Falls

by Ian Rankin

  He made a note to himself about Huntingtower, then got back on the phone. The Glasgow coffin was more awkward. The reporter who’d covered the story had moved on. Nobody at the news desk could remember anything about it. Rebus eventually got a number for the church manse and spoke to a Reverend Martine.

  ‘Have you any idea what happened to the coffin?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I think the journalist took it,’ Reverend Martine said.

  So Rebus thanked him and got back to the newspaper, where he was able eventually to speak to the editor, who wanted to hear Rebus’s own story. So he explained about the ‘Edinburgh coffin’ and how he was working for the Department of Long Shots.

  ‘This Edinburgh coffin, where was it found exactly?’

  ‘Near the Castle,’ Rebus said blithely. He could almost see the editor writing a note to himself, maybe thinking of following the story up.

  After another minute or so, Rebus was transferred to personnel, where he was given a forwarding address for the journalist, whose name was Jenny Gabriel. It was a London address.

  ‘She went to work for one of the broadsheets,’ the personnel manager stated. ‘It was what Jenny always wanted.’

  So Rebus went out and bought coffee, cakes and four newspapers:

  the Times, Telegraph, Guardian and Independent. He went through each, studying the by-lines, but didn’t find Jenny Gabriel’s name. Undaunted, he called each paper and asked for her by name. At the third attempt, the switchboard asked him to hold. He glanced across to where Devlin was dropping cake crumbs on to Wylie’s desk.

  ‘Transferring you now.

  The sweetest words Rebus had heard all day. Then the call was picked up.

  ‘News desk.’

  ‘Jenny Gabriel, please,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Speaking.’

  And it was time for the spiel again.

  ‘My God,’ the reporter said at last, ‘that was twenty years ago!’

  ‘Just about,’ Rebus agreed. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the doll?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Rebus felt his heart sink a little. ‘When I moved south, I gave it to a friend. He’d always been fascinated by it.’

  ‘Any chance you could put me in touch with him?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll get his number … ’ There was a pause. Rebus spent the time working loose the mechanism of his ballpoint pen. He realised he had only the vaguest idea how such a pen worked. Spring, casing, refill … he could take it to pieces, put it back together again, and be none the wiser.

  ‘He’s in Edinburgh actually,’ Jenny Gabriel said. Then she gave him a number. The friend’s name was Dominic Mann.

  ‘Many thanks,’ Rebus said, cutting the call. Dominic Mann wasn’t home, but his answering machine gave Rebus a mobile number to try. The call was picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Dominic Mann … ?’ And Rebus was off again. This time getting the result he wanted. Mann still owned the coffin, and could drop it into St Leonard’s later on in the day.

  ‘I’d really appreciate that,’ Rebus said. ‘Funny thing to hold on to all these years …?’

  ‘I was planning to use it in one of my installations.’

  ‘Installations?’

  ‘I’m an artist. At least, I was. These days I run a gallery.’

  'You still paint?’

  ‘Infrequently. Just as well I didn’t end up using it. It might have been wrapped in paint and bandages and sold to some collector’

  Rebus thanked the artist and put down the phone. Devlin had finished his cake. Wylie had put hers to one side, and the old man was eyeing it now. The Nairn coffin was easier: two calls got Rebus the result he wanted. He was told by a reporter that he’d do some digging, and was called back with the number of someone in Nairn, who then did some digging of their own and found the coffin stored in a neighbour’s shed.

  'You want me to post it to you?’

  'Yes, please,’ Rebus said. ‘Next-day delivery.’ He’d thought of sending a car, but didn’t think the budget would stretch. There’d been memos flying on the subject.

  ‘What about the postage?’

  ‘Enclose your details and I’ll see you get a refund.’

  The caller thought about this. ‘Seems all right, I suppose. Just have to trust you, won’t I?’

  ‘If you can’t trust the police, who can you trust?’

  He put down the phone and looked across to Wylie’s desk again. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Getting there,’ she said, her voice tired and irritated. Devlin got up, crumbs tumbling from his lap, and asked where the ‘facilities’ were. Rebus pointed him in the right direction. Devlin started to leave, but paused in front of Rebus.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this.’

  ‘Glad someone’s happy, Professor.’

  Devlin prodded Rebus’s jacket lapel with a finger. ‘I think you’re in your element.’ He beamed, and shuffled out of the room. Rebus walked across to Wylie’s desk.

  ‘Better eat that cake, if you don’t want him drooling.’

  She considered this, then broke the cake in two and stuffed half into her mouth.

  ‘I got a result on the dolls,’ he told her. ‘Two traced, with another possible.’

  She took a gulp of coffee, washing down the sugary sponge. ‘Doing better than us then.’ She studied the remaining half of the cake, then dropped it into the bin. ‘No offence,’ she said.

  ‘Professor Devlin will be gutted.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  ‘He’s here to help, remember?’

  She stared at him. ‘He smells.’

  ‘Does he?’

  'You’ve not noticed?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  She looked at him as though this comment said much about him. Then her shoulders fell. ‘Why did you ask for me? I’m useless. All those reporters and TV viewers saw it. Everybody knows it. Have you got a thing about cripples or what?’

  ‘My daughter’s a cripple,’ he said quietly.

  Her face reddened. ‘Christ, I didn’t mean …'

  ‘But to answer your question, the only person around here who seems to have a problem with Ellen Wylie is Ellen Wylie herself.’

  Her hand had gone to her face, as if trying to force the blood back down. ‘Tell that to Gill Templer,’ she said at last.

  ‘Gill ballsed things up. It’s not the end of the world.’ His phone was ringing. He started backing towards his desk. ‘Okay?’ he said. When she nodded, he turned away and answered the call. It was Huntingtower. They’d found the coffin in a cellar used for lost property. A couple of decades’ worth of umbrellas and pairs of spectacles, hats and coats and cameras.

  ‘Amazing, the stuff down there,’ Mr Ballantine said. But all Rebus was interested in was the coffin.

  ‘Can you post it next-day delivery? I’ll see you get a refund …'

  By the time Devlin came back in, Rebus was on the trail of the Dunfermline coffin, but this time he hit a wall. Nobody—local press, police—seemed to know what had happened to it. Rebus got a couple of promises that questions would be asked, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Nearly thirty years had passed; unlikely it would turn up. At the other desk, Devlin was clapping his hands silently as Wylie finished another call. She looked across to Rebus.

  ‘Post-mortem report on Hazel Gibbs is on its way,’ she said. Rebus held her gaze for a few moments, then nodded slowly and smiled. His phone went again. This time it was Siobhan.

  ‘I’m going to talk to David Costello,’ she said. ‘If you’re not doing anything.’

  ‘I thought you’d paired up with Grant?’

  ‘DCS Templer has snared him for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Has she now? Maybe she’s offering him your liaison job.’

  ‘I refuse to let you wind me up. Now, are you coming or not …?’

  Costello was in his flat. When he opened the door to them, he looked startled. Siobhan ass
ured him that it wasn’t bad news. He didn’t seem to believe her.

  ‘Can we come in, David?’ Rebus asked. Costello looked at him for the first time, then nodded slowly. To Rebus’s eyes, he was wearing the same clothes as on his last visit, and the living room didn’t seem to have been tidied in the interim. The young man was growing a beard, too, but seemed self-conscious, rubbing his fingertips against its grain.

  ‘Is there any news at all?’ he asked, slumping on to the futon, while Rebus and Siobhan stayed standing.

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ Rebus said.

  ‘But you can’t go into details?’ Costello kept shifting, trying to get comfortable.

  ‘Actually, David,’ Siobhan said, ‘the details—some of them at least—are the reason we’re here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the first clue from a game. A game we think Flip was playing.’

  Costello sat forward, looked at the message again. ‘What sort of game?’

  ‘Something she found on the Internet. It’s run by someone called Quizmaster. Solving each clue takes the player to a new level. Flip was working on a level called Hellbank. Maybe she’d solved it, we don’t know.’

  ‘Flip?’ Costello sounded sceptical.

  'You’ve never heard of it?’

  He shook his head. ‘She didn’t say a word.’ He looked across towards Rebus, but Rebus had picked up a poetry book.

  ‘Was she interested in games at all?’ Siobhan asked.

  Costello shrugged. ‘Dinner-party stuff. You know: charades and the like. Maybe Trivial Pursuit or Taboo.’

  ‘But not fantasy games? Role-playing?’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Nothing on the Internet?’

  He rubbed at his bristles again. ‘This is news to me.’ He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and back again. You’re sure this was Flip?’

  ‘We’re pretty sure,’ Siobhan stated.

  ‘And you think it has something to do with her disappearance?’

  Siobhan just shrugged, and glanced in Rebus’s direction, wondering if he had anything to add. But Rebus was busy with his own thoughts. He was remembering what Flip Balfour’s mother had said about Costello, about how he’d turned Flip against her family. And when Rebus had asked why, she’d said: Because of who he is.

  ‘Interesting poem, this,’ he said, waving the book. It was more of a pamphlet really, pink cover with a line-drawing illustration. Then he recited a couple of lines:

  “ ’You do not die for being bad, you die

  For being available.” ’

  Rebus closed the book, put it down. ‘I’d never thought of it like that before,’ he said, ‘but it’s true.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘Do you remember when we talked, David?’ He inhaled, then thought to offer the packet to Costello, who shook his head. The half-bottle of whisky was empty, as were half a dozen cans of lager. Rebus could see them on the floor near the kitchen, along with mugs, plates and forks, the wrappings from takeaway food. He hadn’t taken Costello for a drinker; maybe he’d have to revise that opinion. ‘I asked you if Flip might have met someone, and you said something about how she’d have told you. You said she couldn’t keep things to herself.’

  Costello was nodding.

  ‘And yet here’s this game she was playing. Not an easy game either, lots of puzzles and word-play. She might have needed help.’

  ‘She didn’t get it from me.’

  ‘And she never mentioned the Internet, or anyone called Quiz- master?’

  He shook his head. ‘Who is he anyway, this Quizmaster?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Siobhan admitted. She’d walked over to the bookshelf.

  ‘But he should come forward, surely?’

  ‘We’d like him to.’ Siobhan lifted the toy soldier from the shelf. ‘This is a gaming piece, isn’t it?’

  Costello turned his head to look. ‘Is it?’

  You don’t play?’

  ‘I’m not even sure where it came from.’

  ‘Been in the wars though,’ Siobhan said, studying the broken musket.

  Rebus looked over to where Costello’s own computer—a laptop—sat ready and waiting. There were textbooks on the worktop next to it, and on the floor underneath a printer. ‘I take it you’re on the Internet yourself, David?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t everybody?’

  Siobhan forced a smile, put the toy soldier back. ‘DI Rebus’here is still wrestling with electric typewriters.’

  Rebus saw what she was doing: trying to soften Costello up, using Rebus as the comedy prop.

  ‘To me,’ he said, ‘the Internet is what the Milan goalie tries to defend.’

  This got a smile from Costello. Because of who he is… But who was David Costello really? Rebus was beginning to wonder.

  ‘If Flip kept this from you, David,’ Siobhan was saying now, ‘might there be other things she kept secret?’

  Costello nodded again. He was still shifting on the futon, as if he’d never again be at rest. ‘Maybe I didn’t know her at all,’ he conceded. He studied the clue again. ‘What does it mean, do you know?’

  ‘Siobhan worked it out,’ Rebus admitted. ‘But all it did was lead her to a second clue.’

  Siobhan handed over the copy of the second note. ‘It makes less sense than the first,’ Costello said. ‘I really can’t believe it of Flip. It’s not her sort of thing at all.’ He made to hand the note back.

  ‘What about her other friends?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Do any of them like games, puzzles?’

  Costello’s eyes fixed on her. 'You think one of them could …'

  ‘All I’m wondering is whether Flip might have gone to anyone else for help.’

  Costello was thoughtful. ‘No one,’ he said at last. ‘No one I can think of.’ Siobhan took the second note from him. ‘What about this one?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what it means?’

  She looked at the clue for maybe the fortieth time. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet.’

  Afterwards, Siobhan drove Rebus back to St Leonard’s. They were silent for the first few minutes. Traffic was bad. The evening rush hour seemed to start earlier with each passing week.

  ‘What do you think?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘I think we’d have been quicker walking.’

  It was pretty much the response she’d expected. 'Your dolls in boxes, there’s a playful quality to them, isn’t there?’

  ‘Bloody queer game, if you ask me.’

  ‘Every bit as queer as running a quiz over the Internet.’

  Rebus nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I don’t want to be the one seeing a connection here,’ Siobhan added.

  ‘My department?’ Rebus guessed. ‘The potential’s there though, isn’t it?’

  It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘If all the dolls link up.

  ‘Give us time,’ Rebus said. ‘Meanwhile, a bit of background on Mr Costello might be in order.’

  ‘He seemed genuine enough to me. That look on his face when he answered the door, he was terrified something had happened. Besides, background check’s already been done, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean we didn’t miss anything. If I remember rightly, Hi- Ho Silvers was given the job, and that bugger’s so lazy he thinks sloth’s an Olympic sport.’ He half turned towards her. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I try to at least look like I’m doing something.’

  ‘I mean what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I think I’m going to head home. Call it a day.’

  ‘Better be careful, DCS Templer likes her officers to put in a full eight hours.’

  ‘In that case she owes me … and you too, I shouldn’t wonder When was the last time you only worked an eight-hour shift?’

  ‘September, nineteen eighty-six,’ Rebus said, raising a smile.

  ‘How’s the flat coming on?’

  ‘Rewiring’s all but finished. The painters are moving in now.�
��

  ‘Found somewhere to buy?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s bugging you, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you want to sell up, that’s your decision.’

  He gave her a sour look. 'You know what I mean.’

  ‘Quizmaster?’ She considered her answer. ‘I could almost enjoy it …'

  ‘If?’

  ‘If I didn’t get the sense that he’s enjoying it too.’

  ‘By manipulating you?’

  Siobhan nodded. ‘And if he’s doing it to me, he did it to Philippa Balfour too.’

  'You keep assuming it’s a "he”,’ Rebus said.

  ‘For convenience only.’ There was the sound of a mobile. ‘Mine,’ Siobhan said, as Rebus reached into his own pocket. Her phone was attached to its own little charger beside the car stereo. Siobhan pressed a button, and an inbuilt microphone and speaker did the rest.

  ‘Hands-free,’ Rebus said, impressed.

  ‘Hello?’ Siobhan called out.

  ‘Is that DC Clarke?’

  She recognised the voice. ‘Mr Costello? What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was just thinking … what you were saying about games and stuff?’

  'Yes?'

  ‘Well, I do know someone who’s into all that. Rather, Flip knows someone.

  ‘What’s their name?’

  Siobhan glanced towards Rebus, but he already had his notepad and pen ready.

  David Costello said the name, but his voice broke up halfway through. ‘Sorry,’ Siobhan said. ‘Could you give me that again?’

  This time they both caught the name loud and clear: ‘Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan frowned, mouthing the name silently. Rebus nodded. He knew exactly who Ranald Marr was: John Balfour’s business partner, the man who ran Balfour’s Bank in Edinburgh.

  The office was quiet. Officers had either docked off, or were in meetings at Gayfield Square. There’d be shoe-leather patrols out there too, but scaled down now. There was almost no one left to interview. Another day without any sighting of Philippa, and no word from her, no sign that she was still alive. Credit cards and bank balance untouched, friends and family uncontacted. Nothing. Word around the station was, Bill Pryde had thrown a wobbly, sent his clipboard sailing across the open-plan office so that staff had to duck to avoid it. John Balfour had been putting the pressure on, giving media interviews critical of the lack of progress. The Chief Constable had asked for a status report from the ACC, which meant the ACC was on everyone’s back. In the absence of any new leads, they were interviewing people for the second or third time. Everyone was jittery, frayed. Rebus tried calling Bill Pryde at Gayfield, but couldn’t get through. He then placed a call to the Big House and asked to speak to Claverhouse or Ormiston in Crime Squad, Number 2 Branch. Claverhouse picked up.