by Ian Rankin
‘She’d have told you though … I mean, the pair of you were into it.’
‘Not by the time we met. I don’t think the subject ever came up.’
Rebus stared into David Costello’s eyes. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot.
‘Then how would Flip’s friend Claire have got to hear of it?’
The young man snorted. ‘She told you? Claire the Cow?’
Thomas Costello tutted.
‘Well, she is,’ his son snapped back. ‘She was always trying to break us up, pretending she was “a friend”.’
‘She didn’t like you?’
David considered this. ‘I think it was more that she couldn’t bear to see Flip happy. When I told Flip, she just laughed in my face. She couldn’t see it. There was some history between her family and Claire’s, and I think Flip felt guilty. Claire was a real blind spot …’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
David looked at him and laughed. ‘Because Claire didn’t kill Flip.’
‘No?’
‘Christ, you’re not saying …’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, when I say Claire was vicious, it was just mind games with her … just words.’ He paused. ‘But then maybe that’s what the game was, too: is that what you’re thinking?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Rebus said.
‘Jesus, Davey,’ the father said, ‘if there’s anything you need to tell these officers, get it off your chest!’
‘It’s David!’ the young man spat. His father looked furious, but didn’t say anything. ‘I still don’t think it was Claire,’ David added, for Rebus’s benefit.
‘What about Flip’s mother?’ Rebus asked casually. ‘How did you get on with her?’
‘Fine.’
Rebus allowed the silence to linger, then repeated the word back at David, this time as a question.
‘You know how mothers are with daughters,’ David started to add. ‘Protective and all that.’
‘Rightly so, eh?’ Thomas Costello winked at Rebus, who glanced towards Ellen Wylie, wondering if this would rouse her. But she was staring out of the window.
‘Thing is, David,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘we’ve reason to believe there might have been a bit of friction there too.’
‘How so?’ Thomas Costello asked.
‘Maybe David can answer that,’ Rebus told him.
‘Well, David?’ Costello asked his son.
‘I’ve no idea what he means.’
‘I mean,’ Rebus said, pretending to check his notes, ‘that Mrs Balfour harboured the thought that you’d somehow poisoned Flip’s mind.’
‘You must have misheard the lady,’ Thomas Costello said. He was bunching his fists again.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Look at the strain she’s been under … doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
‘I think she knew.’ Rebus was still looking at David.
‘It’s right enough,’ he said. He’d lost all interest in the apple. It hung from his hand, the white, exposed flesh already beginning to discolour. His father gave a questioning look. ‘Jacqueline had some notion that I was giving Flip ideas.’
‘What sort of ideas?’
‘That she hadn’t had a happy childhood. That she was remembering it all wrong.’
‘And did you think she was?’ Rebus asked.
‘It was Flip, not me,’ David stated. ‘She’d been having this dream. She was back in London, back at the house there, and running up and down stairs trying to get away from something. Same dream most nights for a fortnight.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Looked in a couple of textbooks, told her it might be to do with repressed memory.’
‘The boy’s lost me,’ Thomas Costello admitted. His son turned his head towards him.
‘Something bad that you’ve managed not to think about. I was quite envious, actually.’ They stared at one another. Rebus thought he knew what David was talking about: growing up with Thomas Costello couldn’t have been easy. Maybe it explained the son’s teenage years …
‘She never explained what that might be?’ Rebus asked.
David shook his head. ‘Probably it was nothing; dreams can have all sorts of meanings.’
‘But Flip believed it?’
‘For a little while, yes.’
‘And told her mother as much?’
David nodded. ‘Who then blamed the whole thing on me.’
‘Bloody woman,’ Thomas Costello hissed. He rubbed his forehead. ‘But then she’s been under a lot of strain, lot of strain …’
‘This was before Flip went missing,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘I don’t mean that: I mean Balfour’s,’ Costello growled. The slight against his son was still fresh.
Rebus frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘Lots of money men in Dublin. You get to hear rumours.’
‘About Balfour’s?’
‘I don’t understand it all myself: overstretched … liquidity ratios … just words to me.’
‘You’re saying Balfour’s Bank is in trouble?’
Costello shook his head. ‘Just a few stories that they might be headed that way if they don’t turn things around. Problem with banking is, it’s all about confidence, isn’t it? Few wild stories can do a lot of damage …’
Rebus got the feeling Costello wouldn’t have said anything, but Jacqueline Balfour’s accusations against his son had tipped the balance. He made his first note of the interview: ‘check Balfour’s’.
He’d had a notion himself: to bring up the matter of father and son’s wild days in Dublin. But David seemed calmer now, his teenage years in the past. And as for his father, well, Rebus had seen intimations of a short temper. He didn’t think he needed a further lesson.
There was silence in the room again.
‘Will that do you for now, Inspector?’ Costello said, making show of reaching into his trousers and drawing out a pocket watch, flipping it open and snapping it closed.
‘Just about,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’
‘Wednesday,’ Costello said.
It was sometimes the case, in a murder inquiry, that the victim was left unburied as long as possible, just in case some new piece of evidence came to light. Rebus reckoned strings had been pulled: John Balfour again, getting his own way.
‘Is it a burial?’
Costello nodded. A burial was good. With a cremation, it wasn’t quite so easy to disinter the body should the need arise …
‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless there’s anything either of you would like to add … ?’
There wasn’t. Rebus got to his feet. ‘All right, DS Wylie?’ he said. It was as if she’d been roused from sleep.
Costello insisted on seeing them to the door, shook both their hands. David didn’t get up from his chair. He was lifting the apple to his mouth as Rebus said goodbye.
Outside, the door clicked shut. Rebus stood there for a moment, but couldn’t make out any voices from within. He noticed the next door along was open a couple of inches, Theresa Costello peering out.
‘Everything okay?’ she was asking Wylie.
‘Everything’s fine, madam,’ Wylie told her.
Before Rebus could get there, the door had closed again. He was left wondering whether Theresa Costello felt as trapped as she looked …
In the lift, he told Wylie he’d drop her off.
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m walking.’
‘Sure?’ She nodded, and he checked his watch. ‘Your half-eleven?’ he guessed.
‘That’s right.’ Her voice died away.
‘Well, thanks for all your help.’
She blinked, as though having difficulty taking the words in. He stood in the main lobby and watched her make for the revolving door. A moment later, he followed her out on to the street. She was crossing Princes Street, holding her bag in front of her, almost jogging. She made her way up the side of Fraser’s store, towards Charlotte Squ
are, where Balfour’s had its headquarters. He wondered where she was headed: George Street, or maybe Queen Street? Down into the New Town? The only way to find out was to follow her, but he doubted she would appreciate his curiosity.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered to himself, making for the crossing. He had to wait for the traffic to stop, and only caught sight of her when he reached Charlotte Square: she was over the other side, walking briskly. By the time he was on George Street, he’d lost her. He smiled to himself: some detective. Walked along as far as Castle Street, then doubled back. She could be in one of the shops or cafés. To hell with it. He unlocked the Saab and drove out of the hotel car park.
Some people had their demons. He got the feeling Ellen Wylie was among them. He was a good judge of character that way. Experience always told.
Back in St Leonard’s, he phoned a contact on a Sunday newspaper’s business pages.
‘How sound is Balfour’s?’ he asked, no preamble.
‘I’m assuming you mean the bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘There are rumours in Dublin.’
The journalist chuckled. ‘Ah, rumours, where would the world be without them?’
‘Then there’s no problem?’
‘I didn’t say that. On paper, Balfour’s is ticking along as ever. But there are always margins where figures can be buried.’
‘And?’
‘And their half-year forecast has been revised downwards; not quite enough to give big investors the jitters, but Balfour’s is a loose affiliation of smaller investors. They have a tendency towards hypochondria.’
‘Bottom line, Terry?’
‘Balfour’s should survive, a hostile takeover notwithstanding. But if the balance sheet looks murky at year’s end, there may have to be one or two ritual beheadings.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Who would go?’
‘Ranald Marr, I should think, if only to show that Balfour himself has the ruthlessness necessary for this day and age.’
‘No place for old friendships?’
‘Truth be told, there never was.’
‘Thanks, Terry. A large G and T will be waiting for you behind the bar of the Ox.’
‘It may wait a while.’
‘You on the wagon?’
‘Doctor’s orders. We’re being picked off one by one, John.’
Rebus commiserated for a couple of minutes, thinking of his own doctor’s appointment, the one he was missing yet again by making this call. When he put the phone down, he scribbled the name Marr on to his pad and circled it. Ranald Marr, with his Maserati and toy soldiers. You’d almost have thought he’d lost a daughter … Rebus was beginning to revise that opinion. He wondered if Marr knew how precarious his job was, knew that the mere thought of their savings catching a cold might spur the small investors on, demanding a sacrifice …
He switched to a picture of Thomas Costello, who’d never had to work in his life. What must that be like? Rebus couldn’t begin to answer the question. His parents had been poor all their lives: never owned their own house. When his father had died, he’d left four hundred quid for Rebus to split with his brother. A policy had taken care of the funeral. Even back then, pocketing his share of the notes in the bank manager’s office, he’d wondered … half his parents’ life savings represented one of his week’s wages.
He had money in the bank himself now: did very little with his monthly salary. The flat was paid off; neither Rhona nor Samantha ever seemed to want anything from him. Food and drink, and garage bills for the Saab. He never went on holiday, probably bought a couple of LPs or CDs a week. A couple of months back, he’d thought of buying a Linn hi-fi system, but the shop had knocked him back, told him they’d nothing in stock and would phone him when they had. They’d never phoned. The Lou Reed tickets hadn’t exactly stretched him: Jean had insisted on paying for hers … and cooked him breakfast next morning to boot.
‘It’s the Laughing Policeman!’ Siobhan called across the office. She was seated at her desk next to Brains from Fettes. Rebus realised he had a big grin on his face. He got up and crossed the room.
‘I withdraw that remark,’ Siobhan said quickly, holding up her hands in surrender.
‘Hello, Brains,’ Rebus said.
‘His name’s Bain,’ Siobhan corrected him. ‘He likes to be called Eric.’
Rebus ignored this. ‘It’s like the deck of the Starship Enterprise in here.’ He was looking at the array of computers and connections: two laptops, two PCs. He knew one of the PCs was Siobhan’s, the other Flip Balfour’s. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what do we know about Philippa’s early life in London?’
She wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Not much. Why?’
‘Because the boyfriend says she was having these nightmares, running up and down the London house being chased by something.’
‘Sure it was the London house?’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘Just that Junipers gave me the heebies: suits of armour and dusty old billiard rooms … imagine growing up with that.’
‘David Costello said the London house.’
‘Transference?’ Bain suggested. They both looked at him. ‘Just a thought,’ he said.
‘So really it was Junipers she was scared of ?’ Rebus asked.
‘Let’s get out the ouija board and ask her.’ Siobhan realised what she’d said and winced. ‘Worst possible taste, sorry.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rebus said. He had, too. At the murder scene, one of the woolly-suits helping with the cordon had been overheard telling a mate: ‘I bet she hadn’t banked on that. Get it?’
‘It’s kind of sub-Hitchcock, isn’t it?’ Bain said now. ‘You know, Marnie, that sort of thing …’
Rebus thought of the book of poems in David Costello’s flat: I Dream of Alfred Hitchcock.
You do not die for being bad, you die
For being available …
‘You’re probably right,’ he said.
Siobhan read his tone. ‘All the same, you still want the low-down on Flip’s London years?’
He began to nod, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right … it’s too far-fetched.’
As he moved away, Siobhan turned to Bain. ‘That’s usually right up his street,’ she murmured. ‘The more far-fetched it is, the better he likes it.’
Bain smiled. He had the briefcase with him again; still hadn’t opened it. After the meal on Friday night they’d said their goodbyes. Siobhan had got into her car Saturday morning and headed north for the football. Didn’t bother offering anyone a lift: she’d packed an overnight bag. Found herself a guest house. Good win for Hibs in the afternoon, then a bit of exploring and a spot of dinner. She’d taken her Walkman, half a dozen tapes and a couple of paperbacks with her, leaving the laptop back in her flat. A weekend without Quizmaster: just what the doctor ordered. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if there was a message for her. She’d made sure she was late getting back Sunday night, then busied herself with laundry.
Now the laptop sat on her desk. She was almost afraid to touch it, afraid to give in to the craving …
‘Good weekend?’ Bain asked.
‘Not bad. How about you?’
‘Quiet. That dinner on Friday was just about the highlight.’
She smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘So what do we do now? Get on the blower to Special Branch?’
‘We talk to the Crime Squad. They route our request.’
‘We can’t cut out the middle-man?’
‘The middle-man wouldn’t like that.’
Siobhan thought of Claverhouse: Bain was probably right. ‘Go ahead then,’ she said.
So Bain picked up the phone and had a long conversation with DI Claverhouse at the Big House. Siobhan ran her fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. It was already connected to her mobile. A phone message had been waiting for her at home on Friday nigh
t: her mobile account, wondering if she knew that her usage had suddenly gone up. Yes, she knew all right. With Bain still busy explaining things to Claverhouse, she decided to connect to the Net, just to give her something to do …
There were three messages from Quizmaster. The first was from Friday evening, around the time she got home:
Seeker – My patience wears thin. The quest is about to close on you. Immediate response requested.
The second was from Saturday afternoon:
Siobhan? I’m disappointed in you. Your times so far have been excellent. Game is now closed.
Closed or not, he’d come back on Sunday at the stroke of midnight:
Are you busy tracing me, is that it? Do you still want to meet?
Bain ended his conversation and put down the phone. He was staring at the screen.
‘You’ve got him rattled,’ he said.
‘New ISP?’ Siobhan asked. Bain checked the headers and nodded.
‘New name, new everything. Still, he’s getting the inkling that he’s not untraceable.’
‘Then why doesn’t he just shut down?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You really think the game’s closed?’
‘Only one way to find out …’
So Siobhan got busy on the keyboard:
I was away all weekend, that’s all. Inquiries progress. Meantime, yes, I’d still like to meet.
She sent the message. They went and grabbed coffee, but when they came back there was no reply.
‘Is he sulking?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Or away from his machine.’
She looked at him. ‘Your bedroom, is it full of computer stuff ?’
‘You’re angling an invite to my bedroom?’
She smiled. ‘No, I was just wondering. Some of these people, they can spend all day and night at a monitor, can’t they?’
‘Absolutely. But I’m not one of them. Three chat rooms where I’m a regular, maybe an hour or two of surfing when I get bored.’
‘What are the chat rooms?’
‘Tekky stuff.’ He shifted his chair towards the desk. ‘Now, while we’re waiting, maybe we should take a look at Ms Balfour’s deleted files.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘You know you can undelete files?’
‘Sure. We already looked at her correspondence.’
‘But did you look at her e-mails?’