The Falls

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hi there,’ Siobhan said.

  His eyes widened as though he didn’t quite recognise her.

  ‘It’s Siobhan Clarke,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘We met at your shop.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled. He stared at her hand but didn’t seem inclined to shake it, so Siobhan lowered her arm.

  ‘What brings you here, Gandalf ?’

  ‘I said I’d see what I could find about Quizmaster.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come upstairs? I could probably rustle us up a cup of coffee.’

  He stared at the door she’d just come through, and slowly shook his head. ‘Don’t like police stations,’ he said gravely. ‘They give off a bad vibe.’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘You’d rather talk outside?’ She looked out at the street. Still rush hour, the traffic nose to tail.

  ‘There’s a shop round the corner, run by some people I know …’

  ‘Good vibes?’ Siobhan guessed.

  ‘Excellent,’ Gandalf said, his voice animated for the first time.

  ‘Won’t it be shut?’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re still open. I checked.’

  ‘All right then, just give me a minute.’ Siobhan walked over to the desk, where a shirtsleeved officer was watching from behind a glass shield. ‘Can you buzz upstairs to DC Hood, tell him I’ll be back in ten?’

  The officer nodded.

  ‘Come on then,’ Siobhan told Gandalf. ‘What’s the shop called anyway?’

  ‘Out of the Nomad’s Tent.’

  Siobhan knew the place. It was more warehouse than shop, and sold gorgeous carpets and crafts. She’d splashed out there once on a kilim, because the rug she’d coveted was out of her price range. A lot of the stuff came from India and Iran. As they walked in, Gandalf waved a greeting to the proprietor, who waved back and returned to some paperwork.

  ‘Good vibes,’ Gandalf said with a smile, and Siobhan couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘Not sure my overdraft would agree,’ she said.

  ‘It’s only money,’ Gandalf told her, as though imparting some great wisdom.

  She shrugged, keen to get down to business. ‘So, what can you tell me about Quizmaster?’

  ‘Not a great deal, except that he may have other names.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Questor, Quizling, Myster, Spellbinder, OmniSent … How many do you want?’

  ‘What does it all mean?’

  ‘These are names used by people who’ve set challenges on the Internet.’

  ‘Games that are happening right now?’

  He reached out his hand to touch a rug hanging from the nearest wall. ‘You could study this pattern for years,’ he said, ‘and still not wholly understand it.’

  Siobhan repeated her question and he seemed to come to himself.

  ‘No, they’re old games. Some involving logic puzzles, numerology … others where you took on a role, like knight or apprentice wizard.’ He glanced towards her. ‘We’re talking about the virtual world. Quizmaster could have virtually any number of names at his disposal.’

  ‘And no way of tracing him?’

  Gandalf shrugged. ‘Maybe if you asked the CIA or the FBI …’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  He shifted slightly in what was almost a squirm. ‘I did learn one other thing.’

  ‘What?’

  He took a sheet of paper from the back pocket of his cords, handed it to Siobhan, who unfolded it. A news cutting from three years before. It concerned a student who had disappeared from his home in Germany. A body had been found on a remote hillside in the north of Scotland. It had been lying there many weeks, even months, disturbed only by the local wildlife. Identification had proven difficult, the corpse reduced to skin and bone. Until the parents of the German student had widened their search. They became convinced the body on the hillside was that of their son, Jürgen. A revolver had been found twenty feet from the corpse. A single bullet had pierced the young man’s skull. The police had it down as suicide, explained away the location of the firearm by saying a sheep or some other animal could have moved it. Plausible, Siobhan had to concede. But the parents still weren’t convinced that their son hadn’t been murdered. The gun wasn’t his, and couldn’t be traced. The bigger question was: how had he ended up in the Scottish Highlands? No one seemed to know. Then Siobhan frowned, had to read the story’s final paragraph again:

  Jürgen was keen on role-playing games, and spent many hours surfing the Internet. His parents think it possible that their student son became involved in some game which had tragic consequences.

  Siobhan held up the clipping. ‘Is this all there is?’

  He nodded. ‘Just the one story.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From someone I know.’ He held out his hand. ‘He’d like it back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s writing a book about the perils of the e-universe. Incidentally, he’d like to interview you some time, too.’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Siobhan folded the clipping but made no attempt to hand it back. ‘I need to keep this, Gandalf. Your friend can have it when I’m finished with it.’

  Gandalf looked disappointed in her, as though she’d failed to keep her side of some bargain.

  ‘I promise he can have it back when I’m finished.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just photocopy it?’

  Siobhan sighed. An hour from now, she hoped she’d be in that bathtub, maybe with a gin and tonic replacing the wine. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come back to the station and …’

  ‘They’ll have a copier here.’ He was pointing towards the corner where the proprietor sat.

  ‘Okay, you win.’

  Gandalf brightened at this, as though those three little words were the sweetest ones he knew.

  Back at the station, having left Gandalf at Out of the Nomad’s Tent, Siobhan found Grant Hood scrunching another sheet of paper into a ball and failing to hit the waste-paper bin with it.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘I got wondering about anagrams.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, if the town of Banchory didn’t have that “h”, it would be an anagram of “a corny b”.’

  Siobhan burst out laughing, slapping her hand to her mouth when she saw Grant’s look.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘go ahead and laugh.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Grant. I think I’m nearing a state of mild hysteria.’

  ‘Should we try e-mailing Quizmaster, tell him we’re stuck?’

  ‘Maybe nearer the deadline.’ Looking over his shoulder at the remaining sheet of paper, Siobhan saw that he was working on anagrams for ‘mason’s dream’.

  ‘Call it a day?’ he suggested.

  ‘Maybe.’

  He caught her tone of voice. ‘You’ve got something?’

  ‘Gandalf,’ she said, handing over the news story. She watched him read, noticing that his lips moved slightly. She wondered if he’d always done it …

  ‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘Do we follow it up?’

  ‘I think we have to, don’t you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Hand it over to the inquiry. We’ve got our work cut out with this bloody clue.’

  ‘Hand it over … ?’ She was aghast. ‘This is ours, Grant. What if it turns out to be vital?’

  ‘Christ, Siobhan, listen to yourself. It’s an inquiry, lots of people all chipping in. It doesn’t belong to us. You can’t be selfish with something like this.’

  ‘I just don’t want someone else stealing our thunder.’

  ‘Even if it means finding Flip Balfour alive?’

  She paused, screwed up her face. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it?’

  Colour rose to her cheeks. ‘What does?’

  ‘Wanting to keep it all to yourself, like the whole investigation’s down to y
ou and you alone.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘You know it yourself; I can see it just by looking at you.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  He stood up to face her. They were no more than a foot apart, the office empty. ‘You know it,’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘Look, all I was trying to say …’

  ‘… was that you don’t want to share, and if that doesn’t sound like Rebus, I don’t know what does.’

  ‘You know your trouble?’

  ‘I get the feeling I’m about to find out.’

  ‘You’re too chicken, always playing by the rule-book.’

  ‘You’re a cop, not a private detective.’

  ‘And you’re chicken. Blinkers on and toeing the line.’

  ‘Chickens don’t wear blinkers,’ he spat back.

  ‘They must, because you do!’ she exploded.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, seeming to calm a little, head bobbing. ‘That’s right: I always play by the rules, don’t I?’

  ‘Look, all I meant was—’

  He grabbed her arms, pulled her to him, his mouth seeking hers. Siobhan’s body went rigid, then her face twisted away. The grip he had on her arms, she couldn’t move them. She’d backed up against the desk, stuck there.

  ‘A good close working partnership,’ a voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s what I like to see.’

  Grant’s grip on her fell away as Rebus walked into the room.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he continued. ‘Just because I don’t indulge in these new-fangled methods of policing doesn’t mean I don’t approve.’

  ‘We were just …’ Grant’s voice died. Siobhan had walked round the desk and was lowering herself shakily into her chair. Rebus approached.

  ‘Finished with this?’ He meant the Farmer’s chair. Grant nodded and Rebus wheeled it back towards his own desk. He noticed that on Ellen Wylie’s desk, the autopsy reports were tied back up with string: conclusions reached, and of no further use. ‘Did the Farmer get you a result?’ he asked.

  ‘Hasn’t called back,’ Siobhan said, trying to control her voice. ‘I was just about to phone him.’

  ‘But you mistook Grant’s tonsils for the receiver, eh?’

  ‘Sir,’ she said, keeping her voice level, though her heart was pounding, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression about what happened here …’

  Rebus held up a hand. ‘Nothing to do with me, Siobhan. You’re dead right. Let’s say no more about it.’

  ‘I think something needs to be said.’ Her voice had risen. She glanced over towards where Grant was standing, body turned away from her, head twisted so his eyes were not quite on her.

  But she knew he was pleading. Mr Boy-Tekky-Racer! Mr Nerdy-Well with his gadgets and flash car!

  Better make that a bottle of gin, a whole crateful of gin. And sod the bath.

  ‘Oh?’ Rebus was asking, genuinely curious now.

  I could finish your career right here, Grant. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said finally. Rebus stared at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the paperwork before her.

  ‘Anything happening your end, Grant?’ he asked blithely, settling into his chair.

  ‘What?’ Colour bloomed in Grant’s cheeks.

  ‘The latest clue: anywhere near solving it?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’ Grant was standing by one of the other desks, gripping its edge.

  ‘How about you?’ Siobhan asked, shifting in her seat.

  ‘Me?’ Rebus tapped a pen against his knuckles. ‘I think today I’ve managed to achieve the square root of bugger all.’ He threw the pen down. ‘Which is why I’m buying.’

  ‘Already had a couple of drinks?’ Siobhan asked.

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘A few. They put a friend of mine into the ground. Tonight, I was planning a private wake. If either of you would like to join me, that would be fine.’

  ‘I need to go home,’ Siobhan said.

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Come on, Grant. It’ll be good for you.’

  Grant looked in Siobhan’s direction, seeking guidance, or maybe permission. ‘I suppose I might manage the one,’ he conceded.

  ‘Good lad,’ Rebus told him. ‘One drink it is.’

  Having nursed his pint while Rebus downed two double whiskies and two beers, Grant was dismayed to find another half poured into his glass as soon as there was room for it.

  ‘I have to drive home,’ he warned.

  ‘Bloody hell, Grant,’ Rebus complained, ‘that’s about all I’ve heard from you.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And apologies make up the rest. I can’t see there’s any need to apologise for snogging Siobhan.’

  ‘I don’t know how it happened.’

  ‘Don’t try to analyse it.’

  ‘I think the case just got …’ He broke off at the sound of a dull electronic bleeping. ‘Yours or mine?’ he asked, already reaching into his jacket. But it was Rebus’s mobile. He angled his head to let Grant know he was taking it outside.

  ‘Hello?’ Cool twilight, taxis looking for trade. A woman nearly tripped over a cracked paving slab. A young man, shaven head and nose-ring, helped her retrieve the oranges which had tumbled from her shopping bag. A small act of kindness … but Rebus watched until the youth moved away, just in case.

  ‘John? It’s Jean. Are you working?’

  ‘Surveillance,’ Rebus told her.

  ‘Oh dear, do you want me to … ?’

  ‘It’s okay, Jean. I was joking. I’m just out having a drink.’

  ‘How was the funeral?’

  ‘I didn’t go. I mean, I did go, but I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘And now you’re drinking?’

  ‘Don’t start with the help-line stuff.’

  She laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to. It’s just that I’m sitting here with a bottle of wine and the TV …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And some company would be nice.’

  Rebus knew he was in no state to drive; not much of a state for anything, if it came to it. ‘I don’t know, Jean. You’ve not seen me after a drink.’

  ‘What, you turn into Mr Hyde?’ She laughed again. ‘I had that with my husband. I doubt you could show me anything new.’ Her voice strained for levity, but there was an edge to it. Maybe she was nervous about asking him: no one liked a rejection. Or maybe there was more to it …

  ‘I suppose I could take a taxi.’ He studied himself: still in the funeral suit, the tie removed and top two buttons of the shirt undone. ‘Maybe I should go home and change.’

  ‘If you like.’

  He looked across the street. The woman with the shopping was waiting at the bus stop now. She kept glancing into her bag as if checking everything was there. City life: mistrust part of the armour you wore; no such thing as a simple good deed.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.

  Back in the pub, Grant was standing next to his empty pint glass. As Rebus came forwards, he raised his hands in a show of surrender.

  ‘Got to go.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ Rebus said.

  Grant looked somehow disappointed, as though he’d wanted Rebus to go on drinking, getting drunker. Rebus looked at the empty glass, wondering if the barman had been persuaded to ditch its contents.

  ‘You all right to drive?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Rebus slapped Grant’s shoulder. ‘In that case, you can give me a lift to Portobello …’

  Siobhan had spent the past hour trying to clear her head of anything and everything to do with the case. It wasn’t working. The bath hadn’t worked; the gin was refusing to kick in. The music on her hi-fi – Mutton Birds, Envy of Angels – wasn’t cocooning her the way it usually did. The latest clue was ricocheting around her skull. And every thirty seconds or so … here it came again! … she watched a replay of Grant pinning her arms, while John Rebus – of all people! – watched from the doorway
. She wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t announced his presence. She wondered how long he’d been there, and whether he’d heard any of their argument.

  She leaped back up from the sofa and started pacing the room again, glass in hand. No, no, no … as if repeating the word could make everything go away, never have happened. Because that was the problem. You couldn’t unmake something.

  ‘Stupid bitch,’ she said aloud in a sing-song voice, repeating the phrase until the words lost their meaning.

  Stupidbitchstupidbitch …

  No no no no no no …

  The mason’s dream …

  Flip Balfour … Gandalf … Ranald Marr …

  Grant Hood.

  Stupidbitchstupidbitch …

  She was over by the window when the track ended. In the momentary silence, she heard a car turning into the end of her street, and instinct told her who it was. She ran to the lamp and stamped down on the floor-switch, plunging the room into darkness. There was a light on in her hallway, but she doubted it could be seen from outside. She was afraid to move, afraid she would cast a telltale shadow. The car had stopped. The next track was playing. She reached down for the remote and used it to turn off the CD player. Now she could hear the car idling. Her heart was pounding.

  Then the door buzzer, telling her someone was outside and wanting in. She waited, didn’t move. Her fingers were so tight around the glass that they began to cramp. She changed hands. The buzzer again.

  No no no no …

  Just leave it, Grant. Get in the Alfa and go home. Tomorrow we can start pretending it never happened.

  Bzzzz bzzzz zzzz …

  She began to hum softly to herself, a tune she was making up. Not even a tune really; just sounds to compete with the buzzer and the blood singing in her ears.

  She heard a car door close, relaxed a little. Nearly dropped the glass when her phone started ringing.

  She could see it by the light of the streetlamp. It was lying on the floor by the sofa. Six rings and the answering machine would kick in. Two … three … four …

  Maybe the Farmer!

  ‘Hello?’ She slumped on to the sofa, phone to her ear.

  ‘Siobhan? It’s Grant.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve just been ringing your doorbell.’