The Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Take a look.’ Siobhan angled the laptop towards him. They were a team, after all …

  Hart Fell is all I needed. You didn’t need to climb it.

  ‘Bastard,’ Grant hissed.

  Siobhan typed her response. Did Flip know that? There was nothing for a couple of minutes, then: You’re two moves away from Hellbank. Clue follows in approximately ten minutes. You have twenty-four hours to solve it. Do you wish to continue the game?

  Siobhan looked at Grant. ‘Tell him yes,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet.’ When he looked at her, she held his gaze. ‘I think maybe he needs us as much as we need him.’

  ‘Can we risk that?’

  But she was already typing: Need to know – did Flip have help? Who else was playing?

  His response was immediate: Last time of asking. Do you wish to continue?

  ‘We don’t want to lose him,’ Grant warned.

  ‘He knew I’d climb that hill. Probably the way he knew Flip wouldn’t.’ Siobhan chewed her bottom lip. ‘I think we can push him a bit further.’

  ‘We’re two clues away from Hellbank. That’s as far as Flip got.’

  Siobhan nodded slowly, then began to type: Continue to next level, but please, just tell me if Flip had anyone helping her.

  Grant sat back and sucked in his breath. Nothing came back. Siobhan checked her watch. ‘He said ten minutes.’

  ‘You like to gamble, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s life without a bit of risk?’

  ‘A much pleasanter, less stressful experience.’

  She looked at him. ‘This from the boy racer.’

  He wiped the windscreen clear of condensation. ‘If Flip didn’t need to climb Hart Fell, I wonder if she needed to do any travelling at all. I mean, could she have solved the puzzle from her bedroom?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning she wouldn’t have gone anywhere that would have got her into trouble.’

  Siobhan nodded. ‘Maybe the next clue will tell us.’

  ‘If there is a next clue.’

  ‘You gotta have faith,’ she sang.

  ‘That’s just what faith is to me: a song by George Michael.’

  The laptop told them there was a message. Grant leaned over again to read it.

  A corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended.

  While they were still taking it in, another message arrived: I don’t think Flipside had any help. Is anyone helping you, Siobhan?

  She typed ‘No’ and pressed ‘send’.

  ‘Why don’t you want him to know?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Because he might change the rules, or even take the huff. He says Flip was on her own, I want him to think the same about me.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Grant thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘So what does the latest clue mean?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest. I don’t suppose you’re a Mason?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Never quite got round to joining. Any idea where we might find one?’

  Siobhan smiled. ‘In the Lothian and Borders Police? I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble …’

  The coffins had turned up at St Leonard’s, as had the autopsy notes. There was just the one small problem: the Falls coffin was now in the possession of Steve Holly. Bev Dodds had given it to him so it could be photographed. Rebus decided he’d have to visit Holly’s office. He grabbed his jacket and walked across to the desk opposite, where Ellen Wylie was looking bored as Donald Devlin pored over the contents of a slim manila file.

  ‘I have to go out,’ he explained.

  ‘Lucky you. Need any company?’

  ‘Look after Professor Devlin. I won’t be long.’

  Devlin looked up. ‘And where are your peregrinations taking you?’

  ‘There’s a reporter I need to talk to.’

  ‘Ah, our much-derided fourth estate.’

  The way Devlin talked, it was getting on Rebus’s nerves. And he wasn’t alone, if Wylie’s look was anything to go by. She always sat with her chair as far from the Professor as possible, on opposite sides of the desk if she could manage it.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he tried to reassure her, but as he walked away he knew her eyes were following him all the way to the door.

  Another thing about Devlin: he was almost too keen. Being useful again had taken years off him. He relished the autopsy reports, reciting passages aloud, and whenever Rebus was busy or trying to concentrate, you could be sure Devlin had some question to ask. Not for the first time, Rebus cursed Gates and Curt. Wylie herself had summed it up by way of a question to Rebus: ‘Remind me,’ she’d asked, ‘is he helping us or are we helping him? I mean, if I’d wanted to be a care assistant, I’d have applied to an old folk’s home …’

  In his car, Rebus tried not to count the number of pubs he passed on his route into town.

  The Glasgow tabloid had its office on the top floor of a Queen Street conversion a few doors along from the BBC. Rebus chanced his luck, parked on a single yellow line outside. The main door was wedged open, so he climbed the three flights and pulled open a glass-panelled door leading to a cramped reception area where a woman working a switchboard smiled at him as she answered the latest call.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day. Do you have his mobile number?’ Her short blonde hair was tucked behind both ears. She wore a black headset consisting of earpiece and microphone. ‘Thank you,’ she said, terminating the call, only to press a button to take another. She didn’t look at Rebus, but held up a finger telling him he hadn’t been forgotten. He looked around for somewhere to sit, but there were no chairs, just an exhausted-looking cheese plant in a pot it was fast outgrowing.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day,’ she told the new caller. ‘Do you have his mobile number?’ She gave this number, then terminated the call.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she told Rebus.

  ‘That’s okay. I’m here to see Steve Holly, but I have the feeling I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘He’s out for the day, I’m afraid.’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Do you have his—’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Was he expecting you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m here to pick up the doll, if he’s finished with it.’

  ‘Ooh, that thing.’ She made a show of shivering. ‘He left it on my chair this morning. Steve’s idea of a laugh.’

  ‘The hours must fly.’

  She smiled again, enjoying this little conspiracy against her colleague. ‘I think it’s in his cubicle.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Photos all done?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then maybe I could … ?’ He pointed a thumb towards where he guessed Holly’s cubicle might be.

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ The switchboard was sounding again.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Rebus said, turning round as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  It was easy enough. There were only four ‘cubicles’: desks separated by free-standing partition walls. No one was working in any of them. The small coffin was sitting next to Holly’s keyboard, a couple of test Polaroids lying on top. Rebus congratulated himself: this was best-case-scenario stuff. If Holly had been here, there’d have been questions to parry, maybe a bit of grief. He took the opportunity to give the work-space a once-over. Phone numbers and news clippings pinned to the walls, a two-inch-high Scooby Doo stuck to the top of the monitor. A Simpsons desk calendar, covered with doodles, on a page three weeks out of date. A memo recorder, its battery compartment open and empty. There was a newspaper headline taped to the side of the monitor: ‘Super Cally Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious’. Rebus had a little smile: it was a modern classic, referred to a football match. Maybe Holly was a Rangers fan, maybe he just appreciated a joke. As he was about to leave, he noticed Jean’s name and phone number on the wall near the desk. He tore it
down and pocketed it, then saw other numbers beneath … his own, plus Gill Templer’s. Beneath these were other names: Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Ellen Wylie. The reporter had home numbers for Templer and Clarke. Rebus couldn’t know if Holly had copies, but he decided to take the lot with him.

  Outside, he tried Siobhan’s mobile, but got a recording saying his call couldn’t be connected. There was a ticket on his car, no sign of the warden. They were known around town as ‘Blue Meanies’ because of their uniform. Rebus, probably the only person who’d seen Yellow Submarine in the cinema without benefit of drugs, appreciated the name, but cursed the ticket anyway, stuffing it in his glove compartment. He smoked a cigarette on the crawl back to St Leonard’s. So many of the streets now, you couldn’t go the way you wanted. Unable to take a left on to Princes Street, and with traffic stalled at Waverley Bridge due to roadworks, he ended up taking The Mound, turning off down Market Street. He had Janis Joplin on the stereo, ‘Buried Alive in the Blues’. Had to be better than a living death on Edinburgh’s roads.

  Back at the office, Ellen Wylie looked like she could sing some blues of her own.

  ‘Fancy a little trip?’ Rebus asked.

  She perked up. ‘Where?’

  ‘Professor Devlin, you’re invited too.’

  ‘Sounds most intriguing.’ He wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, but a V-neck jumper, sagging beneath the arms but too short at the back. ‘Would this be some sort of mystery tour?’

  ‘Not exactly. We’re visiting a funeral parlour.’

  Wylie stared at him. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  But Rebus shook his head, pointing towards the coffins arranged on his desk. ‘If you want an expert opinion,’ he said, ‘you need to ask an expert.’

  ‘Self-evidently,’ Devlin agreed.

  The undertaker’s was a short walk from St Leonard’s. Last time Rebus had been in a funeral parlour was when his father had died. He’d walked forward, touched the old man’s forehead, the way his father had taught him when his mother had died: if you touch them, Johnny, you’ll never need fear the dead. Somewhere in the city, Conor Leary was settling into his own box. Death and taxes: shared by everyone. But Rebus had known some criminals who’d never paid a bawbee’s tax in their life. It didn’t matter: when the time was right, their box was still waiting.

  Jean Burchill was already there. She rose from the chair in the reception area, as if glad of some company. The mood was sombre, despite the sprays of fresh-cut flowers. Idly, Rebus wondered if they got a discount from whoever did their wreaths. The walls were wood-panelled, and there was a faint smell of furniture polish. The brass doorhandles gleamed. Underfoot, the floor was tiled with marble, black and white squares like a chessboard. Rebus made the introductions. While shaking Jean’s hand, Devlin asked, ‘And what is it exactly that you curate?’

  ‘Nineteenth-century,’ she explained. ‘Belief systems, social concerns …’

  ‘Ms Burchill is helping us form a historical perspective,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Devlin looked to her for help.

  ‘I put together the display of the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

  Devlin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, but how fascinating! And there may be some correlation with the current spate?’

  ‘I’m not sure you could call it a “spate”,’ Ellen Wylie argued. ‘Five coffins over a thirty-year period.’

  Devlin seemed taken aback. Perhaps he wasn’t often pulled up for his vocabulary. He gave Wylie a look, then turned to Rebus. ‘But is there some historical connection?’

  ‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.’

  The inner door opened and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, dressed in dark suit, crisp white shirt, and grey shimmering tie. His hair was short and silver, his face long and pale.

  ‘Mr Hodges?’ Rebus asked. The man acknowledged as much with a bow. Rebus shook his hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ Rebus introduced the others.

  ‘It was,’ Mr Hodges said in a near-whisper, ‘one of the more remarkable requests I’ve received. However, Mr Patullo is waiting for you in my office. Would you care for any tea?’

  Rebus assured him they’d be fine, and asked if Hodges would lead the way.

  ‘As I explained on the phone, Inspector, these days the majority of coffins are made along what could be described as an assembly-line process. Mr Patullo is that rare woodworker who will still produce a casket to order. We’ve been using his services for years, certainly for as long as I’ve been with the firm.’ The hall they trooped along was wood-panelled like the reception area, but with no exterior lighting. Hodges opened a door and ushered them inside. The office was spacious, completely lacking in clutter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected: displays of bereavement cards, brochures for coffins maybe. But the only clue that this office belonged to an undertaker was the very lack of any outward clues. It went beyond discretion. The clients who came in here didn’t want reminding of the visit’s purpose, and Rebus didn’t suppose it made the undertaker’s job any easier if people were bursting into tears every two minutes.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Hodges said, closing the door. He’d arranged enough seats for them, but Patullo was standing beside the opaque window. He carried a flat tweed cap, the brim of which he worried between the fingers of both hands. The fingers themselves were gnarled, the skin like parchment. Rebus reckoned Patullo had to be in his mid-seventies. He still had a good head of thick silver hair, and his eyes were clear, if wary. But he held himself with a stoop, and his hand trembled when Rebus made to shake it.

  ‘Mr Patullo,’ he said, ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to meet us.’

  Patullo shrugged, and Rebus made one more round of introductions before telling everyone to sit down. He had the coffins in a carrier bag, and brought them out now, laying them on the unblemished surface of Mr Hodges’s desk. There were four of them – Perth, Nairn, Glasgow, plus the more recent one from Falls.

  ‘I’d like you to take a look, please,’ Rebus said, ‘and tell us what you see.’

  ‘I see some wee coffins.’ Patullo’s voice was hoarse.

  ‘I meant in terms of craftsmanship.’

  Patullo reached into his pocket for his glasses, then got up and stood in front of the display.

  ‘Pick them up if you like,’ Rebus said. Patullo did so, examining the lids and the dolls, peering closely at the nails.

  ‘Carpet tacks and small wood nails,’ he commented. ‘The joints are a bit rough, but working to this scale …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t expect to see anything as detailed as a dovetail.’ He went back to his examination. ‘You want to know if a coffin-maker made these?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t think so. There’s a bit of skill here, but not that much. The proportions are wrong, the shape’s too much of a diamond.’ He turned each coffin over to examine its underside. ‘See the pencil marks here where he made his outline?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He measured up, then he cut with a saw. Didn’t do any planing, just some sandpaper.’ He looked at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘You want to know if they’re all by the same hand?’

  Again, Rebus nodded.

  ‘This one’s a bit cruder,’ Patullo said, holding up the Glasgow coffin. ‘Different wood, too. The rest are pine, this is balsa. But the joints are the same, as are the measurements.’

  ‘So you think it’s the same person?’

  ‘As long as my life didn’t depend on it.’ Patullo picked up another coffin. ‘Now this one, the proportions are different. Joints aren’t so tidy. Either a rushed job, or my guess would be it’s by someone else.’

  Rebus looked at the coffin. It was the one from Falls.

  ‘So we’ve got two different people responsible?’ Wylie said. When Patullo nodded, she blew air from her mouth and rolled her eyes. Two culprits made for twice the work, and halved the chance of getting a result.

  ‘A
copycat?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Patullo admitted.

  ‘Which brings us to …’ Jean Burchill dipped a hand into her shoulder-bag, produced a box, which she opened. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was one of the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Rebus had asked her to bring it, and she made eye contact with him now, letting him know what she’d already told him in the café: that she was putting her job on the line. If it was discovered that she’d sneaked an artefact out of the Museum, or if anything happened to it … she’d be dismissed on the spot. Rebus nodded his head, letting her know he understood. She got up and placed the coffin on the desk.

  ‘It’s rather delicate,’ she told Patullo. Devlin, too, had risen to his feet, and Wylie wanted a better look also.

  ‘My goodness,’ Devlin gasped, ‘is that what I think it is?’

  Jean just nodded. Patullo didn’t pick the coffin up, but bent down so his eyes were close to the level of the desk.

  ‘What we’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘is whether you think the coffins you’ve just looked at could be modelled on this.’

  Patullo rubbed his cheek. ‘This is a much more basic design. Still well made, but the sides are a lot straighter. It’s not the casket shape we’d recognise today. The lid has been decorated with iron studs.’ He rubbed his cheek again, then straightened up, gripping the edge of the desk for support. ‘They’re not copies of it. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’

  ‘I’ve never seen one outside the Museum,’ Devlin said, shuffling forward so he could take Patullo’s place. He beamed at Jean Burchill. ‘You know, I have a theory as to who made them.’

  Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

  Devlin turned his attention to Rebus. ‘You remember that portrait I showed you? Dr Kennet Lovell?’ When Rebus nodded, Devlin turned back to Jean. ‘He was the anatomist who carried out Burke’s autopsy. Afterwards, I think he carried a weight of guilt over the whole affair.’

  Jean was interested. ‘Had he been buying corpses from Burke?’

  Devlin shook his head. ‘There’s no historical indication that such was the case. But like many an anatomist of the day, he probably bought his share of bodies without asking too many questions as to provenance. The thing is,’ Devlin licked his lips, ‘our Dr Lovell was also interested in carpentry.’