Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Reckon anyone here has an overdraft?’ Grant asked.

  ‘The staff might. Not so sure about their clients.’

  A middle-aged woman had come from behind one of the doors, closing it softly behind her. She made no noise at all as she walked towards them.

  ‘Mr Marr will see you now.’

  They’d expected to be led back to the door, but instead the woman headed for the staircase. Her brisk pace kept her four or five steps ahead of them: no chance for conversation. At the end of the first- floor hall she knocked on a double set of doors and waited.

  ‘Enter!’ At which command she pushed open both the doors, gesturing for the two detectives to walk past her and into the room.

  It was huge, with three floor-to-ceiling windows, covered by pale linen roller-blinds. There was a polished oak committee-table, laid with pens, notepads and water-jugs. It took up only a third of the available space. There was a seating area—sofa and chair, with a TV nearby showing stock-market fluctuations. Ranald Marr himself was standing behind his desk, a huge antique expanse of walnut. Marr, too, was burnished, his tan looking as though it had its roots in the Caribbean rather than a Nicolson Street sun-bed. He was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately barbered. His suit was a double-breasted pinstripe, almost certainly bespoke. He deigned to come forward to greet them.

  ‘Ranald Marr,’ he said unnecessarily. Then, to the woman:

  ‘Thank you, Camille.’

  She closed the doors after her, and Marr gestured towards the sofa. The two detectives made themselves comfortable while Marr settled into the matching leather chair. He crossed one leg over the other.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked, his face turning solicitous.

  ‘Inquiries are progressing, sir,’ Grant Hood informed him. Siobhan tried not to look askance at her colleague: inquiries are progressing … she wondered which TV show Grant had picked that up from.

  ‘The reason we’re here, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, ‘is because it looks like Philippa was involved in some sort of role-playing game.’

  ‘Really?’ Marr looked puzzled. ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Grant said, ‘it’s just that we’ve heard you like to play those sorts of games, too.’

  “’Those sorts of .. .”?’ Marr clapped his hands together. ‘Oh, I know what you mean now. My soldiers.’ He frowned. ‘Is that what Flip was involved in? She never showed any interest.’

  ‘This is a game where clues are given and the player has to solve each one to reach a different level.’

  ‘Not the same thing at all.’ Marr slapped his knees and rose to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you.’ He went to his desk and took a key from a drawer. ‘This way,’ he said brusquely, opening the door to the hallway. He led them back to the top of the staircase, but climbed a narrower stairwell to the second storey. ‘Along here.’ As he walked, Siobhan noticed a slight limp. He disguised it well, but it was there. Probably he should have been using a stick, but she doubted his vanity would allow it. She caught wafts of eau-de- Cologne. No wedding ring on show. When he made to slip the key into a lock, she saw that his wristwatch was a complicated affair with a leather strap to match his tan.

  He opened the door and preceded them inside. The window had been covered with a black sheet, and he switched on the overhead lights. The room was half the size of his office, much of the space A taken up with something at table height. It was a model, maybe eighteen feet long by ten wide: green rolling hills, a blue strip of river. There were trees and ruined dwellings, and, covering much of the board, two armies. Several hundred soldiers, divided into regiments. The pieces themselves were less than an inch high, but the detail on each was painstaking.

  ‘I painted most of them myself. Tried to keep them all that little bit different, give them a personality.’

  'You re-enact battles?’ Grant said, picking up a cannon. Marr didn’t look happy at this transgression. He nodded, lifting the piece delicately from Grant with forefinger and thumb.

  ‘That’s what I do. War-gaming, you could call it.’ He placed the piece back on the board.

  ‘I went paintballing once,’ Grant told him. ‘Ever done that?’

  Marr allowed the officer a thin smile. ‘We took the bank staff once. I can’t say I was keen: too much mess. But John enjoyed himself. He’s always threatening a return fixture.’

  ‘John being Mr Balfour?’ Siobhan guessed.

  There was a shelf stacked with books: some on modelling, some about the battles themselves. Other shelves contained clear plastic boxes within which rested armies, waiting for their chance at victory.

  ‘Do you ever change the outcome?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘That’s part of the strategy,’ Marr explained. You figure out where the defeated side went wrong, and you try to alter history.’ There was a new passion in his voice. Siobhan walked over to where a seamstress’s dummy had been kitted out in uniform. There were other uniforms some better preserved than others—mounted behind glass on the walls. No weapons of any kind, just the clothes the soldiers would have worn.

  ‘The Crimea,’ Marr said, pointing to one of the framed jackets.

  Grant Hood interrupted with a question. ‘Do you play against other people?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘They come here?’

  ‘Never here, no. I have a much larger layout in the garage at my house.’

  ‘Then why do you need a set-up here?’

  Marr smiled. ‘I find that it relaxes me, helps me think. And I do get the occasional break from the desk.’ He broke off. You think it a childish hobby?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Siobhan said, only half truthfully. There was a certain ‘toys for the boys’ feel to it, and she could see the years dropping from Grant as he studied the little model armies. ‘Ever play any other way?’ she asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She shrugged, as if the question had been a casual inquiry merely, keeping the conversation going. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe moves sent by post. I’ve heard of chess players doing that. Or how about the Internet?’

  Grant glanced at her, seeing her gist immediately.

  ‘I know of some Internet sites,’ Marr said. You get one of those camera thingies.’

  ‘Web cams?’ Grant offered.

  ‘That’s it. Then you can play across continents.’

  ‘But you’ve never done that?’

  ‘I’m not the most technically gifted of people.’

  Siobhan turned her attention back to the bookcase. ‘Ever heard of a character called Gandalf?’

  ‘Which one?’ She just looked at him. ‘I mean, I know at least two. The wizard in Lord of the Rings, and the rather odd chap who runs the games shop on Leith Walk.’

  'You’ve been to his shop then?’

  ‘I’ve bought a few pieces from him down the years. But I mostly buy mail order.’

  ‘And over the Internet?’

  Marr nodded. ‘Once or twice, yes. Look, who was it exactly who told you about this?’

  ‘About you liking to play games?’ Grant asked.

  'Yes.’

  ‘It’s taken you a while to ask,’ Siobhan commented.

  He glowered at her. ‘Well, I’m asking now.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say.’

  Marr didn’t like that, but refrained from making a comment. ‘Am I right in thinking,’ he said instead, ‘that whatever game it was Flip was playing, it was nothing like this?’

  Siobhan shook her head. ‘Nothing at all like it, sir.

  Marr looked relieved. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Everything’s fine. It’s just … it’s proving such a terrible strain on all of us.’

  ’I’m sure that’s true,’ Siobhan said. Then, with a last expansive look around: ‘Well, thank you for letting us see your toys, Mr Marr. We’d better let you get back to work now … ’ But having half turned away,
she stopped again. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen soldiers like these somewhere before,’ she said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Maybe in David Costello’s flat?’

  ‘I think I did give David one piece,’ Marr said. ‘Was it him who . .?’ He broke off, smiled and shook his head. ‘I forgot: you won’t be at liberty to say.’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ Hood told him.

  As they left the building, Grant started to chuckle. ‘He didn’t like it when you called them “toys”.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I said it.’

  ‘Don’t bother trying to open an account, I can see you being blackballed.’

  She smiled. ‘He knows about the Internet, Grant. And playing those sorts of games, he’s probably got an analytical mind.’

  ‘Quizmaster?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, why would he do it? What’s in it for him?’

  Grant shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing much … apart from control of Balfour’s Bank.’

  'Yes, there’s always that,’ Siobhan said. She was thinking about the playing piece in David Costello’s flat. A little gift from Ranald Marr … only Costello had said he’d no idea where it had come from, with its broken musket and the soldier’s head twisted round. Then he’d called her and told her about Marr’s little hobby …

  ‘Meantime,’ Grant was saying, ‘we’re no closer to solving the clue.’

  He broke her train of thought. She turned towards him. ‘Just promise me one thing, Grant.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Promise you’re not going to turn up outside my flat at midnight.’

  ‘No can do,’ Grant said, smiling. ‘We’re against the clock, remember.’

  She looked at him again, remembering the way he’d been on top of Hart Fell, the way he’d gripped her hands. Right now, he looked like he was enjoying himself—the chase, the challenge—just a little too much.

  ‘Promise,’ she said again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I promise.

  Then he turned and gave her a wink.

  Back at the station, Siobhan sat in a toilet cubicle and studied the hand which she’d brought up level with her eyes. The hand carried a slight tremble. It was curious how you could be quivering inside, yet manage not to show it. But she knew her body had other ways of manifesting outward signs: the rashes she sometimes got; the outbreaks of acne on her chin and neck; the eczema she sometimes suffered from on the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

  She was trembling now because she was having trouble focusing on what was important. It was important to do the job well, important, too, not to piss off Gill Templer. She didn’t think her own hide was toughened the way Rebus’s was. The case was important, and maybe Quizmaster was too. It rankled that she couldn’t know for sure. She knew one thing: that the game was in danger of becoming an obsession. She kept trying to put herself in Flip Balfour’s shoes, to think along the same lines. She couldn’t be sure how well she was doing. Then there was Grant, who was looking more and more of a liability. Yet she couldn’t have come this far without him, so maybe it was important that she stay close to him. She couldn’t even be sure that Quizmaster was male. She had a gut feeling, but it was dangerous to depend on those: she’d seen Rebus screw up more than once on the strength of a gut feeling for someone’s guilt or innocence.

  She still wondered about the liaison job, and whether she’d burned her bridges there. Gill had succeeded only by becoming more like the male officers around her, people like ACC Carswell. She probably thought she’d played the system, but Siobhan suspected that it was the system which had played her, moulding her, changing her, making sure she would fit in. It meant putting up barriers, keeping your distance. It meant teaching people lessons, people like Ellen Wylie.

  She heard the door to the Ladies’ creak open. A moment later, there was a soft tapping on her cubicle door.

  ‘Siobhan? That you in there?’

  She recoguised the voice: Dilys Gemmill, one of the WPCs. ‘What’s up, Dilys?’ she called.

  ‘That drink tonight, wondered if you were still on.’

  It was a regular thing: four or five WPCs, plus Siobhan. A bar with loud music, plenty of gossip to go with the Moscow Mules. Siobhan an honorary member: the only non-uniform ever invited.

  ‘I don’t think I can manage it, Dilys.’

  ‘Come on, girl …'

  ‘Next time for definite, okay?’

  ‘It’s your funeral,’ Gemmill said, moving away.

  ‘I hope not,’ Siobhan muttered to herself, getting up to unlock the door.

  Rebus stood across the road from the church. He’d been home to change, but now that he was here he couldn’t make himself go in. A taxi drew up and Dr Curt stepped out. As he stopped to button his jacket, he saw Rebus. It was a small, local church, just as Leary had wanted: He’d said as much to Rebus several times during the course of their conversations.

  ‘Quick, clean and simple,’ he’d stated. ‘It’s the only way I’ll have it.’

  The church might have been small, but the congregation looked large. The Archbishop, who’d attended the Scots College in Rome with Leary, would be leading the service, and what looked like dozens of priests and officiates had filed into the church already. Clean’ it might be, but Rebus doubted the event would turn out either ‘quick’ or ‘simple’ …

  Curt was crossing the street. Rebus flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the roadway and slid his hands into his pockets. He noticed some ash clinging to his sleeve, but didn’t bother brushing it away.

  ‘Nice day for it,’ Curt commented, studying a sky which thick cloud had turned a bruised-looking grey. It felt claustrophobic, even outdoors. When Rebus brushed a hand across the back of his head he could feel the follicles coated with sweat. On afternoons like this, Edinburgh felt like imprisonment, a city of walls.

  Curt was tugging at one of his shirt sleeves, making sure it came an inch below the jacket, exposing a hallmarked silver cuff-link. His suit was dark blue, the shirt white, his tie plain black. His black brogues had been given a polish. Always immaculately dressed. Rebus knew his own suit, though the best, the most formal he possessed, was shabby by comparison. He’d had it six, seven years, had sucked his gut in to get the trousers fastened. Hadn’t even bothered trying to button the jacket. Austin Reed he’d got it from; maybe it was time for another visit. He got few invites these days to weddings and christenings, but funerals were another matter. Colleagues, drinkers he knew .. . they were falling off the perch. Only three weeks back, he’d been to the crematorium, a woolly-suit from St Leonard’s who’d died less than a year after retiring. The white shirt and black tie had gone back on to the hanger afterwards. He’d checked the shirt collar this afternoon, before putting the shirt back on.

  ‘Shall we go in then?’ Curt said.

  Rebus nodded. You go ahead.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m just not sure … ’ He took his hands from his pockets, busied himself with another cigarette Offered one to Curt, who nodded and took it.

  ‘Not sure of what?’ the pathologist asked, as Rebus lit the cigarette for him. Rebus waited until he had his own one lit. A couple of puffs and then a loud exhaling of smoke.

  ‘I want to remember him the way he was to me,’ he said. ‘If I go in there, it’ll be speeches and other people’s memories. It won’t be the Conor I knew.’

  ‘The pair of you were pretty close at one time,’ Curt agreed. ‘I didn’t really know him that well.’

  ‘Is Gates coming?’ Rebus asked.

  Curt shook his head. ‘Prior commitment.’

  ‘Did the pair of you do the autopsy?’

  ‘It was a brain haemorrhage.’

  More mourners were arriving, some on foot, others by car. Another taxi drew up, and Donald Devlin got out. Rebus thought he spotted a grey cardigan beneath the suit jacket. Devlin took the church steps at a brisk pace and disappeared inside.

 
‘Was he able to help you?’ Curt asked.

  ‘Who?’

  Curt nodded towards the departing taxi. ‘The old-timer.’

  ‘Not really. He gave it his best shot though.’

  ‘Then he did as much as Gates or I could have.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Rebus was thinking of Devlin, picturing him at the desk, poring over details, Ellen Wylie keeping her distance. ‘He was married, wasn’t he?’ he asked.

  Curt nodded again. ‘Widower. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, really.’

  Curt looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stamped the cigarette out on the pavement. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about the cemetery?’

  ‘I think I’ll give that a miss too.’ Rebus looked up at the clouds. ‘What the Americans would call a rain-check.’

  Curt nodded. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  ‘Next time there’s a homicide,’ Rebus confirmed. Then he turned and walked away. His head was filling with images of the mortuary, the post-mortem examination. The wooden blocks they laid the deceased’s head on. The little channels on the table which drained away the body fluids. The instruments and specimen jars … He thought of the jars he’d seen in the Black Museum, the way horror had mixed with fascination. One day, maybe not too far away, he knew it would be him on that table, maybe Curt and Gates preparing their day’s routine. That was what he would be to them: part of the routine, just as another routine was being played out in the church behind him. He hoped some of it would be in Latin: Leary had been a great fan of the Latin mass, would recite whole passages to Rebus, knowing he couldn’t understand.

  ‘Surely in your day they taught Latin?’ he’d asked one time.

  ‘Maybe at the posh school,’ Rebus had replied. ‘Where I went, it was woodwork and metalwork.’

  ‘Turning out workers for the religion of heavy industry?’ And Leary had chuckled, the sound booming from deep within his chest. Those sounds were what Rebus would remember: the clucking of his tongue whenever he felt Rebus had said anything wantonly idiotic; the exaggerated groan whenever he rose to fetch more Guinness from the fridge.