by Ian Rankin
Rebus met the gaze, returned it. Costello was the first to blink, breaking the spell. Then he turned away and told Rebus to leave. As Rebus made for the door, Costello called out to him. He was wiping the cigarette packet with a handkerchief. He did the same with the lighter, then tossed both items towards Rebus. They fell at his feet.
‘I think your need’s probably greater than mine.’
Rebus stooped to pick them up. ‘Why the handkerchief?’
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Costello said. ‘Evidence can turn up in the strangest places.’
Rebus straightened, decided against saying anything. At the door, Costello called out goodnight to him. Rebus was halfway down the stairwell before he returned the sentiment. He was thinking about the way Costello had wiped both lighter and packet. All the years he’d been on the force, he’d never seen a suspect do anything like that. It had meant Costello was expecting to be set up.
Or, perhaps, that was what it was intended to look like. But it had shown Rebus a side of the young man that was cool and calculating. It showed someone who was capable of thinking ahead …
2
It was one of those cool, crepuscular days that could have belonged to any of at least three Scottish seasons; a sky like slate roofing and a wind that Rebus’s father would have called ‘snell’. His father had told a story once – many times actually – about walking into a grocer’s in Lochgelly one freezing winter’s morning. The grocer had been standing by the electric fire. Rebus’s father had pointed to the cold cabinet and asked, ‘Is that your Ayrshire bacon?’ to which the grocer had replied, ‘No, it’s my hands I’m heating.’ He’d sworn it was a true story, and Rebus – maybe seven or eight years old – had believed him at the time. But now it seemed an old chestnut of a joke, something he’d heard elsewhere and twisted to his own use.
‘Not often I see you smiling,’ his barista said as she made him a double latte. Those were her words: barista, latte. The first time she’d described her job, she’d pronounced it ‘barrister’, which had led a confused Rebus to ask if she was moonlighting. She worked from a converted police-box at the corner of the Meadows, and Rebus stopped there most mornings on his way to work. ‘Milky coffee’ was his order, which she always corrected to ‘latte’. Then he’d add ‘double shot’. He didn’t need to – she knew the order by heart – but he liked the feel of the words.
‘Smiling’s not illegal, is it?’ he said now, as she spooned froth on to the coffee.
‘You’d know better than me.’
‘And your boss would know better than either of us.’ Rebus paid up, punted the change into the marge tub left for tips, and headed for St Leonard’s. He didn’t think she knew he was a cop: you’d know better than me … it had been said casually, no meaning behind it other than to continue their banter. In turn, he’d made his remark about her boss because the owner of the chain of kiosks had once been a solicitor. But she hadn’t seemed to understand.
At St Leonard’s, Rebus stayed in his car, enjoying a last cigarette with his drink. A couple of vans sat at the station’s back door, waiting for anyone who was being taken to court. Rebus had given evidence in a case a few days ago. He kept meaning to find out what the result had been. When the station door opened, he expected to see the custody line, but it was Siobhan Clarke. She saw his car and smiled, shaking her head at the inevitability of the scene. As she came forwards, Rebus lowered the window.
‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ she said.
‘And a good morning to you too.’
‘Boss wants to see you.’
‘He sent the right sniffer dog.’
Siobhan didn’t say anything, just smiled to herself as Rebus got out of the car. They were halfway across the car park before he heard the words: ‘It’s not a “he” any more.’ He stopped in his tracks.
‘I’d forgotten,’ he admitted.
‘How’s the hangover, by the way? Anything else you might have managed to forget?’
As she opened the door for him, he had the sudden image of a gamekeeper opening a trap.
The Farmer’s photos and coffee machine had gone, and there were some Good Luck cards on top of the filing cabinet, but otherwise the room was just as before, down to the paperwork in the in-tray and the solitary potted cactus on the windowsill. Gill Templer looked uncomfortable in the Farmer’s chair, his daily bulk having moulded it in ways which would never fit her slimmer proportions.
‘Sit down, John.’ Then, when he was halfway on to the seat: ‘And tell me what last night was all about.’ Elbows on the desk, she placed the tips of her fingers together. It was something the Farmer had often done when trying to hide irritation or impatience. She’d either picked it up from him, or it was a perk of her new seniority.
‘Last night?’
‘Philippa Balfour’s flat. Her father found you there.’ She looked up. ‘Apparently you’d been drinking.’
‘Hadn’t we all?’
‘Not as much as some.’ Her eyes moved down again to the sheet of paper on her desk. ‘Mr Balfour’s wondering what you were up to. Frankly, I’m more than a little curious myself.’
‘I was on my way home …’
‘Leith Walk to Marchmont? Via the New Town? Sounds like you got bad directions.’
Rebus realised that he was still holding his beaker of coffee. He placed it on the floor, taking his time. ‘It’s just something I do,’ he said at last. ‘When things are quiet, I like to go back.’
‘Why?’
‘In case anything’s been missed.’
She seemed to consider this. ‘I’m not sure that’s the whole story.’
He shrugged, said nothing. Her eyes were on the sheet again.
‘And then you decided to pay Ms Balfour’s boyfriend a call. How wise was that?’
‘That really was on the way home. I stopped to talk to Connolly and Daniels. Mr Costello’s light was on; I thought I’d make sure he was all right.’
‘The caring copper.’ She paused. ‘That’s presumably why Mr Costello felt it necessary to mention your visit to his solicitor?’
‘I don’t know why he did that.’ Rebus shifted a little on the hard chair; disguised it by reaching for his coffee.
‘His lawyer’s talking about “harassment”. We might have to pull the surveillance.’ Her eyes were fixed on him.
‘Look, Gill,’ he said, ‘you and me, we’ve known each other for donkey’s. It’s no secret how I work. I’m sure DCS Watson quoted scripture on the subject.’
‘That was then, John.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘How much did you have to drink last night?’
‘More than I should have, but it wasn’t my fault.’ He watched as Gill raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m positive someone slipped me a Mickey Finn.’
‘I want you to see a doctor.’
‘Christ Almighty …’
‘Your drinking, your diet, your general health … I want you to take a medical, and whatever the doctor says is necessary, I want you to abide by it.’
‘Alfalfa and carrot juice?’
‘You’ll see a doctor, John.’ It was a statement. Rebus just snorted and drained his coffee, then held up the beaker.
‘Half-fat milk.’
She almost smiled. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
‘Look, Gill …’ He got up, tipped the beaker into the otherwise pristine waste-bin. ‘My drinking’s not a problem. It doesn’t interfere with my work.’
‘It did last night.’
He shook his head, but her face had hardened. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘Just before you left the club … you remember that?’
‘Sure.’ He hadn’t sat down; was standing in front of her desk, hands by his sides.
‘You remember what you said to me?’ His face told her all she needed to know. ‘You wanted me to go home with you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He was trying to remember, but nothing was coming. He couldn’t remember leaving the
club at all …
‘On you go, John. I’ll make that appointment for you.’
He turned, pulled open the door. He was halfway out when she called him back.
‘I lied,’ she said with a smile. ‘You didn’t say anything. Going to wish me well in the new job?’
Rebus tried for a sneer but couldn’t quite manage one. Gill held her smile until he’d slammed shut the door; after he’d gone, it fell away again. Watson had given her chapter and verse all right, but nothing she hadn’t already known: Enjoys his drink a bit too much, maybe, but he’s a good cop, Gill. He just likes to pretend he can do without the rest of us … Maybe that was true, as far as it went, but maybe, too, the time was coming fast when John Rebus would have to learn that they could do without him.
It was easy to spot the crew from the leaving do: local chemists had probably sold out of aspirin, vitamin C and patented hangover cures. Dehydration seemed a major factor. Rebus had seldom seen so many bottles of Irn-Bru, Lucozade and Coke in the grip of so many pallid hands. The sobersides – who’d either not been to the party or who’d stuck to soft drinks – were gloating, whistling shrilly and slamming drawers and cupboards wherever possible. The main incident room for the Philippa Balfour inquiry was based at Gayfield Square – much closer to her flat – but with so many officers involved, space was an issue, so a corner of the CID room at St Leonard’s had been set aside. Siobhan was there now, busy at her terminal. A spare hard disk sat on the floor, and Rebus realised that she was using Balfour’s computer. She held a telephone receiver between cheek and shoulder, and typed as she talked.
‘No luck there either,’ Rebus heard her say.
He was sharing his own desk with three other officers, and it showed. He brushed the remnants from a bag of crisps on to the floor and deposited two empty Fanta cans in the nearest bin. When the phone rang he picked it up, but it was just the local evening paper trying to pull a flanker.
‘Talk to Press Liaison,’ Rebus told the journalist.
‘Give me a break.’
Rebus was thoughtful. Liaison had been Gill Templer’s speciality. He glanced across towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘Who’s in charge of PL anyway?’
‘DS Ellen Wylie,’ the journalist said.
Rebus said thanks and cut the connection. Liaison would have been a step up for Siobhan, especially on a high-profile case. Ellen Wylie was a good officer based at Torphichen. As a liaison specialist, Gill Templer would have been asked for advice on the appointment, maybe even made the decision herself. She’d chosen Ellen Wylie. He wondered if there was anything in it.
He rose from the desk and studied the paperwork now pinned to the wall behind him. Duty rosters, faxes, lists of contact numbers and addresses. Two photos of the missing woman. One of them had been released to the press, and it was duplicated in a dozen news stories, clipped and displayed. Soon, if she wasn’t found safe and well, space would be at a premium on the wall, and those news stories would be discarded. They were repetitious, inaccurate, sensationalised. Rebus lingered on one phrase: the tragic boyfriend. He checked his watch: five hours until the news conference.
With Gill Templer promoted, they were down a DCI at St Leonard’s. Detective Inspector Bill Pryde wanted the job, and was trying to stamp his authority on the Balfour case. Rebus, newly arrived at the Gayfield Square incident room, could only stand and marvel. Pryde had smartened himself up – the suit looked brand new, the shirt laundered, the tie expensive. The black brogues were immaculately polished and, if Rebus wasn’t mistaken, Pryde had been to the barber’s, too. Not that there was too much to trim, but Pryde had made the effort. He’d been put in charge of assignments, which meant putting teams out on the street for the daily drudgery of doorsteppings and interviews. Neighbours were being questioned – sometimes for the second or third time – as were friends, students and university staff. Flights and ferry crossings were being checked, the official photograph faxed to train operators, bus companies and police forces outwith the Lothian and Borders area. It would be someone’s job to collate information on fresh corpses throughout Scotland, while another team would focus on hospital admissions. Then there were the city’s taxi and car hire firms … It all took time and effort. These comprised the public face of the inquiry, but behind the scenes other questions would be asked of the MisPer’s immediate family and circle of friends. Rebus doubted the background checks would amount to anything, not this time round.
At last, Pryde finished giving instructions to the group of officers around him. As they melted away, he caught sight of Rebus and gave a huge wink, rubbing his hand over his forehead as he approached.
‘Got to be careful,’ Rebus said. ‘Power corrupts, and all that.’
‘Forgive me,’ Pryde said, dropping his voice, ‘but I’m getting a real buzz.’
‘That’s because you can do it, Bill. It’s just taken the Big House twenty years to recognise the fact.’
Pryde nodded. ‘Rumour is, you turned down DCI a while back.’
Rebus snorted. ‘Rumours, Bill. Like the Fleetwood Mac album, best left unplayed.’
The room was a choreography of movement, each participant now working on his or her allotted task. Some were donning coats, picking up keys and notebooks. Others rolled their sleeves as they got comfortable at their computers or telephones. New chairs had appeared from some darkened corner of the budget. Pale blue swivel jobs: those who’d managed to grab one were on the defensive, sliding across the floor on castors rather than getting up to walk, lest someone else snatch the prized possession in the interim.
‘We’re done with babysitting the boyfriend,’ Pryde said. ‘Orders from the new boss.’
‘I heard.’
‘Pressure from the family,’ Pryde added.
‘Won’t do any harm to the operation budget,’ Rebus commented, straightening up. ‘So is there work for me today, Bill?’
Pryde flicked through the sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘Thirty-seven phone calls from the public,’ he said.
Rebus held up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me. Cranks and desperadoes are for the L-plates, surely?’
Pryde smiled. ‘Already allocated,’ he admitted, nodding towards where two DCs, recently promoted out of uniform, were looking dismayed at the workload. Cold calls constituted the most thankless task around. Any high-profile case threw up its share of fake confessions and false leads. Some people craved attention, even if it meant becoming a suspect in a police investigation. Rebus knew of several such offenders in Edinburgh.
‘Craw Shand?’ he guessed.
Pryde tapped the sheet of paper. ‘Three times so far, ready to admit to the murder.’
‘Bring him in,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s the only way to get rid of him.’
Pryde brought his free hand to the knot in his tie, as if checking for defects. ‘Neighbours?’ he suggested.
Rebus nodded. ‘Neighbours it is,’ he said.
He gathered together the notes from initial interviews. Other officers had been assigned the far side of the street, leaving Rebus and three others – working teams of two – to cover the flats either side of Philippa Balfour’s. Thirty-five in total, three of them empty, leaving thirty-two. Sixteen addresses per team, maybe fifteen minutes at each … four hours total.
Rebus’s partner for the day, DC Phyllida Hawes, had done the arithmetic for him as they climbed the steps of the first tenement. Actually, Rebus wasn’t sure you could call them ‘tenements’, not down in the New Town, with its wealth of Georgian architecture, its art galleries and antique emporia. He asked Hawes for advice.
‘Blocks of flats?’ she suggested, raising a smile. There were one or two flats per landing, some adorned with brass nameplates, others ceramic. A few went so low as to boast just a piece of sellotaped card or paper.
‘Not sure the Cockburn Association would approve,’ Hawes remarked.
Three or four names listed on the bit of card: students, Rebus guessed, from backgrounds less generous than Philippa
Balfour’s.
The landings themselves were bright and cared for: welcome mats and tubs of flowers. Hanging baskets had been placed over banisters. The walls looked newly painted, the stairs swept. The first stairwell went like clockwork: two flats with nobody home, cards dropped through either letterbox; fifteen minutes in each of the other flats – ‘just a few back-up questions … see if you’ve thought of anything to add …’ The householders had shaken their heads, had professed themselves still shocked. Such a quiet little street.
There was a main door flat at ground level, a much grander affair, with a black-and-white-chequered marble entrance hall, Doric columns either side. The occupier was renting it long term, worked in ‘the financial sector’. Rebus saw a pattern emerging: graphic designer; training consultant; events organiser … and now the financial sector.
‘Does no one have real jobs any more?’ he asked Hawes.
‘These are the real jobs,’ she told him. They were back on the pavement, Rebus enjoying a cigarette. He noticed her staring at it.
‘Want one?’
She shook her head. ‘Three years I’ve managed so far.’
‘Good for you.’ Rebus looked up and down the street. ‘If this was a net curtain kind of place, they’d be twitching right now.’
‘If they had net curtains, you wouldn’t be able to peer in and see what you’re missing.’
Rebus held the smoke, let it billow out through his nostrils. ‘See, when I was younger, there was always something rakish about the New Town. Kaftans and wacky baccy, parties and ne’er-do-wells.’
‘Not much space left for them these days,’ Hawes agreed. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Marchmont,’ he told her. ‘You?’
‘Livingston. It was all I could afford at the time.’
‘Bought mine years back, two wages coming in …’
She looked at him. ‘No need to apologise.’
‘Prices weren’t as crazy back then, that’s all I meant.’ He was trying not to sound defensive. It was that meeting with Gill: the little joke she’d made, just to unsettle him. And the way his visit to Costello had KO’d the surveillance … Maybe it was time to talk to someone about the drinking … He flicked the stub of his cigarette on to the roadway. The surface was made of shiny rectangular stones called setts. When he’d first arrived in the city he’d made the mistake of calling them cobbles; a local had put him right.