Falls

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus ignored this. ‘It’s like the deck of the Starship Enterprise in here.’ He was looking at the array of computers and connections:

  two laptops, two PCs. He knew one of the PCs was Siobhan’s, the other Flip Balfour’s. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what do we know about Philippa’s early life in London?’

  She wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Not much. Why?’

  ‘Because the boyfriend says she was having these nightmares, running up and down the London house being chased by something.’

  ‘Sure it was the London house?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just that Junipers gave me the heebies: suits of armour and dusty old billiard rooms … imagine growing up with that.’

  ‘David Costello said the London house.’

  ‘Transference?’ Bain suggested. They both looked at him. ‘Just a thought,’ he said.

  ‘So really it was Junipers she was scared of?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Let’s get out the ouija board and ask her.’ Siobhan realised what she’d said and winced. ‘Worst possible taste, sorry.’

  ‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rebus said. He had, too. At the murder scene, one of the woolly-suits helping with the cordon had been overheard telling a mate: ‘I bet she hadn’t banked on that. Get it?’

  ‘It’s kind of sub-Hitchcock, isn’t it?’ Bain said now. You know, Marnie, that sort of thing …'

  Rebus thought of the book of poems in David Costello’s flat: I Dream of Alfred Hitchcock.

  You do not die for being bad, you die

  For being available …

  You’re probably right,’ he said.

  Siobhan read his tone. ‘All the same, you still want the low-down on Flip’s London years?’

  He began to nod, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right it’s too far-fetched.’

  As he moved away, Siobhan turned to Bain. ‘That’s usually right up his street,’ she murmured. ‘The more far-fetched it is, the better he likes it.’

  Bain smiled. He had the briefcase with him again; still hadn’t opened it. After the meal on Friday night they’d said their goodbyes. Siobhan had got into her car Saturday morning and headed north for the football. Didn’t bother offering anyone a lift: she’d packed an overnight bag. Found herself a guest house. Good win for Hibs in the afternoon, then a bit of exploring and a spot of dinner. She’d taken her Walkman, half a dozen tapes and a couple of paperbacks with her, leaving the laptop back in her flat. A weekend without Quizmaster: just what the doctor ordered. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if there was a message for her. She’d made sure she was late getting back Sunday night, then busied herself with laundry.

  Now the laptop sat on her desk. She was almost afraid to touch it, afraid to give in to the craving …

  ‘Good weekend?’ Bain asked.

  ‘Not bad. How about you?’

  ‘Quiet. That dinner on Friday was just about the highlight.’

  She smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘So what do we do now? Get on the blower to Special Branch?’

  ‘We talk to the Crime Squad. They route our request.’

  ‘We can’t cut out the middle-man?’

  ‘The middle-man wouldn’t like that.’

  Siobhan thought of Claverhouse: Bain was probably right. ‘Go ahead then,’ she said.

  So Bain picked up the phone and had a long conversation with DI Claverhouse at the Big House. Siobhan ran her fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. It was already connected to her mobile. A phone message had been waiting for her at home on Friday night: her mobile account, wondering if she knew that her usage had suddenly gone up. Yes, she knew all right. With Bain still busy explaining things to Claverhouse, she decided to connect to the Net, just to give her something to do …

  There were three messages from Quizmaster. The first was from Friday evening, around the time she got home:

  Seeker—My patience wears thin. The quest is about to close on you. Immediate response requested.

  The second was from Saturday afternoon:

  Siobhan? I’m disappointed in you. Your times so far have been excellent. Game is now closed.

  Closed or not, he’d come back on Sunday at the stroke of midnight:

  Are you busy tracing me, is that it? Do you still want to meet?

  Bain ended his conversation and put down the phone. He was staring at the screen.

  'You’ve got him rattled,’ he said.

  ‘New ISP?’ Siobhan asked. Bain checked the headers and nodded. ‘New name, new everything. Still, he’s getting the inkling that he’s not untraceable.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he just shut down?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  You really think the game’s closed?’

  ‘Only one way to find out … ’

  So Siobhan got busy on the keyboard:

  I was away all weekend, that’s all. Inquiries progress. Meantime, yes, I’d still like to meet.

  She sent the message. They went and grabbed coffee, but when they came back there was no reply.

  ‘Is he sulking?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Or away from his machine.’

  She looked at him. 'Your bedroom, is it full of computer stuff?’

  'You’re angling an invite to my bedroom?’

  She smiled. ‘No, I was just wondering. Some of these people, they can spend all day and night at a monitor, can’t they?’

  ‘Absolutely. But I’m not one of them. Three chat rooms where I’m a regular, maybe an hour or two of surfing when I get bored.’

  ‘What are the chat rooms?’

  ‘Tekky stuff’ He shifted his chair towards the desk. ‘Now, while we’re waiting, maybe we should take a look at Ms Balfour’s deleted files.’ He saw the look on her face. You know you can undelete files?’

  ‘Sure. We already looked at her correspondence.’

  ‘But did you look at her e-mails?’

  Siobhan was forced to admit she hadn’t. Or rather, Grant hadn’t known it could be done.

  Bain sighed and got to work on Flip’s PC. It didn’t take long. Soon they were staring at a list of deleted messages, both from Flip and to her.

  ‘How far back do they go?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Just over two years. When did she buy the computer?’

  ‘It was an eighteenth birthday present,’ Siobhan said.

  ‘Not bad for some.

  Siobhan nodded. ‘She got a flat, too.’

  Now Bain looked at her, shook his head slowly in disbelief., ‘I got a watch and a camera for mine,’ he said.

  ‘Is that the watch?’ Siobhan pointed to his wrist.

  Bain’s mind, however, was elsewhere. ‘So we’ve got e-mails stretching right back to when she first got started. He clicked on the one with the earliest date, but the computer told him he couldn’t open it.

  ’Need to convert it,’ he said. ‘The hard disk has probably compressed it.’

  Siobhan was trying to study what he was doing, but he was going too fast. In no time, they were reading the first e-mail Flip had sent on her machine. It was to her father at his office:

  Just testing. Hope you get this. The PC’s super! See you tonight. Flip.

  ‘I suppose we need to read them all?’ Bain guessed.

  ‘I suppose,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Which means converting them one at a time?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If you can fetch me a tea—white, no sugar—I’ll see what I can do.’

  By the time she got back with the drinks, he was printing out sheets of messages. ‘This way,’ he said, ‘you can be reading them while I’m preparing the next batch.’

  Siobhan started chronologically, and it didn’t take her long to find something more interesting than gossipy exchanges between Flip and her friends.

  ‘Look at this,’ she told Bain.

  He read the e-mail. ‘It’s from Balfour’s Bank,’ he said. ‘Someone called RAM.’

  ‘I’m wi
lling to bet it’s Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan took the note back.

  Flip, Great news that at last you are part of the virtual world! I hope you have a lot of fun with it. You’ll also find the Internet a great research tool, so I’m hoping it helps you with your studies. Yes, you’re right that you can delete messages—it makes space in the memory, and allows your computer to work more quickly. But remember that deleted messages are still recoverable unless you take certain steps. Here’s how to delete something completely.

  The writer went on to explain the process. At the end he signed himself R. Bain ran a finger down one edge of the screen.

  ‘Explains why there are big gaps,’ he said. ‘Once he’d told her how to fully delete, she started doing it.’

  ‘Also explains why there are none of the messages to or from Quizmaster.’ Siobhan was sifting through the sheets of paper. ‘Not even her original message to RAM.’

  ‘And none afterwards either.’

  Siobhan rubbed at her temples. ‘Why would she want everything deleted anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not something most users would think to do.’

  ‘Shift over,’ Siobhan said, sliding her chair across. She started composing a new e-mail, to RAM at Balfour’s Bank.

  DC Clarke here. Urgent that you get in touch.

  She added the St Leonard’s phone number and sent the message, then picked up a telephone and called the bank.

  ‘Mr Marr’s office, please.’ She was put through to Marr’s secretary. ‘Is Mr Marr there?’ she asked, her eyes on Bain as he sipped his tea. ‘Maybe you can help me. It’s Detective Constable Clarke here, CID at St Leonard’s. I just sent Mr Marr an e-mail and I was wondering if he’d received it. Apparently we’re having some sort of problem at our end …’ She paused while the secretary checked.

  ‘Oh? He’s not? Could you tell me where he is then?’ She paused again, listening to the secretary. ‘It really is quite important.’ Now her eyebrows went up. ‘Prestonfield House? That’s not far from here. Is there any chance you could get a message to him; asking him to drop into St Leonard’s after his meeting? It’ll only take five minutes. Probably more convenient than having us visit him at work … ’ She listened again. ‘Thanks. And the e-mail did get through? Great, thanks.’

  She put the phone down, and Bain, cup drained and binned, applauded silently.

  Forty minutes later, Marr arrived at the station. Siobhan got one of the uniforms to escort him upstairs to CID. Rebus was no longer around, but the suite was busy. The uniform brought Marr to Siobhan’s desk. She nodded and asked the banker to take a seat. Marr looked around: there were no spare chairs. Eyes were studying him, the other officers wondering who he was. Dressed in a crisp pinstripe suit, white shirt and pale-lemon tie, he looked more like an expensive lawyer than the usual visitors to the station.

  Bain got up, dragging his own chair round the desk for Marr to sit in.

  ‘My driver’s parked on a single yellow,’ Marr said, making a show of looking at his watch.

  ‘This won’t take long, sir,’ Siobhan said. ‘Do you recognise the machine.’ She tapped the computer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It belonged to Philippa.’

  ‘Did it? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I suppose not. But you sent e-mails to one another.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘RAM: that is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘What if it is?’

  Bain stepped forward and handed Marr a sheet of paper. ‘Then you sent her this,’ he said. ‘And it looks like Ms Balfour acted on it.

  Marr looked up from the message, his eyes on Siobhan rather than Bain. She’d winced at Bain’s words, and Marr had noticed.

  Big mistake, Eric! she felt like screaming. Because now Marr knew that this was the only e-mail they had between himself and Flip. Otherwise, Siobhan could have strung him along, letting him think they had others, seeing whether that bothered him or not.

  ‘Well?’ was all Marr said, having read the message.

  ‘It’s just curious,’ Siobhan said, ‘that your first ever e-mail to her should be all about how to delete e-mails.’

  ‘Philippa was very private in many ways,’ Marr explained. ‘She liked her privacy. The first thing she asked me was about deleting material. This was my response. She didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to read what she’d written.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Marr shrugged both elegant shoulders. ‘We all have different personae, don’t we? The “you” who writes to an aged relative isn’t the same “you” who writes to a close friend. I know that when I’m e-mailing a war-gamer, I don’t necessarily want my secretary to read it. She would see a very different “me” from the person she works for.’

  Siobhan was nodding. ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘It’s also the case that in my own profession, confidentiality—secrecy, if you like—is absolutely vital. Commercial subterfuge is always an issue. We shred unwanted documents, delete e-mails and so on, to protect our clients and ourselves. So when Flip mentioned the delete button, that sort of consideration was uppermost in my mind.’ He paused, looked from Siobhan to Bain and back again. ‘Is that all you wanted to know?’

  ‘What else did you talk about in your e-mails?’

  ‘We didn’t correspond for long. Flip was dipping a toe in the water. She had my e-mail address and knew I was an old hand. At first she had lots of questions to ask, but she was a fast learner.’

  ‘We’re still checking the machine for deleted messages,’ Siobhan led blithely. ‘Any idea when your last message to or from her would have been?’

  ‘Maybe as much as a year back.’ Marr started getting to his feet. ‘Now, if we’re quite finished, I really must …'

  ‘If you hadn’t told her about deleting, we might have him by now.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Quizmaster.’

  ‘The person she was playing this game against? You still think that had something to do with her death?’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  Marr was standing now, smoothing his jacket. ‘Is that possible, without the help of this … Quizmaster?’

  Siobhan looked to Bain, who knew a cue when he saw one.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said confidently. ‘It’ll take a bit longer, but we’ll trace him. He’s left enough bits and pieces for us along the way.’

  Marr looked from one detective to the other. ‘Splendid,’ he said with a smile. ‘Well, if I can be of further assistance …'

  'You’ve helped us enormously already, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, fixing her eyes on him. ‘I’ll have one of the uniformed officers show you out … ’

  After he’d gone, Bain pulled his chair back around to Siobhan’s side of the desk and sat down next to her.

  'You think it’s him, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

  She nodded, staring at the doorway through which Marr had just left. Then her shoulders slumped. She squeezed shut her eyes, rubbed at them. ‘Truth is, I haven’t a clue.’

  'You also don’t have any evidence.’

  She nodded, eyes still closed.

  ‘Gut feeling?’ he guessed.

  She opened her eyes. ‘I know better than to trust it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiled at her. ‘Some proof would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

  When the phone rang, Siobhan seemed in a dream, so Bain answered. It was a Special Branch officer called Black. He wanted to know if he was speaking to the right person. When Bain assured him he was, Black asked how much he knew about computers.

  ‘I know a bit.’

  ‘Good. Is the PC in front of you?’ When Bain said that it was, Black told him what he wanted. When Bain came off the phone five minutes later, he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily.

  ‘I don’t know what it is about Special Branch,’ he said, ‘but they always make me feel about five years old and starting my first day at school.’

  'You sounded okay,’ Siobhan assu
red him. ‘What do they need?’

  ‘Copies of all the e-mails between you and Quizmaster, plus details of Philippa Balfour’s ISP account and user names, plus the same for you.

  ‘Except it’s Grant Hood’s machine,’ Siobhan said, touching the laptop.

  ‘Well, his account details then.’ He paused. ‘Black asked if we had any suspects.’

  'You didn’t tell him?’

  He shook his head. ‘But we could always send him Marr’s name. We could even provide his e-mail address.’

  ‘Would that help?’

  ‘It might. You know the Americans can read e-mails using atellites? Any e-mails in the world … ’ She just stared at him, and he laughed. ‘I’m not saying Special Branch have that sort of technology, but you never know, do you?’

  Siobhan was thoughtful. ‘Then give them what we’ve got. Give them Ranald Marr.’

  The laptop told them they had a message. Siobhan clicked it open. Quizmaster.

  Seeker—We meet on completion of Stricture. Acceptable?

  ‘Ooh,’ Bain said, ‘he’s actually asking you.’

  So game isn’t closed? Siobhan typed back.

  Special dispensation.

  She typed another message: There are questions need answering right now.

  An immediate reply: Ask, Seeker.

  So she asked: Was anyone playing the game apart from Flip?

  They waited a minute for the response.

  Yes.

  She looked at Bain. ‘He said before that there wasn’t.’

  ‘He was either lying then, or he’s lying now. Fact that you asked the question again makes me think you didn’t believe him first time round.’

  How many? Siobhan typed.

  Three.

  Pitted against each other? Did they know?

  They knew.

  They knew who they were playing against?

  A thirty-second pause. Absolutely not.

  ‘Truth or lie?’ Siobhan asked Bain.

  ‘I’m busy wondering if Mr Marr’s had enough time to get back to his office.’

  ‘Someone in his profession, wouldn’t surprise me if he kept a laptop and mobile in the car, just to stay ahead of the game.’ She smiled at the unmeant pun.

  ‘I could call his office …’ Bain was already reaching for the phone. Siobhan recited the bank’s number.

  ‘Mr Marr’s office, please,’ Bain said into the receiver. Then: ‘Is that Mr Marr’s assistant? It’s DS Bain here, Lothian Police. Could I have a word with Mr Marr?’ He looked at Siobhan. ‘Due back any minute? Thank you.’ Then an afterthought. ‘Oh, is there any way I could contact him in his car? He doesn’t have access to e-mails there, does he?’ A pause. ‘No, it’s okay, thank you. I’ll call again later.’ He put the phone down. ‘No in-car e-mails.’