.

  Siobhan had a London guidebook, bought for a weekend away which she’d never taken. It took her a while to find it. Meantime Grant booted up the computer and did a search on the Internet.

  ‘Could be the name of a pub,’ he suggested. ‘Like in EastEnders.’

  'Yes,’ she said, busy reading. ‘Or the Victoria and Albert Museum.’

  ‘Not forgetting Victoria Station—also on the Victoria Line. There’s a coach station there too. Worst cafeteria in Britain.’

  'You’re speaking from experience?’

  ‘I bussed it down there a few weekends in my teens. Didn’t like it.’ He was scrolling down some text.

  ‘Didn’t like the bus or didn’t like London?’.’

  ‘Both, I suppose. “Bust” couldn’t mean a drug bust, could it?’

  ‘Maybe. Or some stock-market crash. There was one not that long back, wasn’t there? Black Monday?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Still, more likely it’s a statue,’ she said. ‘Maybe of Queen Victoria, with a restaurant in front of it.’

  They worked in silence for a while after that, until Siobhan’s eyes started to hurt and she got up to make more coffee.

  ‘Two sugars,’ Grant said.

  ‘I remember.’ She looked at him, hunched over the computer screen, one knee pumping away. She wanted to say something about the hug … warn him off somehow … but she knew she’d missed her chance.

  Bringing the mugs back through from the kitchen, she asked if he’d found anything.

  ‘Tourist sites,’ he said. He took the mug from her with a nod of thanks.

  ‘Why London?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes were still on the screen.

  ‘I mean, why not somewhere closer to home?’

  ‘Could be Quizmaster lives in London. We don’t know, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And who’s to say Flip Balfour was the only one playing the game? Something like this, my bet is there’s a website somewhere—or was. ‘Anyone wanting to join in could go there. They wouldn’t all come from Scotland.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m just wondering … was Flip bright enough to solve this clue?’

  ‘Obviously, or she wouldn’t have gone on to the next level.’

  ‘But maybe this is a new game,’ she said. He turned his head to look at her. ‘Maybe it’s just for us.

  ‘If we ever meet the bastard, I’ll be sure to ask him.’

  A further half-hour later, Grant was working his way through a list of London restaurants. 'You wouldn’t believe how many Victoria Roads and Victoria Streets there are in this bloody place, and half of them have restaurants on them.’

  He leaned back, straightening his spine. The energy seemed to have leached out of him.

  ‘And that’s before we start looking at pubs.’ Siobhan ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back tight from her forehead. ‘It’s too …'

  ‘What?’

  ‘The first bit of the clue was clever. But this … this is just looking at lists. Does he expect us to go to London, visit every chip shop and cafe in the hope of finding Queen Victoria’s bust?’

  ‘He can whistle if he does.’ Grant’s chuckle was empty of humour.

  Siobhan looked at the book of card games. She’d spent a couple of hours flicking through it, and all the time looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place. She’d only just got to the library in time. Five minutes till closing. Left her car on Victoria Street and prayed she didn’t get a ticket …

  'Victoria Street?’ she said out loud.

  ‘Take your pick, there are dozens of the buggers.’

  ‘And some of them are right here,’ she told him.

  He looked up. 'Yes,’ he said, ‘they are.’

  He went down to his car, brought back an Ordnance Survey atlas of East-Central Scotland, opened it at the index and ran his finger down the list.

  ‘Victoria Gardens … there’s a Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy … Victoria Street and Victoria Terrace in Edinburgh.’ He looked at her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think there are a couple of restaurants in Victoria Street.’

  ‘Any statues?�
��

  ‘Not on the outside.’

  He checked his watch. ‘They won’t be open at this hour, will they?’

  She shook her head. ‘First thing tomorrow, she said. ‘Breakfast's on me.’

  Rebus and Jean sat in the Palm Court. She was drinking a long vodka, while he nursed a ten-year-old Macallan. The waiter had brought a little glass jug of water, but Rebus hadn’t disturbed it. He hadn’t been inside the Balmoral Hotel in years. Back then it had been the North British. The old place had changed a bit in the interim. Not that Jean seemed interested in her surroundings, not now she’d heard Rebus’s story.

  ‘So they might all have been murdered?’ she said, her face pale. The lights in the lounge had been turned low, and a pianist was playing. Rebus kept recognising snatches of tunes; he doubted Jean had taken in any of them.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he admitted.

  ‘But you’re basing all of it on the dolls?’

  Her eyes met his and he nodded. ‘Maybe I’m reading too much into it,’ he said. ‘But it needs to be investigated.’

  ‘Where on earth will you start?’

  ‘We’re waiting for the original case notes.’ He paused. ‘What’s the matter?’

  There were tears in her eyes. She sniffed and searched her bag for a handkerchief. ‘It’s just the idea of it. All this time, I had those cuttings … Maybe if I’d given them to the police sooner … '

  ‘Jean.’ He took her hand. ‘All you had were stories about dolls in coffins.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  ‘Meantime, maybe you can help.’

  She hadn’t found a handkerchief. Picked up her cocktail napkin and dabbed at her eyes with it. ‘How?’ she said.

  ‘This whole thing goes back as far as nineteen seventy-two. I need to know who back then might have shown an interest in the Arthur’s Seat exhibits. Can you do some digging for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He gave her hand another squeeze. ‘Thanks.’

  She gave a half-hearted smile and picked up her drink. The ice rattled as she finished it.

  ‘Another?’ he said.

  She shook her head, looked around her. ‘I get the feeling this isn’t your kind of place.’

  ‘Oh? And what is?’

  ‘I think you feel more comfortable in small, smoky bars filled with disappointed men.

  There was a smile on her face. Rebus nodded slowly.

  'You catch on quick,’ he said.

  Her smile faded as she looked around again. ‘I was here just last week, such a happy occasion … It seems like a long time ago.’

  ‘What was the occasion?’

  ‘Gill’s promotion. Do you think she’s coping?’

  ‘Gill’s Gill. She’ll tough it out.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of toughing it out, is that reporter still giving you grief?’

  She managed a thin smile. ‘He’s persistent. Wants to know what “others” I was talking about in Bev Dodds’ kitchen. That was my fault, sorry.’ She seemed to have regained some composure. ‘I should be getting back. I can probably find a taxi if … ’

  ‘I said I’d run you home.’ He signalled for their waitress to bring the bill.

  He’d parked the Saab on North Bridge. There was a cold wind blowing, but Jean stopped to look at the view: the Scott Monument, the Castle, and Ramsay Gardens.

  ‘Such a beautiful city,’ she said. Rebus tried to agree. He hardly saw it any more. To him, Edinburgh had become a state of mind, a juggling of criminal thoughts and baser instincts. He liked its size, its compactness. He liked its bars. But its outward show had ceased to impress him a long time ago. Jean wrapped her coat tightly around her. ‘Everywhere you look, there’s some story, some little piece of history.’ She looked at him and he nodded agreement, but he was remembering all the suicides he’d dealt with, people who’d jumped from North Bridge maybe because they couldn’t see the same city Jean did.

  ‘I never tire of this view,’ she said, turning back towards the car. He nodded again, disingenuously. To him, it wasn’t a view at all. It was a crime scene waiting to happen.

  When he drove off, she asked if they could have some music. He switched on the cassette-player and the car filled to bursting with Hawkwind’s In Search of Space.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ejecting the tape. She found cassette boxes in the glove compartment. Hendrix, Cream and the Stones. ‘Probably not your style,’ he said.

  She waved the Hendrix at him. 'You haven’t got Electric Ladyland by any chance?’

  Rebus looked at her and smiled.

  Hendrix was the soundtrack for their drive to Portobello.

  ‘So what made you a policeman?’ she asked at one point.

  ‘Is it such a strange career choice?’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘True.’ He glanced at her and smiled. She took the hint, nodding her understanding. Then she concentrated on the music.

  Portobello was on Rebus’s short-list come the move from Arden Street. It had a beach, and a main street of small local shops. At one time, it had been a fairly grand location, a place the gentry flocked to for reviving air and healthy doses of chill seawater. It wasn’t quite so grand now, but the housing market dictated its rebirth. Those who couldn’t afford the smart homes in the city centre were moving to ‘Porty’, which still had big Georgian houses, but without the premium. Jean had a house on a narrow street near the promenade. 'You own the whole thing?’ he said, peering through the windscreen.

  ‘I bought it years back. Porty wasn’t so fashionable.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you want to come in for coffee this time?’

  Their eyes met. His were questioning; hers tentative. Then their faces collapsed into smiles.

  ‘I’d love one,’ he said. Just as he was turning off the ignition, his mobile started ringing.

  ‘I just thought you’d want to know,’ Donald Devlin said. His voice trembled slightly, body likewise.

  Rebus nodded. They were standing just inside the imposing front doors of Surgeons’ Hall. There were people upstairs, but speaking in hushed tones. Outside, one of the grey transit vans from the mortuary was waiting, a police car standing beside it, roof-lights flashing, turning the front of the building blue every couple of seconds.

  ‘What happened?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Heart attack, it looks like. People were enjoying a post-prandial brandy, leaning against the railing.’ Devlin pointed upwards. ‘He suddenly went very pale, leaned over the rail. They thought he was going to be sick. But he just slumped, and his weight took him over.

  Rebus looked down at the marble floor. There was a smear of blood which would need cleaning. Men stood on the periphery, some outside on the lawns. They smoked and spoke of the awful shock. When Rebus looked back at Devlin, the old man seemed to be studying him, as if he were some specimen in a jar.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Devlin asked, watching as Rebus nodded. ‘The two of you were pretty close, I gather.’

  Rebus didn’t answer. Sandy Gates walked up, mopping his face with what looked like a napkin swiped from the dining room.

  ‘Bloody awful,’ was all he said. ‘Probably have to be an autopsy, too.’

  The body was being stretchered away. A blanket covered the body-bag. Rebus resisted the temptation to stop the attendants and pull the zip down. He wanted his last memories of Conor Leary to be of the lively man he’d shared that drink with.

  ‘He’d just made a fascinating speech,’ Devlin said. ‘A sort of ecumenical history of the human body. Everything from the sacrament to Jack the Ripper as haruspex.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Someone who foretells the truth by looking at the entrails of animals.’

  Gates belched. ‘Half of it was above my head,’ he said.

  ‘And the other half you slept through, Sandy,’ Devlin commented with a smile. ‘He did the whole thing without notes,’ he added admiringly. Then he looked up at the first-floor landing again. ‘The fall of m
an, that was his starting point.’ He rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘Here,’ said Gates, handing over the napkin. Devlin blew his nose loudly.

  ‘The fall of man, and then he fell,’ Devlin said. ‘Perhaps Stevenson was right.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He called Edinburgh a “precipitous city”. Maybe vertigo is in the nature of the place …'

  Rebus thought he knew what Devlin meant. Precipitous city … each and every one of its inhabitants falling slowly, almost imperceptibly …

  ‘Bloody awful meal it was, too,’ Gates was saying, as though he’d have preferred to lose Conor Leary after a veritable feast. Rebus didn’t doubt Conor would have felt the same.

  Outside, Dr Curt was one of the smokers. Rebus joined him.

  ‘I tried phoning you,’ Curt said, ‘but you were already on your way.’

  ‘Professor Devlin caught me.’

  ‘He said as much. I think he sensed some bond between you and Conor.’ Rebus just nodded slowly. ‘He’d been pretty ill, you know,’ Curt continued, in that dry voice that always sounded like dictation. ‘After you’d left us this evening, he talked about you.’

  Rebus cleared his throat. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he sometimes thought of you as a penance.’ Curt flicked ash into the air. A flash of blue lit his face for a moment. ‘He was laughing as he said it.’

  ‘He was a friend,’ Rebus said. Inwardly he added, and I let him go. So many friendships he’d pushed away, preferring his own company, the chair by the window in the darkened room. He pretended sometimes that he was doing them all a favour. People he’d let get close to him in the past, they had a habit of getting hurt, sometimes even killed. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that. He wondered about Jean, and where it might be leading. Was he ready to share himself with someone else? Ready to let her into his secrets, his darkness? He still wasn’t sure. Those conversations with Conor Leary, they’d been like confessionals. He’d probably revealed more of himself to the priest than to anyone before him: wife, daughter, lovers. And now he was gone … up to heaven maybe, though he’d cause havoc there, no doubt about it. He’d be in dispute with the angels, looking for Guinness and a good argument.