Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘How the other half live,’ he said to Wylie as they waited for the receptionist to call the Costellos’ room. When Rebus had phoned David Costello’s flat, there’d been no answer, so he’d asked around the office and been told that the parents flew into town Sunday evening, and that their son was spending the day with them.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been inside before,’ Wylie replied. ‘It’s just a hotel, after all.’

  ‘They’d love to hear you say that.’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

  Rebus got the feeling she wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. Her mind was somewhere else, the words just filling spaces.

  The receptionist smiled at them. ‘Mr Costello’s expecting you.’ She gave them the room number and directed them towards the lifts. A liveried porter was hovering, but one look at Rebus told him there was no work for him here. As the lift glided upwards., Rebus tried to get the song ‘Bell-Boy’ out of his head, Keith Moon growling and wailing.

  ‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ Wylie asked.

  ‘Mozart,’ Rebus lied. She nodded as if she’d just placed the tune …

  It wasn’t a room after all, but a suite, with a connecting door to the suite next to it. Rebus caught a glimpse of Theresa Costello before her husband closed the door. The living area was compact: sofa, chair, table, … . There was a bedroom off, and a bathroom down the hall. Rebus could smell soap and shampoo, and behind them the unaired smell you sometimes got in hotel rooms. There was a basket of fruit on the table, and David Costello, seated there, had just helped himself to an apple. He had shaved, but his hair was unwashed, lank and greasy. His grey T-shirt looked new, as did the black denims. The shoelaces on both his trainers were untied, either by accident or design.

  Thomas Costello was shorter than Rebus had imagined him, a boxer’s roll to his shoulders when he walked. His mauve shirt was open-necked, and his trousers were held up with pale pink braces.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ‘sit yourselves down.’ He gestured towards the sofa. Rebus, however, took the armchair, while Wylie stayed standing. There was nothing for the father to do but sink into the sofa himself, where he spread his arms out either side of him. But a split second later he brought his hands together in a single sharp clap and exclaimed that they needed something to drink.

  ‘Not for us, Mr Costello,’ Rebus said.

  You’re sure now?’ Costello looked to Ellen Wylie, who managed a slow nod.

  ‘Well then.’ The father once again arranged his arms either side of him. ‘So what can we be doing for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry we have to intrude at a time like this, Mr Costello.’ Rebus glanced towards David, who was showing about as much interest in proceedings as Wylie.

  ‘We quite understand, Inspector. You’ve got a job to do, and we all want to help you catch the sick bastard who did this to Philippa.’ Costello clenched his fists, showing he was ready to do some damage to the culprit himself. His face was almost wider than it was long, the hair cut short and brushed straight back from the forehead. The eyes were narrowed slightly, and Rebus guessed that the man wore contact lenses, and was ever fearful of them falling out.

  ‘Well, Mr Costello, we just have some follow-up questions.’

  ‘And do you mind me staying while you ask them?’

  ‘Not at all. It may even be that you can help.’

  ‘Go ahead then.’ His head snapped round. ‘Davey! Are you listening?’

  David Costello nodded, ripping another bite from the apple.

  ‘The stage is all yours, Inspector,’ the father said.

  ‘Well, maybe I could start by asking David a couple of things.’ Rebus made a show of easing the notebook from his pocket, though he knew the questions already and didn’t think he’d need to write anything down. But sometimes the presence of a notebook could work a little magic. Interviewees seemed to trust the written word: if you had something in your notebook, then it had probably been verified. Additionally, if they thought their replies were going to be recorded, they gave each utterance more consideration, or else became flustered and blurted out the truth.

  You’re sure you won’t sit?’ the father asked Wylie, patting the space on the sofa.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered coolly.

  The exchange had somehow broken the spell; David Costello didn’t look in the least bothered about the notebook.

  ‘Fire away,’ he told Rebus.

  Rebus took aim and fired. ‘David, we’ve asked you about this Internet game we think Flip might have been playing … '

  'Yes.’

  ‘And you said you didn’t know anything about it, and didn’t go much for computer games and such-like.’

  'Yes.’

  ‘But now we hear that in your schooldays you were a bit of a whizz at dungeons and dragons.’

  ‘I remember that,’ Thomas Costello interrupted. You and your pals, up there in your bedroom all day and all night.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘All night, Inspector, if you can believe that.’

  ‘I’ve heard of grown men doing the same thing,’ Rebus said. ‘A few hands of poker and a big enough pot … ’

  Costello conceded as much with a smile: one gambling man to another.

  ‘Who told you I was a “whizz”?’ David asked.

  ‘It just came up.’ Rebus shrugged.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t. The D and D craze lasted about a month.’

  ‘Flip played, too, when she was at school, did you know that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘She’d have told you though … I mean, the pair of you were into it.’

  ‘Not by the time we met. I don’t think the subject ever came up.'

  Rebus stared into David Costello’s eyes. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  ‘Then how would Flip’s friend Claire have got to hear of it?’

  The young man snorted. ‘She told you? Claire the Cow?’

  Thomas Costello tutted.

  ‘Well, she is,’ his son snapped back. ‘She was always trying to break us up, pretending she was “a friend”.’

  ‘She didn’t like you?’

  David considered this. ‘I think it was more that she couldn’t bear to see Flip happy. When I told Flip, she just laughed in my face. She couldn’t see it. There was some history between her family and Claire’s, and I think Flip felt guilty. Claire was a real blind spot.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

  David looked at him and laughed. ‘Because Claire didn’t kill Flip.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Christ, you’re not saying … ’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, when I say Claire was vicious, it was just mind games with her … just words.’ He paused. ‘But then maybe that’s what the game was, too: is that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Jesus, Davey,’ the father said, ‘if there’s anything you need to tell these officers, get it off your chest!’

  ‘It’s David!’ the young man spat. His father looked furious, but didn’t say anything. ‘I still don’t think it was Claire,’ David added, for Rebus’s benefit.

  ‘What about Flip’s mother?’ Rebus asked casually. ‘How did you get on with her?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Rebus allowed the silence to linger, then repeated the word back at David, this time as a question.

  'Youknow how mothers are with daughters,’ David started to add. ‘Protective and all that.’

  ‘Rightly so, eh?’ Thomas Costello winked at Rebus, who glanced towards Ellen Wylie, wondering if this would rouse her. But she was staring out of the window.

  ‘Thing is, David,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘we’ve reason to believe there might have been a bit of friction there too.’

  ‘How so?’ Thomas Costello asked.

  ‘Maybe David can answer that,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘Well, David?’ Costello asked his son.

  ‘I’ve no idea what he mea
ns.

  ‘I mean,’ Rebus said, pretending to check his notes, ‘that Mrs Balfour harboured the thought that you’d somehow poisoned Flip’s mind.’

  'You must have misheard the lady,’ Thomas Costello said. He was bunching his fists again.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Look at the strain she’s been under … doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

  ‘I think she knew.’ Rebus was still looking at David.

  ‘It’s right enough,’ he said. He’d lost all interest in the apple. It hung from his hand, the white, exposed flesh already beginning to discolour. His father gave a questioning look. ‘Jacqueline had some notion that I was giving Flip ideas.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘That she hadn’t had a happy childhood. That she was remembering it all wrong.’

  ‘And did you think she was?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘It was Flip, not me,’ David stated. ‘She’d been having this dream. She was back in London, back at the house there, and running up and down stairs trying to get away from something. Same dream most nights for a fortnight.’

  'What did you do?'

  'Looked in a couple of textbooks, told her it might be to do with repressed memory.'

  'The boy's lost me,' Thomas Costello admitted. His son turned his head towards him.

  'Something bad that you've managed not to thin about. I was quite envious, actually.' They stared at one another. Rebus thought he knew what David was talking about: growing up with Thomas Costello couldn't have been easy. Maybe it explained the son's teenage years …

  'She never explained what that might be?' Rebus asked.

  David shook his head. 'Probably it was nothing; dreams can have all sorts of meanings.'

  'But Flip believed it?'

  'For a little while, yes.'

  'And told her mother as much?'

  David nodded. 'Who then blamed the whole thing on me.'

  'Bloody woman,' Thomas Costello hissed. He rubbed his forehead. 'But then she's been under a lot of strain …'

  'This was before Flip went missing,' Rebus reminded him.

  'I don't mean that: I mean Balfour's.' Costello growled. The slight against his son was still fresh.

  Rebus frowned. 'What about it?'

  'Lots of money men in Dublin. You get to hear rumours'

  'About Balfour's?'

  'I don't understand it all myself: overstretched … Liquidity ratios … Just words to me.'

  'You're saying Balfour's Bank is in trouble?'

  Costello shook his head. 'Just a few stories that they might be headed that way if they don't turn things around. Problem with banking is, it's all about confidence, isn't it? Few wild stories can do a lot of damage …'

  Rebus got the feeling Costello wouldn't have said anything, but Jacqueline Balfour's accusations against his son had tipped the balance. He made his first note of the interview: 'check Balfour's'.

  He'd had a notion himself: to bring up the matter of father and son's wild days in Dublin. But David seemed calmer now, his teenage years in the past. And as for his father, well, Rebus had seen intimations of a short temper. He didn't think he needed a further lesson.

  There was silence in the room again.

  'Will that do you for now, Inspector?' Costello said, making show of reaching into his trousers and drawing out a pocket watch, flipping it open and snapping it closed.

  ‘Just about,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ Costello said.

  It was sometimes the case, in a murder inquiry, that the victim was left unburied as long as possible, just in case some new piece of evidence came to light. Rebus reckoned strings had been pulled: John Balfour again, getting his own way.

  ‘Is it a burial?’

  Costello nodded. A burial was good. With a cremation, it wasn’t quite so easy to disinter the body should the need arise …

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless there’s anything either of you would like to add … ?’

  There wasn’t. Rebus got to his feet. ‘All right, DS Wylie?’ he said. It was as if she’d been roused from sleep.

  Costello insisted on seeing them to the door, shook both their hands. David didn’t get up from his chair. He was lifting the apple to his mouth as Rebus said goodbye.

  Outside, the door clicked shut. Rebus stood there for a moment, but couldn’t make out any voices from within. He noticed the next door along was open a couple of inches, Theresa Costello peering out.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she was asking Wylie.

  ‘Everything’s fine, madam,’ Wylie told her.

  Before Rebus could get there, the door had closed again. He was left wondering whether Theresa Costello felt as trapped as she looked …

  In the lift, he told Wylie he’d drop her off.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m walking.’

  ‘Sure?’ She nodded, and he checked his watch. Your half-eleven?’ he guessed.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her voice died away.

  ‘Well, thanks for all your help.’

  She blinked, as though having difficulty taking the words in. He stood in the main lobby and watched her make for the revolving door. A moment later, he followed her out on to the street. She was crossing Princes Street, holding her bag in front of her, almost jogging. She made her way up the side of Fraser’s store, towards Charlotte Square, where Balfour’s had its headquarters. He wondered where she was headed: George Street, or maybe Queen Street? Down into the New Town? The only way to find out was to follow her, but he doubted she would appreciate his curiosity.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered to himself, making for the crossing. He had to wait for the traffic to stop, and only caught sight of her when he reached Charlotte Square: she was over the other side, walking briskly. By the time he was on George Street, he’d lost her. He smiled to himself: some detective. Walked along as far as Castle Street, then doubled back. She could be in one of the shops or cafes. To hell with it. He unlocked the Saab and drove out of the hotel car park.

  Some people had their demons. He got the feeling Ellen Wylie was among them. He was a good judge of character that way. Experience always told.

  Back in St Leonard’s, he phoned a contact on a Sunday newspaper’s business pages.

  ‘How sound is Balfour’s?’ he asked, no preamble.

  ‘I’m assuming you mean the bank?’

  'Yes.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘There are rumours in Dublin.’

  The journalist chuckled. ‘Ah, rumours, where would the world be without them?’

  ‘Then there’s no problem?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. On paper, Balfour’s is ticking along as ever. But there are always margins where figures can be buried.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And their half-year forecast has been revised downwards; not quite enough to give big investors the jitters, but Balfour’s is a loose affiliation of smaller investors. They have a tendency towards hypochondria.’

  ‘Bottom line, Terry?’

  ‘Balfour’s should survive, a hostile takeover notwithstanding. But if the balance sheet looks murky at year’s end, there may have to be one or two ritual beheadings.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Who would go?’

  ‘Ranald Marr, I should think, if only to show that Balfour himself has the ruthlessness necessary for this day and age.’

  ‘No place for old friendships?’

  ‘Truth be told, there never was.

  ‘Thanks, Terry. A large G and T will be waiting for you behind the bar of the Ox.’

  ‘It may wait a while.’

  'You on the wagon?’

  ‘Doctor’s orders. We’re being picked off one by one, John.’

  Rebus commiserated for a couple of minutes, thinking of his own doctor’s appointment, the one he was missing yet again by making this call. When he put the phone down, he scribbled the name Marr on to his pa
d and circled it. Ranald Marr, with his Maserati and toy soldiers. You’d almost have thought he’d lost a daughter … Rebus was beginning to revise that opinion. He wondered if Marr knew how precarious his job was, knew that the mere thought of their savings catching a cold might spur the small investors on, demanding a sacrifice …

  He switched to a picture of Thomas Costello, who’d never had to work in his life. What must that be like? Rebus couldn’t begin to answer the question. His parents had been poor all their lives: never owned their own house. When his father had died, he’d left four hundred quid for Rebus to split with his brother. A policy had taken care of the funeral. Even back then, pocketing his share of the notes in the bank manager’s office, he’d wondered … half his parents’ life savings represented one of his week’s wages.

  He had money in the bank himself now: did very little with his monthly salary. The flat was paid off; neither Rhona nor Samantha ever seemed to want something from him. Food and drink, and garage bills for the Saab. He never went on holiday, probably bought a couple of LPs or CDs a week. A couple of months back, he’d thought of buying a Linn hi-fi system, but the shop had knocked him back, told him they’d nothing in stock and would phone him when they had. They’d never phoned. The Lou Reed tickets hadn’t exactly stretched him: Jean had insisted on paying for hers .. . and cooked him breakfast next morning to boot.

  ‘It’s the Laughing Policeman!’ Siobhan called across the office. She was seated at her desk next to Brains from Fettes. Rebus realised he had a big grin on his face. He got up and crossed the room.

  ‘I withdraw that remark,’ Siobhan said quickly, holding up her hands in surrender.

  ‘Hello, Brains,’ Rebus said.

  ‘His name’s Bain,’ Siobhan corrected him. ‘He likes to be called Eric.’