Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We’re not in a position to confirm identity as yet,’ Pryde stated, his words punctuated with little coughs. He looked nervous, and Wylie knew the coughs were vocal tics. She’d been the same herself, all that throat-clearing. Gill Templer glanced towards Pryde, and Hood seemed to take this as his cue.

  ‘Cause of death is also yet to be determined,’ he said, ‘with a post- Imortem examination scheduled for late afternoon. As you know, another conference will take place at seven this evening, by which time we hope to have more details available.’

  ‘But the death’s being treated as suspicious?’ one journalist called out.

  ‘At this early stage, yes, we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

  Wylie stuck the end of her biro between her teeth and ground down on it. Hood was cool, no doubt about it. He’d changed his clothes: the ensemble looked brand new. Managed to wash his hair too, she thought.

  ‘There’s very little we can add right now,’ he was telling the is media, ‘as you’ll no doubt appreciate. If and when an identification is made, family have to be contacted and the identification confirmed.’

  ‘Can I ask if Philippa Balfour’s family are coming to Edinburgh?’

  Hood gave the questioner a sour look. ‘I won’t deign to answer that.' Beside him, Gill Templer was nodding agreement, marking her own distaste.

  ‘Can I ask Detective Inspector Pryde if the missing persons investigation is ongoing?’

  'The investigation’s ongoing,’ Pryde said determinedly, picking up some confidence from Hood’s performance. Wylie wanted to switch off the monitor, but others were watching with her, so instead she got up and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. By the time she got back, the conference was ending. Someone else turned off the monitor and put her out of her misery.

  ‘Looked good in there, didn’t he?’

  She stared at the uniform who’d asked, but there was no malice apparent. 'Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He did all right.’

  ‘Better than some,’ another voice said. She turned her head, but there were three officers there, all Gayfield-based. None was looking at her. She reached out a hand for her coffee, but didn’t pick it up, fearing her trembling would be noticed. Instead, she turned her attention to Siobhan’s notes on the German student. She could make a start, busy herself with phone calls.

  Just as soon as she got the words better than some out of her head.

  Siobhan was sending another message to Quizmaster. She’d taken twenty minutes getting it right.

  Hellbank solved. Flip’s body found there. Do you want to talk?

  It didn’t take long for him to respond.

  How did you solve it?

  Anagram of Arthur’s Seat. Hellbank the hillside’s name.

  Was it you who found the body?

  No. Was it you who killed her?

  No.

  But connected to the think anyone was helping her?

  I don’t know. Do you wish to continue?

  Continue?

  Stricture awaits.

  She stared at the screen. Did Flip’s death mean so little to him?

  Flip’s dead. Someone killed her at Hellbank. I need you to come forward.

  His reply took time coming through.

  Can’t help.

  I think you can, Quizmaster.

  Undergo Stricture. Perhaps we can meet there.

  She thought for a moment. What is the game’s goal? When does it end?

  There was no answer. She was aware of a figure standing behind her: Rebus.

  ‘What’s Lover Boy saying?’

  “’Lover Boy”?’

  You seem to be spending a lot of time together.’

  ‘That’s the job.’

  ‘I suppose it is. So what’s he saying?’

  ‘He wants me to go on playing the game.’

  ‘Tell him to sod off. You don’t need him now.

  ‘Don’t I?’

  The phone rang; Siobhan picked up.

  'Yes … that’s fine … of course.’ She looked up at Rebus, but he was sticking around. When she ended the call, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  ‘The Chief Super,’ she explained. ‘Now that Grant’s got liaison, I’m to stick with the computer angle.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning find out if there’s any way of tracing Quizmaster. What do you reckon: Crime Squad?’

  ‘I doubt those buggers could spell “modem”, never mind use one.’

  ‘But they’ll have contacts in Special Branch.’

  Rebus accepted as much with a shrug.

  ‘The other thing I need to do is canvass Flip’s friends and family again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t have got to Hellbank on my own.’

  Rebus nodded. You don’t think she did either?’

  ‘She needed to know London tube lines, geography and the Scots language, Rosslyn Chapel and crossword puzzles.’

  ‘A tall order?’

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Whoever Quizmaster is, he needed to know all those things too.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?’

  ‘I think maybe there were other players … not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.’

  ‘Quizmaster won’t say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  Siobhan shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.

  Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. ‘I was wrong. We need him after all, don’t we?’

  She looked at him. “’We”?’

  He held up his hands. ‘All I meant was, the case needs him.’

  ‘Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt … ’

  ‘Which is?’

  'Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.’

  'Perish the thought, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re going to be talking to her friends … ’

  'Yes?’

  ‘Would that include David Costello?’

  ‘We already talked to him. He said he didn’t know anything about the game.’

  ‘But you’re planning to talk to him again anyway?’

  She almost smiled. ‘Am I so easy to read?’

  ‘It’s just that maybe I could tag along. I’ve got a few more questions for him myself.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you …'

  That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a family friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour’s Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later—the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.

  A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.

  ‘That’s us then,’ Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media—names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Devlin said. He’d removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. ‘What a terrible shame.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jean Burchill said, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she approached. Rebus was out of his chair, taking the coat from her, asking what she wanted to drink.

  ‘Let me buy a roun
d,’ she said, but he shook his head.

  ‘My invitation. That makes it my duty to get in the first round at least.’

  They had colonised the back room’s top table. The place wasn’t busy, and the TV in the opposite corner meant they were unlikely to be overheard.

  ‘Some sort of pow-wow?’ Jean asked, after Rebus had gone.

  ‘Or maybe a wake,’ Wylie guessed.

  ‘It’s her then?’ Jean asked. Their silence was answer enough.

  'You work on witchcraft and stuff, don’t you?’ Siobhan asked Jean.

  ‘Belief systems,’ Jean corrected her, ‘but, yes, witchcraft falls into it.’

  ‘It’s just that with the coffins, and Flip’s body being found in a place called Hellbank … You said yourself there might be some connection with witchcraft.’

  Jean nodded. ‘It’s true that Hellbank may have come by its name that way.

  ‘And true that the little coffins on Arthur’s Seat might have been to do with witchcraft?’

  Jean looked to Donald Devlin, who was following the dialogue intently. She was still debating what to say when Devlin spoke up.

  ‘I very much doubt there’s any element of witchcraft involved in the Arthur’s Seat coffins. But you do propose an interesting hypothesis, in that, enlightened though we might think ourselves, we are always ready to invite such mumbo-jumbo.’ He smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’m impressed that a police detective should be so minded.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was,’ Siobhan snapped back.

  ‘Clutching at straws then, perhaps?’

  When Rebus returned with Jean’s lime and soda, he couldn’t help but note the silence which had fallen over the table.

  ‘Well,’ Wylie said impatiently, ‘now we’re all here …'

  ‘Now we’re all here …’ Rebus echoed, lifting his pint, ‘cheers!’ He waited till they’d lifted their own glasses before putting his own to his mouth. Scotland: you couldn’t refuse a toast.

  ‘All right,’ he said, putting the glass back down, ‘there’s a murder case needs solving, and I just want to be sure in my own mind where we all stand.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the morning briefings are for?’

  He looked at Wylie. ‘Then call this an unofficial briefing.’

  ‘With the booze as a bribe?’

  ‘I’ve always been a fan of incentive schemes.’ He managed to force a smile from her. ‘Right, here’s what I think we’ve got so far. We’ve got Burke and Hare—taking things chronologically—and soon after them we’ve got lots of little coffins found on Arthur’s Seat.’ He looked towards Jean, noticing for the first time that though there was a space on the bench next to Devlin, she’d pulled a chair over from one of the other tables so she was next to Siobhan instead. ‘Then, connected or not, we’ve got a series of similar coffins turning up in places where women happen to have disappeared or turned up dead. One such coffin is found in Falls, just after Philippa Balfour goes missing. She then turns up dead on Arthur’s Seat, location of the original coffins.’

  ‘Which is a long way from Falls,’ Siobhan felt bound to point out. ‘I mean, those other coffins you’ve got, they were found near the scene, weren’t they?’

  ‘And the Falls coffin is different from the others,’ Ellen Wylie added.

  ‘I’m not saying otherwise,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘I’m just trying to establish whether I’m the only one who sees possible links?’

  They all looked at each other; no one said anything until Wylie lifted her Bloody Mary and, studying its red surface, mentioned the German student. ‘Swords and sorcery, role-playing, ends up dead on a Scottish hillside.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But,’ Wylie continued, ‘hard to tie in with your disappearances and drownings.’

  Devlin seemed persuaded by her tone. ‘It’s not,’ he added, ‘as if the drownings were considered suspicious at the time, and my examination of the pertinent details doesn’t persuade me other- wise.’ He had taken his hands from his pockets; they now rested on the shiny knees of his baggy grey trousers.

  ‘Fine,’ Rebus said, ‘then I’m the only one who’s even remotely convinced?’

  This time, not even Wylie spoke up. Rebus took another long swallow of beer. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘Look, why are we here?’ Wylie laid her hands on the table. You’re trying to convince us to work as a team?’

  ‘I’m just saying all these little details may end up being part of the same story.’

  ‘Burke and Hare to the Quizmaster’s Treasure Hunt?’

  'Yes.’ But Rebus looked like he was believing it less himself now. ‘Christ, I don’t know … ’ He ran a hand over his head.

  ‘Look, thanks for the drink … ’ Ellen Wylie’s glass was empty. She picked her shoulder-bag up from the bench, started getting to her feet.

  ‘Ellen … '

  She looked at him. ‘Big day tomorrow, John. First full day of the murder inquiry.’

  ‘It’s not officially a murder inquiry until the pathologist pronounces,’ Devlin reminded her. She looked ready to say something, but just graced him with the coldest of smiles. Then she squeezed out between two of the chairs, said a general goodbye, and was gone.

  ‘Something connects them,’ Rebus said quietly, almost to himself ‘I can’t for the life of me think what it is, but it’s there …'

  ‘It can be detrimental,’ Devlin pronounced, ‘to begin obsessing—as our transatlantic cousins might say—on a case. Detrimental both to the case and to oneself.’

  Rebus tried for the same smile Ellen Wylie had just given. ‘I think the next round’s yours,’ he said.

  Devlin checked his watch. ‘Actually, I’m afraid I’m unable to tarry.’ He seemed to find it painful rising from the table. ‘I don’t suppose one of the young ladies might proffer a lift?’

  'You’re on my way home,’ Siobhan conceded at last.

  Rebus’s sense of desertion was softened when he saw her glance in Jean’s direction: she was leaving the two of them alone, that was all.

  ‘But I’ll get a round in before I go,’ Siobhan added.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ Rebus told her with a wink. He sat in silence with Jean until they’d gone, and was about to speak when Devlin came shuffling back.

  ‘Am I right to assume,’ he said, ‘that my usefulness is now at an end?’ Rebus nodded. ‘In which case, will the files be sent back to their place of origin?’

  ‘I’ll get DS Wylie to do it first thing,’ Rebus promised.

  ‘Many thanks then.’ Devlin’s smile was directed at Jean. ‘It’s been a pleasure to have met you’

  ‘And you,’ she said.

  ‘I may pop into the Museum some day. Perhaps you’d do me the honour of showing me round …'

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Devlin bowed his head, and started back towards the stairs again.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t,’ she muttered when he’d gone.

  ’Why not?’

  ‘He gives me the creeps.

  Rebus looked over his shoulder, as though some final view of Devlin might persuade him she was right. You’re not the first to say that.’ He turned back to her. ‘But don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe with me.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not,’ she said, eyes twinkling above her glass.

  They were in bed when the news came through. Rebus took the call, seated naked on the edge of the mattress, uncomfortably aware of the view he was presenting to Jean: probably two spare tyres around his middle, arms and shoulders more fat than muscle. The silver lining was: the view could only be worse from the front …

  ‘Strangulation,’ he told her, sliding back under the bedclothes.

  ‘It was quick then?’

  ‘Definitely. There’s bruising on the neck just at the carotid artery. She probably passed out, then he strangled her.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Easier to kill someone when they’re compliant. No struggle.�
��

  'You’re quite the expert, aren’t you? Ever killed someone, John?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  ‘That’s a lie, isn’t it?’

  He looked at her and nodded. She leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

  'You don’t want to talk about it. That’s okay.’

  He wrapped his arm around her, kissed her hair. There was a mirror in the room, one of those floor-standing models so you could see yourself head to foot. It faced away from the bed. Rebus wondered if that was on purpose or not, but he wasn’t about to ask.

  ‘Where’s the carotid artery?’ she asked.

  He placed a finger on his own neck. ‘Put pressure on it, the person blacks out in a matter of seconds.’

  She felt her neck until she’d found it. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Does everyone except me know that?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Where it is, what it does.’

  ‘I don’t suppose so, no. What are you getting at?’

  ’It’s just that whoever did it was in the know.’

  ‘Cops know about it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not much used these days, for obvious reasons. But there was a time it could make an unruly prisoner manageable. The Vulcan death-grip, we used to call it.’

  She smiled. ‘The what?’

  'You know, Spock on Star Trek.’ He pinched her shoulder blade. She wriggled free and gave his chest a slap, resting her hand there. Rebus was thinking of his army training, and how he’d been taught attack techniques, including pressure on the carotid …

  ‘Would doctors know?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Probably anyone who’s had medical training would.’

  She looked thoughtful.

  ’Why?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Just something from the paper. Wasn’t one of Philippa’s friends a medical student, one of the ones she was going to meet that night…?’

  10

  His name was Albert Winfield—‘Aibie’ to his friends. He seemed surprised that the police wanted to talk to him again, but turned up at St Leonard’s at the appointed time next morning. Rebus and Siobhan left him fully fifteen minutes while they got on with other work, then made sure two burly uniforms led him to the interview room, where they left him for a further quarter of an hour. Outside the room, Siobhan and Rebus locked eyes and nodded at one another. Then Rebus pushed open the door forcefully.