The Falls

by Ian Rankin

  He preceded her up the stairs, opened his front door.

  ‘Your lucky day,’ he said. ‘Not only am I not dead, but I can offer tea and rolls with ham and mustard.’

  ‘Just tea, thanks,’ she said, finally regaining some composure. ‘Hey, the hall looks great!’

  ‘Take a look around. I may as well get used to it.’

  ‘You mean it’s on the market?’

  ‘As from next week.’

  She opened a bedroom door, stuck her head round. ‘Dimmer switch,’ she commented, trying it out.

  Rebus went into the kitchen and stuck the kettle on, found two clean mugs in the cupboard. One of them said ‘World’s Greatest Dad’. It wasn’t his; one of the sparkies must have left it. He decided Siobhan could have her tea in it, he’d have the taller one with the poppies and the chipped rim.

  ‘You didn’t paint the living room,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘It was done not so long ago.’

  She nodded. There was something he wasn’t saying, but she wasn’t going to force it.

  ‘You and Grant still an item then?’ he asked.

  ‘We never were. And that’s the subject closed.’

  He got the milk from the fridge. ‘Better be careful, you’ll be getting a rep.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Unsuitable men. One of them was staring daggers at me all morning.’

  ‘Oh God, Derek Linford.’ She was thoughtful. ‘Didn’t he look awful?’

  ‘Doesn’t he always?’ Rebus placed a tea-bag in each mug. ‘So, are you here to check up on me or thank me for sticking my neck out?’

  ‘I’m not about to thank you for that. You could have stayed quiet, and you know it. If you owned up, it was because you wanted to.’ She broke off.

  ‘And?’ he encouraged her.

  ‘And you’ll have some agenda going.’

  ‘Actually I don’t … not particularly.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  ‘It was the quickest way, the simplest. If I’d bothered to think for a moment … maybe I’d have kept my mouth shut.’ He poured water and milk into the mugs, handed one over. Siobhan looked at the tea-bag floating there. ‘Spoon it out when it’s strong enough,’ he suggested.

  ‘Yummy.’

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you with a ham roll?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ he said, leading them through to the living room. ‘Everything calm at base camp?’

  ‘Say what you like about Carswell, he’s a pretty good motivator. Everyone thinks it was that speech of his that made you feel guilty.’

  ‘And they’re now working harder than ever?’ He waited till she’d nodded. ‘A team of happy gardeners with no nasty moles to bother them.’

  Siobhan grinned. ‘It was pretty bloody corny, wasn’t it?’ She looked around. ‘Where are you going to go when you sell this place?’

  ‘Got a spare room, have you?’

  ‘Depends for how long.’

  ‘I’m just joking, Siobhan. I’ll be fine.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘So what exactly does bring you here?’

  ‘You mean apart from checking up on you?’

  ‘I’m guessing that wasn’t all.’

  She reached down to place her mug on the floor. ‘I got another message.’

  ‘Quizmaster?’ She nodded. ‘Saying what exactly?’

  She unfolded some sheets from her pocket, reached over towards him with them. Their fingers touched as he took them. The first was an e-mail from Siobhan:

  Still awaiting Stricture.

  ‘I sent that first thing this morning,’ she said. ‘Thought maybe he wouldn’t have heard.’

  Rebus turned to the second sheet. It was from Quizmaster.

  I’m disappointed in you, Siobhan. I’m taking my ball home now.

  Then Siobhan:

  Don’t believe everything you read. I still want to play.

  Quizmaster:

  And go yapping to your bosses?

  Siobhan:

  You and me this time, that’s a promise.

  Quizmaster:

  How can I trust you?

  Siobhan:

  I’ve been trusting you, haven’t I? And you always know where to find me. I still don’t have the first clue about you.

  ‘I had to wait a while after that. The final sheet came in about’ – she checked her watch – ‘forty minutes ago.’

  ‘And you came straight here?’

  She shrugged. ‘More or less.’

  ‘You didn’t show it to Brains?’

  ‘He’s off on some errand for Crime Squad.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ She shook her head. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Now that I’m here,’ she said, ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Grant’s the one with the puzzle mind.’

  ‘Right now he’s too busy puzzling over how to keep his job.’

  Rebus nodded slowly and re-read the final sheet:

  Add Camus to ME Smith, they’re boxing where the sun don’t shine, and Frank Finlay’s the referee.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’ve shown me it …’ He made to hand the sheets back. ‘And it doesn’t mean a thing to me.’

  ‘No?’

  He shook his head. ‘Frank Finlay was an actor – might still be, for all I know. I think he played Casanova on TV, and he was in something called Barbed Wire and Bouquets … something like that.’

  ‘Bouquet of Barbed Wire?’

  ‘Could have been.’ He glanced at the clue a final time. ‘Camus was a French writer. I used to think it was pronounced “came as” until I heard it mentioned on the radio or the box.’

  ‘Boxing – that’s something you know about.’

  ‘Marciano, Dempsey, Cassius Clay before he became Ali …’ He shrugged.

  ‘Where the sun don’t shine,’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s an American expression, isn’t it?’

  ‘It means out your arse,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘You think suddenly Quizmaster’s American?’

  She smiled, but there was no humour to it.

  ‘Take my advice, Siobhan. Give it to Crime Squad or Special Branch or whoever’s supposed to be tracking this arsehole down. Or just e-mail him back telling him to get stuffed.’ He paused. ‘You said he knows where to find you?’

  She nodded. ‘He knows my name, that I’m CID in Edinburgh.’

  ‘But nothing about where you live? He hasn’t got your phone number?’ She shook her head and Rebus nodded, satisfied. He was thinking of all the numbers pinned to Steve Holly’s office wall.

  ‘Then let him go,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Is that what you’d do?’

  ‘It’s what I’d strongly advise.’

  ‘Then you don’t want to help me?’

  He looked at her. ‘Help you how?’

  ‘Copy the clue, do some detecting.’

  He laughed. ‘You want me in even more trouble with Carswell?’

  She looked down at the sheets of paper. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Stay and finish it.’ He watched her get to her feet.

  ‘I should be heading back. Lots to do.’

  ‘Starting with handing that clue over?’

  She stared at him. ‘You know your advice is always important to me.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘Take it as a definite maybe.’

  He was standing now, too. ‘Thanks for coming, Siobhan.’

  She turned towards the doorway. ‘Linford’s out to get you, isn’t he? Him and Carswell both?’

  ‘Don’t fret over it.’

  ‘But Linford’s getting stronger. He’ll be Chief Inspector any day.’

  ‘For all you know, maybe I’m getting stronger too.’

  She turned her head to study him, but didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He followed her out into the hall, opened the door for her.

  She was
on the stairwell before she spoke again. ‘Know what Ellen Wylie said after that meeting with Carswell?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ She looked at him again, one hand on the banister. ‘Strange that. I was expecting a long speech about your martyr complex …’

  Back in the flat, Rebus stood in the hall, listening to her footsteps recede. Then he walked to the living-room window and stood on tiptoe, craning his neck to watch her leave the tenement, the door closing with an echo behind her. She’d come here asking for something, and he’d turned her down. How could he tell her that he didn’t want her getting hurt, the way so many people he’d let get close to him had been hurt in the past? How to tell her that she should learn her own lessons, not his, and that she’d be a better cop – as well as a better person – at the end of it?

  He turned back into the room. The ghosts were faint, but visible. People he’d hurt and been hurt by, people who’d died painful, unnecessary deaths. Not for much longer. A couple more weeks and maybe he’d be free of them. He knew the phone wasn’t going to ring, nor was Ellen Wylie about to pay him a visit. They understood one another well enough to render any such contact unnecessary. Maybe one day in the future they’d sit down and talk about it. Then again, maybe she’d never speak to him again. He’d stolen the moment from her, and she had stood there and let him. Defeat once again snatched from the jaws of victory. He wondered if she’d stay in Steve Holly’s pocket … wondered just how deep and dark that pocket might be.

  He walked through to the kitchen, poured Siobhan’s and the rest of his tea down the sink. An inch of malt into a clean glass and a bottle of IPA from the cupboard. Back in the living room, he sat in his chair, took pen and notebook from his pocket, and jotted down the latest clue as best he could remember it …

  Jean Burchill’s morning had consisted of a series of meetings, including one heated debate on funding levels which threatened to turn violent, with one curator walking out, slamming the door after him, and another almost bursting into tears.

  By lunchtime, she felt exhausted, the stuffiness of her office contributing to a thumping head. Steve Holly had left two more messages for her, and she just knew that if she sat at her desk with a sandwich, the phone would ring again. Instead, she headed outside, joining the throng of workers released from captivity for the time it took to queue at the baker’s for a filled roll or pie. The Scots had an unenviable record for heart disease and tooth decay, both the result of the national diet: saturated fats, salt and sugar. She’d wondered what it was that made Scottish people reach for the comfort foods, the chocolate, chips and fizzy drinks: was it the climate? Or could the answer lie deeper, within the nation’s character? Jean decided to buck the trend, purchased some fruit and a carton of orange juice. She was heading into town down the Bridges. It was all cheap clothes shops and takeaways, with queues of buses and lorries waiting to crawl through the traffic lights at the Tron kirk. A few beggars sat in doorways, staring at the passing parade of feet. Jean paused at the lights and looked left and right along the High Street, imagining the place in the days before Princes Street: vendors hawking their wares; ill-lit howffs where business was done; the tollbooth and the gates which were closed at nightfall, locking the city into itself … She wondered if someone from the 1770s, somehow transported to the present, would find this part of the city so very different. The lights, the cars might shock them, but not the feel of the place.

  She paused again on North Bridge, staring eastwards towards where the new parliament site showed no signs of progress. The Scotsman had moved its offices down to a shiny new building in Holyrood Road, just across from the parliament. She’d been there recently for a function, standing on the large balcony to the rear, staring out at the immensity of Salisbury Crags. Behind her now, the old Scotsman building was being gutted: another new hotel in the making. Further down North Bridge, where it connected with Princes Street, the old Post Office HQ sat dusty and empty, its future apparently still not decided – another hotel, the rumour went. She took a right into Waterloo Place, munching on her second apple and trying not to think of crisps and Kit-Kats. She knew where she was headed: Calton cemetery. As she entered through the wrought-iron gate, she was confronted by the obelisk known as the Martyrs’ Memorial, dedicated to the memory of five men, the ‘Friends of the People’, who had dared in the 1790s to advocate parliamentary reform. This at a time when fewer than forty people in the city had the power to vote in an election. The five were sentenced to transportation: a one-way ticket to Australia. Jean looked at the apple she was eating. She’d just peeled a little sticker from it, announcing its country of origin as New Zealand. She thought of the five convicts, the lives they must have led. But there was to be no counterpart to the French Revolution in Scotland, not in the 1790s.

  She was reminded of some communist leader and thinker – was it Marx himself ? – who had predicted that the revolution in western Europe would have Scotland as its starting-point. Another dream …

  Jean didn’t know much about David Hume, but stood in front of his monument while she attacked her carton of juice. Philosopher and essayist … a friend had once told her that Hume’s achievement had been in making the philosophy of John Locke comprehensible, but then she didn’t know anything much about Locke either.

  There were other graves: Blackwood and Constable, publishers, and one of the leaders of ‘the Disruption’, which had led to the founding of the Free Church of Scotland. Just to the east, over the cemetery wall, was a small crenellated tower. This she knew was all that remained of the old Calton Prison. She’d seen drawings of it, taken from Calton Hill opposite: friends and family of the prisoners would gather there to shout messages and greetings. Closing her eyes, she could almost replace the traffic noises with yelps and whoops, the dialogue between loved ones echoing back along Waterloo Place …

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw what she’d hoped to find: Dr Kennet Lovell’s grave. The headstone had been set into the cemetery’s eastern wall, and was now cracked and soot-blackened, its edges fallen away to reveal the sandstone beneath. It was a small thing, close to the ground. ‘Dr Kennet Anderson Lovell,’ Jean read, ‘an eminent Physician of this City.’ He’d died in 1863, aged fifty-six. There were weeds rising from ground level, obscuring much of the inscription. Jean crouched down and started pulling them away, encountering a used condom which she brushed aside with a dock leaf. She knew that there were people who used Calton Hill at night, and imagined them coupling against this wall, pressing down on the bones of Dr Lovell. How would Lovell feel about that? For a moment, she formed a picture of another coupling: herself and John Rebus. Not her type at all really. In the past she’d dated researchers, university lecturers. One brief dalliance with a sculptor in the city – a married man. He’d taken her to cemeteries, his favourite places. John Rebus probably liked cemeteries, too. When they’d first met she’d seen him as a challenge and a curiosity. Even now she had to work hard not to think of him in terms of an exhibit. There were so many secrets there, so much of him that he refused to show to the world. She knew there was digging still to be done …

  As she cleared the weeds, she found that Lovell had married no fewer than three times, and that each wife had passed away before him. No evidence of any children … she wondered if the offspring might be buried elsewhere. Maybe there were no children. But then hadn’t John said something about a descendant … ? As she examined the dates, she saw that the wives had died young, and another thought crossed her mind: they’d died in childbirth, perhaps.

  His first wife: Beatrice, née Alexander. Aged twenty-nine.

  His second wife: Alice, née Baxter. Aged thirty-three.

  His third wife: Patricia, née Addison. Aged twenty-six.

  An inscription read: Passed over, to be met again so sweetly in the Lord’s domain.

  Jean couldn’t help thinking that it must have been some meeting, Lovell and his three wives. She had a pen in her pocket, but no not
epad or paper. She looked around the cemetery, found an old envelope, torn in half. She brushed dirt and dust from it and jotted down the details.

  Siobhan was back at her desk, trying to form anagrams from the letters in ‘Camus’ and ‘ME Smith’, when Eric Bain came into the office.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘That good, eh?’ He placed his briefcase on the floor, straightened up and looked around. ‘Special Branch get back to us yet?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ She was scoring out letters with her pen. The M and E had no space between them. Did Quizmaster mean them to be read as ‘me’? Was he saying his name was Smith? ME was also a medical condition. She couldn’t recall what the letters stood for … remembered it being called ‘yuppie flu’ in the newspapers. Bain had walked over to the fax machine, picked up some sheets and sifted through them.

  ‘Ever think to check?’ he said, sliding two sheets out and putting the rest back next to the machine.

  Siobhan looked up. ‘What is it?’

  He was reading as he approached. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t ask me how they did it, but they did it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve traced one of the accounts already.’

  Siobhan’s chair fell back as she got to her feet, hands grabbing at the fax. As Bain relinquished it, he asked her a simple question.

  ‘Who’s Claire Benzie?’

  ‘You’re not in custody, Claire,’ Siobhan said, ‘and if you want a solicitor, that’s up to you. But I’d like your permission to make a tape recording.’

  ‘Sounds serious,’ Claire Benzie said. They’d picked her up at her flat in Bruntsfield, driven her to St Leonard’s. She’d been compliant, not asking questions. She was wearing jeans and a pale pink turtleneck. Her face looked scrubbed, no make-up. She sat in the interview room with arms folded while Bain fed tapes into both recording machines.

  ‘There’ll be a copy for you, and one for us,’ Siobhan was saying. ‘Okay?’

  Benzie just shrugged.

  Bain said ‘okey-dokey’ and set both tapes running, then eased himself into the chair next to Siobhan. Siobhan identified herself and Bain for the record, adding time and place of interview.