by Ian Rankin
‘No!’ Rebus’s voice was a roar. He got to his feet. ‘He’s mine.
As he bounded downstairs two at a time, he realised Devlin must have been hiding in one of the other rooms. Waited till they were busy in the living room and then slipped out. They’d interrupted him. He tried not to think of what Jean’s fate would have been if they hadn’t …
By the time he reached the pavement, Devlin had disappeared from view, but the splashes of bright blood were as clear a trail as Rebus could wish for. He caught sight of him crossing Howe Street, making for St Stephen Street. Rebus was gaining, until the uneven pavement caught him, sending him over on one ankle. Devlin might be in his seventies, but that didn’t mean much: he’d have the strength and determination of the possessed. Rebus had seen it before during a chase. Desperation and adrenaline made for a fearful mix …
Still the drops of blood showed the way. Rebus had slowed, trying to keep the weight off his twisted ankle, pictures of Jean’s face filling his mind. He punched numbers into his mobile, got the sequence wrong the first time and had to start again. When the call was answered, he yelled for assistance.
‘I’m keeping the line open,’ he said. That way, he could let them know if Devlin suddenly flagged a taxi or boarded a bus.
He could see Devlin again now, but then he turned the corner into Kerr Street. By the time Rebus got to the corner, he’d lost him again. Deanhaugh Street and Raeburn Place were straight ahead, busy with pedestrians and traffic: the evening trawl home. With so many people around, the trail was harder to follow. Rebus crossed the road at the traffic lights and found himself on the road-bridge which crossed the Water of Leith … There were several routes Devlin could have taken, and the trail seemed to have stopped. Had he crossed towards Saunders Street, or maybe doubled back along Hamilton Place? Resting one arm on the parapet, taking the weight off his ankle, Rebus happened to look down at the river flowing sluggishly below.
And saw Devlin on the footpath, heading down-river towards Leith.
Rebus lifted the phone and called in his position. As he was doing so, Devlin looked back and saw him. The old man’s pace quickened, but then suddenly slowed. He came to a stop, the other people on the path making a detour round him. One seemed solicitous, but Devlin shook away the offer of help. He turned back and stared at Rebus, who was walking to the end of the bridge, taking the steps down. Devlin hadn’t moved. Rebus called in his position again, then put the phone in his pocket, wanting both hands free.
As he walked towards Devlin, he saw the scratches on his face, and realised that Jean had been giving almost as good as she got. Devlin was studying his bloodied hand as Rebus stopped six feet away.
‘The human bite can be quite poisonous, you know,’ Deylin told him. ‘But at least with Miss Burchill I’m sure I needn’t be concerned about hepatitis and HIV.’ He looked up. ‘Something struck me, seeing you on that bridge. I suddenly thought: they don’t have anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Any evidence.’
‘Well, we can always make a start with attempted murder.’ Rebus slipped a hand into his pocket, brought out the phone.
‘Who are you going to call?’ Devlin asked.
‘Don’t you want an ambulance?’ Rebus held the phone up, took a step forwards.
‘Just a couple of stitches,’ Devlin commented, examining the wound again. Sweat dripped from his hair and the sides of his face. He was breathing hard, wheezily.
'You don’t make the grade as a serial killer any more, do you, Professor?’
‘It’s been some time,’ he agreed.
‘Was Betty-Anne Jesperson the last?’
‘I’d nothing to do with young Philippa, if that’s what you re asking.’
‘Someone stealing your. idea?’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly mine in the first place.’
‘Are there any others?’
‘Others?’
‘Victims we don’t know about.’
Devlin’s smile broke open some of the cuts on his face. ‘Isn’t four enough?’
'You tell me.’
‘It seemed . .. satisfactory. No pattern, you see. Two bodies not even found.’
‘Just the coffins.’
‘Which might never have been connected …'
Rebus nodded slowly, didn’t say anything.
‘Was it the autopsy?’ Devlin asked at last. Rebus nodded again. ‘I knew it was a risk.’
‘If you’d told us at the start you’d carried out the Glasgow postmortem, we wouldn’t have thought anything of it.’
‘But back then, I couldn’t know what else you might find. Other connections, I mean. And by the time I saw you weren’t going to come up with anything, it was too late. I could hardly say “Oh, incidentally, I was one of the pathologists”, not after we’d already been through the notes … ’
He dabbed at his face with his fingers, finding blood issuing from the cuts. Rebus held the phone a little closer.
‘That ambulance …?’ he offered.
Devlin shook his head. ‘In good time.’ A middle-aged woman made to pass them, eyes widening in horror as she saw Devlin. ‘A stumble down the steps,’ he reassured her. ‘Help is on its way.’
She quickened her pace away from the scene.
‘I think I’ve said more than enough, don’t you, DI Rebus?’
‘Not for me to say, sir.’
‘I do hope DS Wylie doesn’t get into trouble.’
‘For what?’
‘Not keeping a closer eye on me when I was studying the autopsy reports.’
‘I don’t think she’s the one that’s in trouble here.’
‘Uncorroborated evidence, isn’t that what we’re dealing with, Inspector? One woman’s word against mine? I’m sure I can find some plausible motive for my fight with Miss Burchill.’ He studied his hand. ‘One might almost call me the victim. And let us be honest, what else do you have? Two drownings, two missing persons, no evidence.’
‘Well,’ Rebus corrected him, ‘no evidence apart from this.’ He held the phone a little higher. ‘It was already on when I took it from my pocket, connected to our comms centre down in Leith.’ He put the phone to his ear. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that uniformed officers were making their way down the steps from the bridge. ‘Did you get all that?’ he asked into the mouthpiece. Then he looked at Devlin and smiled.
‘We record every call, you see.’
The animation left Devlin’s face, his shoulders slumping. Then he turned on his heels, preparing to run. But Rebus’s arm snaked out, gripping him hard by the shoulder. Devlin tried to wrestle free. One foot slipped off the walkway and he started to fall, his weight pulling Rebus with him. The two men landed heavily in the Water of Leith. It wasn’t deep, and Rebus felt his own shoulder connect with a rock. When he tried standing up, his feet sank to the ankles in mud. He was still holding on to Devlin, and as the bald head appeared from below the surface, missing its spectacles, Rebus saw again the monster who had battered Jean. He reached out his free hand to the Professor’s neck and forced him back under. Hands flew up, splashing, wrestling air. Fingers clawing at Rebus’s arm, clutching at his jacket lapel.
He felt as calm as he ever had in his life. The water lapped around him, icy but somehow soothing, too. There were people on the bridge, staring down, and officers wading into the water nearby, and a pale-lemon sun spectating from above a bruised cloud. The water seemed cleansing to him. He couldn’t feel his twisted ankle any more, couldn’t feel anything much. Jean would recover, and so would he. He’d move out of Arden Street, find somewhere else, somewhere nobody knew about … maybe near water.
His arm was wrenched from behind: one of the uniforms.
‘Let go of him!’
The cry broke the spell. Rebus released his grip, and Donald Devlin rose spluttering and choking into the daylight, watery vomit dribbling from his chin …
They were loading Jean Burchill into the ambulance wh
en Rebus’s mobile started ringing. One of the green-suited paramedics was explaining that they couldn’t rule out spinal or neck damage, which was why they’d strapped her to a stretcher and placed braces around her head and neck.
Rebus was staring at Jean, trying to take in what was being said.
‘Shouldn’t you answer that?’ the paramedic asked.
‘What?’
'Your phone.’
Rebus lifted the mobile to his ear. When he’d struggled with Devlin, it had dropped on to the walkway. It was scratched and chipped, but at least still working. ‘Hello?’
‘DI Rebus?’
‘It’s Eric Bain here.’
'Yes.'
‘Is something the matter?’
‘Quite a lot, yes.’ As the trolley slid home into the back of the ambulance, Rebus looked down at his sodden clothes. ‘Any sign of Siobhan?’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. It’s just that I can’t reach her. They think she’s in the Botanics. There are half a dozen men out there looking for her.’
‘So?’
‘So there’s news about Quizmaster.’
‘And you’re bursting to tell someone?’
‘I suppose so, yes.
‘I’m not sure you’ve got the right person, Bain, I’m a bit tied up right now.
‘Oh.’
Rebus was inside the ambulance now, seated across from the trolley. Jean had her eyes closed, but when he reached for her hand, his pressure was returned.
‘Sorry?’ he said, having missed what Bain had just said.
‘Who should I tell then?’ Bain repeated.
‘I don’t know.’ Rebus sighed. ‘Okay, tell me what it is.’
‘It’s Special Branch,’ Bain said, the words streaming out. ‘One of the e-mail addresses Quizmaster was using, it traces back to Philippa Balfour’s account.’
Rebus didn’t understand: was Bain trying to say that Flip Balfour had been Quizmaster … ?
‘I think it makes sense,’ Bain was saying now. ‘Taken with Claire Benzie’s account.’
‘I’m not getting you.’ Jean’s eyelids were fluttering. A sudden jolt of pain, Rebus guessed. He lessened the pressure on her hand.
‘If Benzie did lend her laptop to Philippa Balfour, we’ve got two computers in the same place, both used by Quizmaster.’
‘And if we rule out Ms Balfour as a suspect ‘We’re left with someone who had access to both?’ Silence for a moment, and then Bain: ‘I think the boyfriend’s back in the frame, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rebus was having trouble concentrating. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, feeling perspiration there.
‘We could always ask him … '
‘Siobhan’s gone to meet Quizmaster,’ Rebus said. Then he paused. ‘She’s at the Botanics, you say?’
'Yes.'
‘How do we know?’
‘Her car’s parked right outside.’
Rebus thought for a second: Siobhan would know they were looking for her. Leaving the car in full view was too big a giveaway …
‘What if she’s not there?’ he said. ‘What if she’s meeting him somewhere else?’
‘How can we find out?’
‘Maybe Costello’s flat … ’ He looked down at Jean. ‘Look, Bain, I really can’t do this … not right now.’
Jean’s eye opened. She mouthed something.
‘Hang on, Bain,’ Rebus said. Then he lowered his head to Jean’s.
‘Fine …’ he heard her slur.
She was telling him she’d be okay; that he had to help Siobhan now. Rebus turned his head, his eyes meeting those of Ellen Wylie, who was standing on the roadway, waiting for the doors to close. She nodded slowly, letting him know she’d stay with Jean.
‘Bain?’ he said into the mobile. ‘I’ll meet you outside Costello’s flat.’
By the time Rebus got there, Bain had climbed the winding stairs and was standing outside Costello’s door.
‘I don’t think he’s home,’ Bain was saying, crouching down to look through the letter-box. A chill ran up Rebus’s spine, remembering what he’d seen when he’d peered into Devlin’s flat. Bain got to his feet again. ‘No sign of … Jesus Christ, man, what happened to you?’
‘Swimming lessons. I didn’t have time to change.’ Rebus looked at the door, then at Bain. ‘Together?’ he said.
Bain stared back at him. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’
‘For Siobhan,’ Rebus said simply.
They hit the door together on the count of three.
Inside, Bain knew what he was looking for: a computer. He found two in the bedroom, both of them laptops.
‘Claire Benzie’s,’ Bain guessed, ‘and either his own or someone else’s.’
The screen-saver had been activated on one computer. Bain accessed Costello’s ISP and opened the filing cabinet.
‘No time to try for a password,’ he said, almost to himself more than Rebus. ‘So all we can read are the old messages.’ But there were none to or from Siobhan. ‘Looks like he wipes as he goes,’ Bain said.
‘Or else we’re barking up the wrong tree.’ Rebus was looking around the room: unmade bed, books scattered across the floor. Notes for an essay on the desk next to the PC. Socks, pants and T-shirts spilled from the chest of drawers, but not from the top drawer. Rebus limped over, opened it slowly. Inside: maps and guidebooks, including one about Arthur’s Seat. A postcard of Rosslyn Chapel and another guidebook.
‘Right tree,’ he remarked simply. Bain got up, came to look.
‘Everything the well-dressed Quizmaster could need.’ Bain went to reach into the drawer, but Rebus slapped his hand away. ‘No touching.’ He tried sliding the drawer out further. Something was sticking. He took a pen from his pocket and dislodged it: an Edinburgh A-Z.
‘Open at the Botanics,’ Bain said, sounding relieved. If that’s where David Costello was, they’d have cornered him by now.
But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He was examining the rest of the page. Then he looked over towards Costello’s bed. Postcards of old gravestones … a small framed photo of Costello with Flip Balfour, with another headstone just coming into the frame. They’d met at a dinner party … breakfast next morning and then a walk in Warriston Cemetery. That was what Costello had told him. Warriston Cemetery was just across the road from the Botanic Gardens. Same page of the A-Z.
‘I know where he is,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I know where she’s meeting him. Come on.’ He ran from the room, hand already reaching for his mobile. The detectives who were wandering around the Botanics, they could be at Warriston in two minutes …
‘Hello, David.’
He still had his funeral clothes on, including the sunglasses. He grinned as she walked towards him. He was just sitting there, legs swinging from the wall. He slid down and was suddenly standing in front of her.
'You guessed,’ he said.
‘Sort of.’
He looked at his watch. 'You’re early.’
'You’re earlier.’
‘I had to recce, see if you were lying.’
‘I said I’d be on my own.
‘And here you are.’ He looked around again.
‘Plenty of escape routes,’ Siobhan said, surprised by how calm she was. ‘Is that why you chose it?’
‘It’s where I first realised I loved Flip.’
‘Loved her so much you went and killed her?’
His face fell. ‘I didn’t know that was going to happen.’
‘No?’
He shook his head. ‘Right up until the moment I had my hands round her throat … even then I don’t think I knew.’
She drew in a deep breath. ‘But you did it anyway.’
He nodded. ‘I suppose I did, yes.’ Looked up at her. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?’
‘I wanted to meet Quizmaster.’
He opened his arms. ‘At your c
ommand.’
‘I also want to know why.’
‘Why?’ He framed his lips into an O. ‘How many reasons do you want? Her yah friends? Her pretensions? The way she kept teasing and picking fights, looking to break us up just so she could watch me crawling back?’
'You could have walked away.’
‘But I loved her.’ When he laughed, it was as if acknowledging his own foolishness. ‘I kept telling her that, and you know what she told me back?’
‘What?’
'That I wasn’t the only one.’
‘Ranald Marr?’
‘That old goat, yes. Since before she left school. And still at it, even when we were together!’ He stopped, swallowed. ‘Enough motivation for you, Siobhan?’
'You vented your anger on Marr by disfiguring that toy soldier, and yet Flip … Flip you had to kill?’ She felt calm, almost numb. ‘That doesn’t seem quite fair to me.’
'You wouldn’t understand.’
She looked at him. ‘But I think I do, David. You’re a coward, pure and simple. You say you didn’t know you were going to murder Flip that night—that’s a lie. You had it planned all along … and afterwards you were Mr Calm, speaking to her worried friends not much more than an hour after you’d killed her. You knew exactly what you were doing, David. You were Quizmaster.’ She paused. He was staring into the middle distance, soaking up every word. ‘Something I don’t understand … you sent Flip a message after she died?’
He smiled. ‘That day at her flat, while Rebus was watching me and you were working on her computer … he told me something, said I was the only suspect.’
'You thought you’d try throwing us off the scent?’
‘It was just supposed to be that one message … but when you replied, I couldn’t resist. I was as hooked as you were, Siobhan. The game had us both.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Isn’t that something?’
He seemed to expect an answer, so she nodded slowly. ‘Are you thinking of killing me, David?’
He shook his head briskly, irritated by the assumption. 'You know the answer to that,’ he spat. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.’ He walked over to a low headstone and rested against it. ‘Maybe none of it would have happened,’ he said, ‘without the Professor.’
Siobhan thought she must have misheard. ‘Which one?’