by Ian Rankin
Marr glared at her. Then his eyes flickered in Rebus’s direction. ‘I’m not going to dignify that question with a response.’
‘You see, Philippa was given this clue to solve, and so was I. And when I saw the words “mason’s dream”, I had to find a member of a lodge to ask what it meant.’
‘And what did it mean?’
‘That’s not important. What may be important is whether Philippa sought help along the same lines.’
‘I’ve already told you, I knew nothing about any of this.’
‘But she might have slipped something into the conversation … ?’
‘Well, she didn’t.’
‘Any other Masons of her acquaintance, Mr Marr?’ Rebus asked.
‘I wouldn’t know. Look, I really think I’ve given you enough time … today of all days.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’ He held out his hand again, but this time Marr didn’t take it. He walked to the door in silence, opened it, and walked out. Rebus and Siobhan followed him back down the hallway. Templer and Hood were standing in the entrance hall. Marr passed them without a word and disappeared through a door.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Templer asked in an undertone.
‘Trying to catch a killer,’ Rebus told her. ‘How about you?’
‘You looked good on the telly,’ Siobhan said to Hood.
‘Thanks.’
‘Yes, Grant did bloody well,’ Templer said, her attention deflected from Rebus on to Siobhan. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’
‘Me neither,’ Siobhan said with a smile.
They left the house and got into their respective cars. Templer’s parting shot: ‘I’ll want a report explaining your presence here. And John? The doctor’s waiting …’
‘Doctor?’ Siobhan asked, doing up her seat-belt.
‘It’s nothing,’ Rebus said, turning the ignition.
‘Has she got it in for you as well as me?’
Rebus turned to her. ‘Gill wanted you by her side, Siobhan. You turned that down.’
‘I wasn’t ready.’ She paused. ‘You know, this is going to sound daft, but I think she’s jealous.’
‘Of you?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘Of you.’
‘Me?’ Rebus laughed. ‘Why would she be jealous of me?’
‘Because you don’t play by the rules, and she has to. Because despite yourself, you always seem to get people working for you, even when they don’t agree with what you’re asking them to do.’
‘I must be better than I think.’
She looked at him slyly. ‘Oh, I think you know how good you are. At least, you think you do.’
He returned her look. ‘There’s an insult buried in there somewhere, but I can’t quite see it.’
Siobhan sat back in her seat. ‘So what now?’
‘Back to Edinburgh.’
‘And?’
Rebus was thoughtful as he eased the car back down the driveway. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Back there, you’d almost have thought Marr had lost his own kid …’
‘You’re not saying … ?’
‘Did he look like her at all? I’m useless at that.’
Siobhan thought about it, gnawing her lip. ‘Rich people all look the same to me. You think Marr and Mrs Balfour could have had an affair?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Hard to prove without a blood test.’ He glanced in her direction. ‘Better make sure Gates and Curt keep a sample.’
‘And Claire Benzie?’
Rebus gave a wave to WPC Campbell. ‘Claire’s interesting, but we don’t want to rattle her chain.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because a year or three from now, she could be our friendly local pathologist. I may not be around to see it, but you will, and the last thing you want is …’
‘Bad blood?’ Siobhan guessed with a smile.
‘Bad blood,’ Rebus agreed with a slow nod.
Siobhan was thoughtful. ‘But whichever way you look at it, she has every right to feel pissed off with the Balfours.’
‘Then how come she was still friends with Flip?’
‘Maybe she was playing a game of her own.’ As they drove back down the lane, she kept her eyes open for the tourists, but didn’t see them. ‘Should we check Meadowside, see if they’re all right?’
Rebus shook his head. They were silent once more until they’d left Falls far behind.
‘Marr’s a Mason,’ Siobhan said at last. ‘And he likes playing games.’
‘So now he’s the Quizmaster rather than Claire Benzie?’
‘I think it’s more likely than him turning out to be Flip’s father.’
‘Sorry I spoke.’ Rebus was thinking of Hugo Benzie. Before driving out to Falls, he’d rung a lawyer friend and asked about him. Benzie had specialised in wills and trusts, a quiet and efficient solicitor, part of a large practice in the city. The gambling wasn’t common knowledge, and had never interfered with his work. The rumour was, he’d stuck money into Far East start-ups, guided by tip-offs and the financial pages of his favoured daily paper. If this were true, then Rebus couldn’t see Balfour’s as culpable. Probably all they’d done was channel the money on his instructions, then had to call time when it disappeared up the Yangtze. Benzie hadn’t just lost all his money – as a lawyer he could always earn more. To Rebus’s mind, he’d lost something much more substantial: his faith in himself. Having stopped believing in himself, it was probably easy to start believing in suicide as an option, and sometime thereafter as absolute necessity. Rebus had been there himself once or twice, with the bottle and the darkness for company. He knew he couldn’t leap from a high place: he was scared of heights, had been ever since they’d dropped him from a helicopter during his army days. Warm bath and a razor across the wrists … the problem there was the mess, the thought of someone, friend or stranger, confronted with such a tableau. Booze and pills … it always came down to those essential drugs. Not at home, but in some anonymous hotel room, discovered by the staff. Just another lonely corpse as far as they’d be concerned.
Idle thoughts. But in Benzie’s shoes … wife and daughter … he didn’t think he could have done it, leaving behind a devastated family. And now Claire wanted to be a pathologist, a career filled with corpses and ventilated, windowless rooms. Would each body she dealt with be her father’s image … ?
‘Penny for them,’ Siobhan said.
‘No sale,’ Rebus replied, fixing his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Cheer up,’ Hi-Ho Silvers said, ‘it’s Friday afternoon.’
‘So what?’
He stared at Ellen Wylie. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a date lined up?’
‘A date?’
‘You know: a meal, some dancing, then back to his place.’ He started gyrating his hips.
Wylie screwed up her face. ‘I’m having trouble keeping my lunch down as it is.’
The remains of the sandwich were on her desk: tuna mayonnaise with sweetcorn. There’d been a slight fizziness to the tuna, and now her stomach was sending her signals. Not that Silvers was about to take any notice.
‘Must have a boyfriend though, Ellen?’
‘I’ll call you when desperation takes hold.’
‘As long as it’s not Friday or Saturday night: my drinking nights, those are.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, George.’
‘And Sunday afternoon, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Wylie couldn’t help thinking that this arrangement probably suited Mrs Silvers just fine.
‘Unless we get some overtime.’ Silvers’s mind made the switch. ‘What do you reckon the chances are?’
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ And she knew what it depended on: media pressure, forcing the brass to look for a quick result. Or maybe John Balfour, asking another favour, twisting an arm or two. Time was, CID would work seven-day weeks, twelve-hour days on a big case, and be paid accordingly. But budgets were tighter now, along with staf
fing levels. She’d never seen so many happy cops as the day CHOGM – the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting – had rolled into town, bringing with it an overtime jamboree. But that had been a few years back now. Still she caught officers, Silvers among them, muttering the word ‘chogm’ under their breath, as though it were a talisman. As Silvers shrugged and moved off, overtime probably still on his mind, Wylie turned her attention to the story of the German student, Jürgen Becker. She thought of Boris Becker, her favourite tennis player at one time, and wondered idly if Jürgen might be some relation. She doubted it: a famous relly would have pulled out the stops, like with Philippa Balfour.
And yet what progress had they made? They didn’t seem to be any further forward than the day the MisPer inquiry had opened. Rebus had all these ideas, but there was no focus to them. It was as if he reached out his hand and plucked possibilities from some tree or bush, expecting people to swallow them. The one time she’d worked with him before – a body found in Queensberry House, just as they were readying to knock most of it down and start building the parliament – there hadn’t been a result. He’d as good as dumped her, refused to talk about the case afterwards. Nothing had come to court.
And yet … she’d rather be part of Rebus’s team than none at all. She felt she’d burned her bridges with Gill Templer, whatever Rebus said, and she knew it was all her fault. She’d tried too hard, almost to the point of pestering Templer. It was a form of laziness: pushing to be noticed in the hope advancement would follow. And she knew Templer had rejected her precisely because she’d seen it for what it was. Gill Templer hadn’t got to the top that way – she’d had to work her damnedest throughout, fighting a prejudice against women officers which was never discussed, never admitted to.
But still there.
Wylie knew she should have kept her head down and her mouth shut. That was how Siobhan Clarke worked; she never looked pushy, even though she was every inch the careerist … and a rival – Wylie couldn’t help but see her that way. Templer’s favourite from the start, which was precisely why she – Ellen Wylie – had begun campaigning overtly and, as it turned out, too strenuously. Leaving her isolated, stuck with a piece of crap like the Jürgen Becker story. On a Friday afternoon, when there’d most likely be no one around to answer her phone calls, reply to her questions. It was dead time, that was all.
Dead time.
Grant Hood had another press conference to organise. He already knew the names to put to faces, had arranged short get-to-know meetings with the ‘majors’, these being the more reputable journalists, crime reporters of long standing.
‘Thing is, Grant,’ DCS Templer had confided in him, ‘there are some journos we can call our own, in that they’re malleable. They’ll toe the line, place a story for us if and when we want them to, while holding back stuff we don’t want getting out. You already have a foundation of trust there, but it cuts both ways. We have to give them good copy, and they’re hoping they get it an hour or two before the oppo.’
‘The oppo, ma’am?’
‘Opposition. See, they look like a solid mass when you see them in the press room, but they’re not. At times they’ll cooperate with each other – like sending one of their number on a thankless stake-out. He then shares whatever he gets with the rest of them. They take it in turns.’
Grant had nodded his understanding.
‘But in other respects, it’s dog eat dog. The hacks who’re not in the loop, they’re keenest of all, and not likely to be scrupulous. They’ll get chequebooks out when it suits, and they’ll try to win you over. Not with cash maybe, but with drinks, a bit of dinner. They’ll make you feel one of the lads, and you’ll start thinking: they’re not so bad really. That’s when you’re in trouble, because all the time they’ll be pumping you without you knowing it. You might let drop a hint or a teaser, just to show them you’re in the know. And whatever it is you’ve come out with, you can guarantee they’ll print it with knobs on. You’ll be “a police source” or “an unnamed source close to the investigation” – that’s if they’re in the mood to be kind. And if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws. They’ll want chapter and verse, or they’ll leave you on the rack.’ She’d patted his shoulder, and finished by saying: ‘Just a word to the wise.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
‘It’s okay to be on genial terms with them all, and you should introduce yourself to the ones who matter, but never forget which side you’re on … or that there are sides. Okay?’
He’d nodded. Then she’d given him the list of ‘majors’.
He’d stuck to coffee and orange juice in each meeting, and was relieved to see most of the journalists doing likewise.
‘You might find the “elders” running on whisky and gin,’ one younger reporter had said, ‘but not us.’
The meeting after that had been with one of the most respected of the “elders”. He’d wanted nothing more than a glass of water: ‘The young ones drink like fish, but I find I can’t any more. And what’s your tipple of preference, DC Hood?’
‘This isn’t a formal occasion, Mr Gillies. Please, call me Grant.’
‘Then you must call me Allan …’
Still Grant couldn’t get Templer’s warning words out of his head. As a result, he felt he’d come over as stiff and awkward at each get-to-know. Still, one definite bonus was that Templer had arranged for him to have his own office at Fettes HQ, at least for the duration of the inquiry. She’d called it ‘prudent’, explaining that he’d be talking to journalists every day, and it was best to keep them at a distance from the main investigation. If they happened to drop into Gayfield or St Leonard’s for a briefing or even a quick chat, there was no telling what they might overhear or happen to notice.
‘Good point,’ he’d said, nodding.
‘Same goes for phone calls,’ Templer had gone on. ‘If you want to call a journalist, do so from your office, door closed. That way they’re not going to hear anything they shouldn’t in the background. One of them phones you and catches you in CID or somewhere, say you’ll call them back.’
He’d nodded again.
Thinking back, she’d probably reckoned he resembled one of those nodding dogs, the kind you got in the back of naff cars. He tried to shake the image away, focused on his screen. He was drafting a press release, copies to go to Bill Pryde, Gill Templer and ACC Carswell for their input and approval.
Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on another floor in the same building. He’d already knocked on Grant’s door and come in to wish him good luck. When Grant had introduced himself as Detective Constable Hood, Carswell had nodded slowly, his eyes those of an examiner.
‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘no cock-ups and a result on this, we’ll have to see about doing something better for you, eh?’
Meaning a hike to detective sergeant. Hood knew Carswell could do it, too. He’d already taken one young CID officer under his wing – DI Derek Linford. Problem was, neither Linford nor Carswell had any time for John Rebus, which meant Hood would have to be careful. He’d already turned down one drink with Rebus and the rest of the crew, but was conscious that he’d spent some time alone with Rebus in a bar all too recently. It was the sort of thing which, leaked to Carswell, could put a real spanner in the works. He thought again of Templer’s words: if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws … Another image flashed in front of him, that clinch with Siobhan. He’d have to be careful from now on: careful who he spoke to and what he said, careful who he spent time with, careful what he did.
Careful not to make enemies.
Another knock on the door. It was one of the civilian staff. ‘Something for you,’ she said, handing over a carrier bag. Then she smiled and retreated. He opened it. A bottle inside: José Cuervo Gold. And along with it, a little card:
Here’s wishing you well in your new post. Think of us as sleepy-headed children, who need to be told their daily story.
Your
news friends, the Fourth Estate.
Grant smiled. He thought he detected the hand of Allan Gillies. Then it struck him: he’d never answered Gillies’s inquiry about his favoured drink … yet somehow Gillies had got it right. It went beyond guesswork: someone had been talking. The smile left Grant’s face. The tequila wasn’t just a gift, it was a show of strength. Just then his mobile sounded. He took it from his pocket.
‘Hello?’
‘DC Hood?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Just thought I’d introduce myself, since I seemed to miss out on one of the invites.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Steve Holly. You’ll have seen my byline.’
‘I’ve seen it.’ Holly’s was definitely not one of the names on Templer’s list of ‘majors’. Her own succinct description of him: ‘a shit’.
‘Well, we’ll be seeing one another at all these press conferences and such like, but I thought I’d just say hello first. Did you get the bottle?’
When Grant didn’t reply, Holly just laughed.
‘He always does that, old Allan. Thinks it’s clever, but you and I know it’s just a party trick.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’m not the sort for rubbish like that, as you’ll no doubt have noticed.’
‘Noticed?’ Grant frowned.
‘Think about it, DC Hood.’ With that, the line went dead.
Grant stared at the phone, and then it dawned on him. The journalists, all they’d had from him so far were his office phone, fax and pager. He thought hard, and was sure he hadn’t given his mobile to any of them. More advice from Templer:
‘Once you get to know them, there’ll be one or two you really click with – it’s never the same combination for any liaison officer. Those really special ones, you might want to let have your mobile number. It’s a sign of trust. For the rest, forget it or your life won’t be your own … and with them clogging the line, how can any of your colleagues hope to contact you? Us and them, Grant, us and them …’
And now one of ‘them’ had his mobile number. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to get it changed.