Falls

by Ian Rankin

  'You okay, John?’ Curt reached out a hand and touched his shoulder.

  Rebus shook his head slowly, eyes squeezed shut. Curt didn’t make it out the first time, so Rebus had to repeat what he said next:

  ‘I don’t believe in heaven.’

  That was the horror of it. This life was the only one you got. No redemption afterwards, no chance of wiping the slate clean and starting over.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Curt was saying, clearly unused to the role of comforter, the hand which touched Rebus’s arm more used to easing human organs from a gaping wound. 'You’ll be all right.’

  ‘Will I?’ Rebus said. ‘Then there’s no justice in the world.’

  'You’d know more about that than I would.’

  ‘Oh, I know all right.’ Rebus took a deep breath, let it out. There was sweat beneath his shirt, the night air chilling him. ‘I’ll be okay,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Of course you will.’ Curt finished his cigarette and pushed it into the grass with his heel. ‘Like Conor said: despite rumours to the contrary, you’re on the side of the angels.’ He took his hand from Rebus’s arm. ‘Whether you like it or not.’

  Donald Devlin came bustling up. ‘Should I order some taxis, do you think?’

  Curt looked at him. ‘What does Sandy say?’

  Devlin took off his glasses, made a show of wiping them. ‘Told me not to be so “bloody pragmatic”.’ He slipped the glasses on again.

  ‘I’ve got the car,’ Rebus said.

  'You’re okay to drive?’ Devlin asked.

  ‘It’s not like I’ve just lost my fucking dad!’ Rebus exploded. Then he started to apologise.

  ‘An emotional time for all of us,’ Devlin said, waving the apology aside. Then he took his glasses off and started polishing them again, as if the world could never reveal itself too vividly for him.

  7

  Tuesday at eleven a.m., Siobhan Clarke and Grant Hood started working Victoria Street. They drove up George W Bridge, forgetting that Victoria Street was one-way. Grant cursed the No Entry sign and rejoined the crawl of traffic heading for the lights at the junction with Lawnmarket.

  ‘Just park kerbside,’ Siobhan said. He shook his head. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Traffic’s hopeless as it is. No use making things worse.

  She laughed. ‘Do you always play by the rules, Grant?’

  He glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He didn’t say anything, just flipped on the left-turn signal as they stopped three cars back from the lights. Siobhan couldn’t help but smile. He had the boy-racer car, but it was all a front, behind which sat a polite wee laddie.

  ‘Going out with anyone just now?’ she asked as the lights changed.

  He considered his answer. ‘Not just at the moment,’ he said at last.

  ‘For a while there, I thought maybe you and Ellen Wylie … ’

  ‘We worked one bloody case together!’ he objected.

  ‘Okay, okay. It’s just that the pair of you seemed to hit it off.’

  ‘We got along.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. So where was the problem?’

  His face had reddened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just wondered if the difference in rank was maybe a factor. Some men can’t handle it.’

  ‘Because she’s a DS and I’m a DC?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The answer’s no. Never even thought of it.’

  They’d reached the roundabout outside The Hub. The right fork led to the Castle, but they took the left.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘I’ll take a left along West Port. With any luck we’ll find a space in the Grassmarket.’

  ‘And I bet you’ll put money in the meter, too.’

  ‘Unless you want the honour.’

  She snorted. ‘I walk on the wild side, kid,’ she said.

  They found a parking bay, and Grant dropped a couple of coins into the machine, peeling back the ticket and sticking it to the inside of his windscreen.

  ‘Half an hour long enough?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Depends what we find.’

  They walked past the Last Drop pub, named for the fact that criminals had swung from Grassmarket’s scaffold at one time in the city’s history. Victoria Street was a steep curve back up to George IV Bridge, lined with bars and gift shops. On the far side of the street, pubs and clubs seemed to predominate. One place doubled as a Cuban bar and restaurant.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Not too many statues, I wouldn’t have thought, unless there’s one of Castro.’

  They walked the length of the street, then doubled back. Three restaurants this side, along with a cheesemonger and a shop selling nothing but brushes and string. Pierre Victoire was the first stop. Peering through the window, Siobhan could see that it was a fairly empty space with little in the way of decoration. They went in anyway, not bothering to introduce themselves. Ten seconds later they were back on the pavement.

  ‘One down, two to go,’ Grant said. He didn’t sound hopeful.

  Next was a place called the Grain Store, through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. The place was being readied for lunchtime trade. There were no statues.

  As they descended to the street, Siobhan repeated the clue. “’This queen dines well before the bust.”’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Maybe we’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Then the only thing we can do is send another e-mail, appeal to Quizmaster for help.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s the type.’

  Grant shrugged. ‘Next stop, can we at least have a coffee? I skipped breakfast this morning.’

  Siobhan tutted. ‘What would your mum say?’

  ‘She’d say I slept in. Then I’d tell her it’s because I was up half the night trying to solve this bloody puzzle.’ He paused. ‘And that someone had promised me breakfast would be on them.

  Restaurant Bleu was their final call. It promised ‘world cuisine’ but had a traditional feel as they walked through the door: old varnished wood, the small window doing little to illuminate the cramped interior. Siobhan looked around, but there wasn’t so much as a vase of flowers.

  She turned to Grant, who pointed towards a winding staircase. ‘There’s an upstairs.’

  ‘Can I help?’ the assistant said.

  ‘In a minute,’ Grant assured her. He followed Siobhan up the stairs. One small room led to another. As Siobhan entered this second chamber, she gave a sigh. Grant, following her, thought the worst. Then he heard her say, ‘Bingo,’ in the same instant as he saw the bust. It was Queen Victoria, two and a half feet high, in black marble.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, grinning. ‘We cracked it!’

  He looked ready to hug her, but she moved away towards the bust. It sat on a low plinth, pillars either side and sandwiched by tables. Siobhan looked all around, but couldn’t see anything.

  ‘I’ll tip it,’ Grant said. He took hold of Victoria by her head-dress and eased her from the plinth.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a voice said behind them. ‘Is something the matter?’

  Siobhan slid her hand under the bust and drew out a folded sheet of paper. She beamed at Grant, who turned towards the waitress.

  ‘Two teas, please,’ he instructed her.

  ‘And two sugars in his,’ Siobhan added.

  They sat down at the nearest table. Siobhan held the note by one corner. ‘Think we’d get any prints?’ she asked.

  ‘Worth a try.’

  She got up and walked over to a cutlery tray in the corner, came back with a knife and fork. The waitress nearly dropped their crockery when she saw the customer attempting, as she thought, to dine on a sheet of paper.

  Grant took the cups from the waitress and thanked her. Then he turned back to Siobhan. ‘What does it say?’

  But Siobhan looked up at the waitress. ‘We found this under there,’ she said, pointing to the bust. Th
e waitress nodded. ‘Any idea how it could have got there?’ The waitress shook her head. She had the look of a small, frightened animal. Grant sought to reassure her.

  ‘We’re the police,’ he said.

  ‘Any chance of talking to the manager?’ Siobhan added.

  When the waitress had retreated, Grant repeated his earlier question.

  ‘See for yourself,’ Siobhan said, using the knife and fork to turn the sheet of paper in his direction.

  B4 Scots Law sounds dear.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said.

  'Your eyes are as good as mine.’

  He reached up to scratch his head. ‘Not much to go on, is it?’

  ‘We didn’t have much to go on last time.’

  ‘We had more than this.’

  She watched him stir sugar into his tea. ‘If Quizmaster placed this clue here …'

  ‘He’s a local?’ Grant guessed.

  ‘Either that or someone local is helping him.’

  ‘He knows this restaurant,’ Grant said, looking around. ‘Not everyone who ventures in would bother coming upstairs.’

  'You think he might be a regular?’

  Grant shrugged. ‘Look at what’s nearby, on George W Bridge. The Central Library and the National Library. Academics and bookworms are great ones for puzzles.’

  ‘That’s a good point. The Museum’s not far away either.’

  ‘And the law courts … and the parliament …’ He smiled. ‘Just for a second there I thought we might be narrowing things down.’

  ‘Maybe we are,’ she said, lifting her cup as though to make a toast. ‘Here’s to us anyway for solving the first clue.’

  ‘How many more till we get to Hellbank?’

  Siobhan grew thoughtful. ‘That’s up to Quizmaster, I suppose. He told me it was the fourth stage. I’ll send an e-mail when we get back, just to let him know.’ She placed the sheet of paper in an evidence bag. Grant was studying the clue again. ‘First thoughts?’ she asked.

  ‘I was remembering a bit of graffiti from primary school. It was in the boys’ toilets.’ He wrote it down on the paper serviette.

  LOLO

  AQIC

  I82Q

  B4IP

  Siobhan read it aloud and smiled. ‘Be-fore I pee,’ she repeated. 'You think maybe that’s what B4 means?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could be part of an address.’

  ‘Or a coordinate …'

  He looked at her. ‘From a map?’

  ‘But which one?’

  ‘Maybe that’s what the rest of the clue tells us. How’s your Scots Law?’

  ‘The exams were a while back.’

  ‘Ditto. Is there some Latin word for “dear”, maybe something to do with the law?’

  ‘There’s always the library,’ she suggested. ‘With a big bookshop just past it.’

  He checked his watch. ‘I’ll go put more money in the meter,’ he said.

  Rebus was at his desk, five sheets of paper spread out in front of him. He’d shifted everything else on to the floor: files, memos, the lot. The office was quiet: most of the shift had headed to Gayfield Square for a briefing. They wouldn’t thank him for the obstacle course he’d constructed in their absence. His computer monitor and keyboard now sat in the centre aisle between the rows of desks, just next to his multi-tiered in-tray.

  And on his desk, five lives. Five victims, possibly. Caroline Farmer the youngest. Just sixteen when she’d disappeared. He’d finally got through to her mother this morning. Not an easy call to make.

  ‘Oh my God, don’t tell me there’s news?’ That sudden blooming of hope, wizened by his response. But he’d found out what he had to. Caroline had never come back. There had been unconfirmed sightings in the early days, when her photo was in all the papers. But nothing since.

  ‘We moved last year,’ her mother said. ‘It meant emptying her bedroom …'

  But for the quarter-century before that, Rebus surmised, Caroline’s room had been waiting for her: same posters on the walls, same early-seventies teenage girls’ clothes neatly folded in the chest of drawers.

  ‘Back at the time, they seemed to think we’d done something to her,’ the mother continued. ‘I mean, her own family.’

  Rebus didn’t like to say: all too often it’s a father or uncle or cousin.

  ‘Then they started picking on Ronnie.’

  ‘Caroline’s boyfriend?’ Rebus guessed.

  'Yes. Just a laddie.’

  ‘They’d split up, hadn’t they?’

  'You know what teenagers are like.’ It was as though she were talking about events from a week or two back. Rebus didn’t doubt that the memories stayed fresh, always ready to torment her waking hours, maybe even the sleeping ones too.

  ‘But he was ruled out?’

  ‘They gave up on him; yes. But he wasn’t the same after that, family moved from the area. He wrote to me for a few years …'

  ‘Mrs Farmer—’

  ‘It’s Ms Colquhoun now. Joe left me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Did it have …?’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’

  ‘He never talked much about it,’ was all she said. Rebus wondered if Caroline’s father had been able to let her go, in a way her mother hadn’t.

  ‘This may seem a strange question, Ms Colquhoun, but did Dunfermline Glen have any siguificance for Caroline?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure what you mean.

  ‘Me neither. It’s just that something’s come to our attention, and we’re wondering if it might tie in with your daughter’s disappearance.

  ‘What is it?’

  He didn’t suppose she’d take the coffin in the Glen as good news; resorted instead to the old cliche’: ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that at present.’

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds. ‘She liked to walk in the Glen.’

  ‘By herself?”

  ‘When she felt like it.’ Her voice caught. ‘Is it something you’ve found?’

  ‘Not the way you think, Ms Colquhoun.’

  'You’ve dug her up, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not at all~’

  ‘What then?’ she shrieked.

  ‘I’m not at lib—’

  She’d put the phone down. He stared at the mouthpiece, then did the same.

  In the men’s toilets he splashed water on his face. His eyes were grey and puffy. Last night, he’d left Surgeons’ Hall and driven to Portobello, parking outside Jean’s house. Her lights had been off. He’d got as far as opening the car door, but had stopped. What was he planning to say to her? What was it he wanted? He’d closed the door again as quietly as he could, and just sat there, engine and headlamps off; Hendrix playing quietly: ‘The Burning of the Midnight Lamp’.

  Back at his desk, one of the station’s civvy staff had just arrived with a large cardboard document-box. Rebus lifted the top off and peered inside. The box was actually not quite half full. He pulled out the topmost folder and examined the typed label: Paula Jennifer Gearing (nee Mathieson); d.o.b.—10.4.50; d.o.d.—6.7.77. The Nairn drowning. Rebus sat down, pulled in his chair and started to read. About twenty minutes in, as he was scribbling another note on a lined A4 pad, Ellen Wylie arrived.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, shedding her coat.

  ‘We must have different ideas of a start-time,’ he said. Remembering what she’d said yesterday, she reddened, but when she glanced in his direction he was smiling.

  ‘What have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘Our friends in the north came good.’

  ‘Paula Gearing?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘She was twenty-seven. Married four years to a husband who worked on a North Sea oil platform. Nice bungalow on the outskirts of town. No kids. She had a part-time job in a newsagent’s … probably for company more than financial necessity.’

  Wylie came over to his desk. ‘Was foul play ruled out?’

  Rebus tapped his notes.
‘Nobody could ever explain it, according to what I’ve read so far. She didn’t seem suicidal. Doesn’t help that they’ve no idea whereabouts on the coast she actually entered the water.’

  ‘Pathology report?’

  ‘It’s in here. Can you get on to Donald Devlin, see if he can spare us some time?’

  ‘Professor Devlin?’

  ‘He’s the person I bumped into yesterday. He’s agreed to study the autopsies for us.’ He didn’t say anything about the actual circumstances of Devlin’s involvement, how Gates and Curt had turned him down. ‘His number will be on file,’ Rebus said. ‘He’s one of Philippa Balfour’s neighbours.’

  ‘I know. Have you seen this morning’s paper?’

  ‘No.’

  She fetched it from her bag, opened it to one of the inside pages. A photofit: the man Devlin had seen outside the tenement on the days preceding Philippa’s disappearance.

  ‘Could be anybody,’ Rebus said.

  Wylie nodded agreement. Short dark hair, straight nose, narrowed eyes and a thin line of a mouth. ‘We’re getting desperate, aren’t we?’ she said.

  It was Rebus’s turn to nod. Releasing the photofit to the media, especially one as clearly generalised as this, was an act of desperation. ‘Get on to Devlin,’ he said.

  'Yes, sir.’

  She took the newspaper with her, sat down at a spare desk and gave her head a little shake, as if clearing the cobwebs. Then she picked up the telephone, preparing to make the first call of another long day.

  Rebus went back to his reading, but not for long. A name leapt out at him, the name of one of the police officers involved in the Nairn inquiry.

  A detective inspector with the surname Watson.

  The Farmer.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir.

  The Farmer smiled, slapped a hand on Rebus’s back. 'You don’t have to call me “sir” any more, John.’

  He gestured for Rebus to precede him down the hall. It was a farmhouse conversion just south of the bypass. The interior walls were painted a pale green and the furniture was fifties and sixties vintage. A wall had been knocked through so that the kitchen was separated from the living room only by a breakfast bar and dining area. The dining table gleamed. The kitchen’s work surfaces were similarly clean, and the hob was spotless, not a dish or dirty pot in sight.