by Ian Rankin
Costello ran his hand through his hair, didn’t say anything.
You asked if I thought you did it,’ Rebus said, answering his own question.
‘Did what?’
‘Killed Flip. I think that’s how you phrased it: "You think I killed her, don’t you?”’
Costello nodded. ‘It’s so obvious, isn’t it? We’d fallen out. I accept that you have to regard me as a suspect.’
‘David, right now you’re the only suspect.’
You really think something’s happened to her?’
‘What do you think?’
Costello shook his head. ‘I’ve done nothing but rack my brains since this all started.’
They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘What are you doing here?’ Costello asked suddenly.
‘As I said, it’s on my way home. You like the Old Town?’
'Yes.’
‘Bit different from the New. You didn’t want to move nearer Flip?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe it says something about the pair of you, the parts of town you prefer.’
Costello laughed drily. You Scots can be so reductive.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Old Town versus New, Catholic/Protestant, east coast/west … Things can be a mite more complicated than that.’
‘Attraction of opposites, that’s all I was getting at.’ There was another silence between them. Rebus scanned the room.
‘Didn’t make a mess then?’
‘Who?’
‘The search party.’
‘Could have been worse.’
Rebus took a sip of coffee, pretended to savour it. You wouldn’t have left the body here though, would you? I mean, only perverts do that sort of thing.’ Costello looked at him. ‘Sorry, I’m being … I mean, it’s just theoretical. I’m not trying to say anything. But the forensics, they weren’t looking for a body. They deal in things you and me can’t even see. Flecks of blood, fibres, a single hair.’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Juries eat that stuff up. The old idea of policing, it’s going out the window.’ He put down the gloss-black mug, reached into a pocket for his cigarette packet. ‘Mind if I … ?’
Costello hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ll take one from you if that’s all right.’
‘Be my guest.’ Rebus took one out of the packet, lit it, then tossed both packet and lighter to the younger man. ‘Roll yourself a joint if you like,’ he added. ‘I mean, if that’s your thing.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Student life must be a bit different these days.’
Costello exhaled, studying the cigarette as if it was something alien to him. ‘I’d assume it is,’ he said.
Rebus smiled. Just two grown-ups having a smoke and a chat. The wee sma’ hours and all that. A time for honesty, the outside world asleep, no one eavesdropping. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves. ‘How did you and Flip meet?’ he asked, picking a book at random and flipping through it.
‘Dinner party. We clicked straight away. Next morning, after breakfast, we took a walk through Warriston Cemetery. That was when I first felt that I loved her … I mean, that it wasn’t just going to be a one-night stand.’
'You like films?’ Rebus said. He was noticing that one shelf seemed to be all books about movies.
Costello looked over towards him. ‘I’d like to try writing a script some day.’
‘Good for you.’ Rebus had opened another book. It seemed to be a sequence of poems about Alfred Hitchcock. You didn’t go to the hotel9.’ he asked after a pause.
‘No.’
‘But you’ve seen your parents?’
'Yes.’ Costello took another draw, sucking the life from the cigarette. He realised he’d no ashtray and looked around for something suitable: candle-holders, one for Rebus and one for him. Turning from the bookshelves, Rebus’s foot brushed something: a metal toy soldier, no more than an inch high. He stooped to pick it up. The musket had been snapped off, the head twisted over to one side. He didn’t think he was responsible. Rebus placed it quietly on a shelf before sitting down again.
‘Did they cancel the other room then?’ he asked.
‘They sleep in separate rooms, Inspector.’ Costello looked up from where he’d been tidying the tip of the cigarette against the rim of the makeshift ashtray. ‘Not a crime, is it?’
‘I’m not best placed to judge. My wife left me more years ago than I can remember.’
‘I’ll bet you do remember.’
Rebus smiled again. ‘Guilty.’
Costello rested his head against the back of the futon, stifled a yawn.
‘I should go,’ Rebus said.
‘Finish your coffee at least.’
Rebus had already finished it, but nodded anyway, not about to leave unless pushed out. ‘Maybe she’ll turn up. People do things sometimes, don’t they? Take a notion to head for the hills.’
‘Flip was hardly the hill-heading type.’
‘But she could have had a mind to take off somewhere.’
Costello shook his head. ‘She knew they were waiting for her in the bar. She wouldn’t have forgotten that.’
‘No? Say she’d just met someone else … you know, an impulse thing, like in that advert.’
‘Someone else?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
Costello’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t know. It was one of the things I thought about—whether she’d met someone else.’
'You dismissed it?’
'Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because something like that, she’d have told me. That’s the way Flip is: doesn’t matter if it’s a grand’s worth of designer dress or a Concorde flight courtesy of her parents, she can’t keep it to herself.’
‘Likes attention?’
‘Don’t we all, from time to time?’
‘She wouldn’t pull a stunt, would she, just to get us all looking for her?’
‘Fake her own disappearance?’ Costello shook his head, then stifled another yawn. ‘Maybe I should get some sleep.’
‘What time’s the press conference?’
‘Early afternoon. Something to do with catching the main news bulletins.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t be nervous out there, just be yourself.’
Costello stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Who else could I be?’ He made to hand the packet and lighter back to Rebus.
‘Keep them. Never know when you might feel the need.’ He got to his feet. The blood was beating in his skull now, despite the paracetamol. That’s the way Flip is: Costello had spoken of her in the present tense—a casual remark, or something more calculated? Costello stood up too, now, and he was smiling, though without much humour.
'You never did answer that question, did you?’ he said.
‘I’m keeping an open mind, Mr Costello.’
‘Are you now?’ Costello slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Will I see you at the press conference?’
‘Could be.’
‘And will you be on the lookout for slips of the tongue? Something like your forensic bods?’ Costello’s eyes narrowed. ‘I may be the only suspect, but I’m not stupid.’
‘Then you’ll appreciate we’re on the same side … unless you know differently?’
‘Why did you come here tonight? You’re not on duty, are you?’
Rebus took a step closer. ‘Know what they used to think, Mr Costello? They thought murder victims kept an imprint of their killer on their eyeballs—last thing they ever saw. Some killers, they gouged out the eyes after death.’
‘But we’re not so naïve these days, Inspector, are we? You can’t hope to know someone, to get the measure of them, just from eye contact.’ Costello leaned in towards Rebus, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Take a good long look, because the exhibit’s about to close.’
Rebus met the gaze, returned it. Costello was the first to blink, breaking the spell. Then he turned away
and told Rebus to leave. As Rebus made for the door, Costello called out to him. He was wiping the cigarette packet with a handkerchief. He did the same with the lighter, then tossed both items towards Rebus. They fell at his feet.
‘I think your need’s probably greater than mine.
Rebus stooped to pick them up. ‘Why the handkerchief?’
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Costello said. ‘Evidence can turn up in the strangest places.’
Rebus straightened, decided against saying anything. At the door, Costello called out goodnight to him. Rebus was halfway down the stairwell before he returned the sentiment. He was thinking about the way Costello had wiped both lighter and packet. All the years he’d been on the force, he’d never seen a suspect do anything like that. It had meant Costello was expecting to be set up.
Or, perhaps, that was what it was intended to look like. But it had shown Rebus a side of the young man that was cool and calculating. It showed someone who was capable of thinking ahead …
2
It was one of those cool, crepuscular days that could have belonged to any of at least three Scottish seasons, a sky like slate roofing and a wind that Rebus’s father would have called ‘snell’. His father had told a story once many times actually—about walking into a grocer’s in Lochgelly one freezing winter’s morning. The grocer had been standing by the electric fire. Rebus’s father had pointed to the cold cabinet and asked, ‘Is that your Ayrshire bacon?’ to which the grocer had replied, ‘No, it’s my hands I’m heating.’ He’d sworn it was a true story, and Rebus—maybe seven or eight years old—had believed him at the time. But now it seemed an old chestnut of a joke, something he’d heard elsewhere and twisted to his own use.
‘Not often I see you smiling,’ his barista said as she made him a double latte. Those were her words: barista, latte. The first time she’d described her job, she’d pronounced it ‘barrister’, which had led a confused Rebus to ask if she was moonlighting. She worked from a converted police-box at the corner of the Meadows, and Rebus stopped there most mornings on his way to work. ‘Milky coffee’ was his order, which she always corrected to ‘latte’. Then he’d add ‘double shot’. He didn’t need to—she knew the order by heart—but he liked the feel of the words.
‘Smiling’s not illegal, is it?’ he said now, as she spooned froth on to the coffee.
'You’d know better than me.'
‘And your boss would know better than either of us.’ Rebus paid up, punted the change into the marge tub left for tips, and headed for St Leonard’s. He didn’t think she knew he was a cop: you’d know better than me … it had been said casually, no meaning behind it other than to continue their banter. In turn, he’d made his remark about her boss because the owner of the chain of kiosks had once been a solicitor. But she hadn’t seemed to understand.
At St Leonard’s, Rebus stayed in his car, enjoying a last cigarette with his drink. A couple of vans sat at the station’s back door, waiting fbr anyone who was being taken to court. Rebus had given evidence in a case a few days ago. He kept meaning to find out what the result had been. When the station door opened, he expected to see the custody line, but it was Siobhan Clarke. She saw his car and smiled, shaking her head at the inevitability of the scene. As she came forwards, Rebus lowered the window.
‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ she said.
‘And a good morning to you too.’
‘Boss wants to see you.’
‘He sent the right sniffer dog.’
Siobhan didn’t say anything, just smiled to herself as Rebus got out of the car. They were halfway across the car park before he heard the words: ‘It’s not a The” any more.’ He stopped in his tracks.
‘I’d forgotten,’ he admitted.
‘How’s the hangover, by the way? Anything else you might have managed to forget?’
As she opened the door for him, he had the sudden image of a gamekeeper opening a trap.
The Farmer’s photos and coffee machine had gone, and there were some Good Luck cards on top of the filing cabinet, but otherwise the room was just as before, down to the paperwork in the in-tray and the solitary potted cactus on the windowsill. Gill Templer looked uncomfortable in the Farmer’s chair, his daily bulk having moulded it in ways which would never fit her slimmer proportions.
‘Sit down, John.’ Then, when he was hallway on to the seat: ‘And tell me what last night was all about.’ Elbows on the desk, she placed the tips of her fingers together. It was something the Farmer had often done when trying to hide irritation or impatience. She’d either picked it up from him, or it was a perk of her new seniority.
‘Last night?’
‘Philippa Balfour’s flat. Her father found you there.’ She looked up. ‘Apparently you’d been drinking.’
‘Hadn’t we all?’
‘Not as much as some.’ Her eyes moved down again to the sheet of, paper on her desk. ‘Mr Balfour’s wondering what you were up to. Frankly, I’m more than a little curious myself.’
‘I was on my way home … '
‘Leith Walk to Marchmont? Via the New Town? Sounds like you got bad directions.’
Rebus realised that he was still holding his beaker of coffee. He placed it on the floor, taking his time. ‘It’s just something I do,’ he said at last. ‘When things are quiet, I like to go back.’
‘Why?, ‘In case anything’s been missed.’
She seemed to consider this. ‘I’m not sure that’s the whole story.’
He shrugged, said nothing. Her eyes were on the sheet again.
‘And then you decided to pay Ms Balfour’s boyfriend a call. How wise was that?’
‘That really was on the way home. I stopped to talk to Connolly and Daniels. Mr Costello’s light was on; I thought I’d make sure he was all right.’
‘The caring copper.’ She paused. ‘That’s presumably why Mr Costello felt it necessary to mention your visit to his solicitor?’
‘I don’t know why he did that.’ Rebus shifted a little on the hard chair; disguised it by reaching for his coffee.
‘His lawyer’s talking about "harassment”. We might have to pull the surveillance.’ Her eyes were fixed on him.
‘Look, Gill,’ he said, ‘you and me, we’ve known each other for donkey’s. It’s no secret how I work. I’m sure DCS Watson quoted scripture on the subject.’
‘That was then, John.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘How much did you have to drink last night?’
‘More than I should have, but it wasn’t my fault.’ He watched as Gill raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m positive someone slipped me a Mickey Finn.’
‘I want you to see a doctor.’
‘Christ Almighty … '
'Your drinking, your diet, your general health … I want You to take a medical, and whatever the doctor says is necessary, I want you to abide by it.’
‘Alfalfa and carrot juice?’
'You’ll see a doctor, John.’ It was a statement. Rebus just snorted and drained his coffee, then held up the beaker.
‘Half-fat milk.’
She almost smiled. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
‘Look, Gill …’ He got up, tipped the beaker into the otherwise pristine waste-bin. ‘My drinking’s not a problem. It doesn’t interfere with my work.’
‘It did last night.’
He shook his head, but her face had hardened. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘Just before you left the club … you remember that?’
‘Sure.’ He hadn’t sat down; was standing in front of her desk, hands by his sides.
'You remember what you said to me?’ His face told her all she needed to know. You wanted me to go home with you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He was trying to remember, but nothing was coming. He couldn’t remember leaving the club at all …
‘On you go, John. I’ll make that appointment for you.’
He turned, pulled open the door. He was hallway out when she calle
d him back.
‘I lied,’ she said with a smile. You didn’t say anything. Going to wish me well in the new job?’
Rebus tried for a sneer but couldn’t quite manage one. Gill held her smile until he’d slammed shut the door; after he’d gone, it fell away again. Watson had given her chapter and verse all right, but nothing she hadn’t already known: Enjoys his drink a bit too much, maybe,but he’s a good cop, Gill. He just likes to pretend he can do without the rest of us … Maybe that was true, as far as it went, but maybe, too, the time was coming fast when John Rebus would have to learn that they could do without him.
It was easy to spot the crew from the leaving do: local chemists had probably sold out of aspirin, vitamin C and patented hangover cures. Dehydration seemed a major factor. Rebus had seldom seen so many bottles of Irn-Bru, Lucozade and Coke in the grip of so many pallid hands. The sobersides—who’d either not been to the party or who’d stuck to soft drinks—were gloating, whistling shrilly and slamming drawers and cupboards wherever possible. The main incident room for the Philippa Balfour inquiry was based at Gayfield Square—much closer to her flat—but with so many officers involved, space was an issue, so a corner of the CID room at St Leonard’s had been set aside. Siobhan was there now, busy at her terminal. A spare hard disk sat on the floor, and Rebus realised that she was using Balfour’s computer. She held a telephone receiver between cheek and shoulder, and typed as she talked.
‘No luck there either,’ Rebus heard her say.
He was sharing his own desk with three other officers, and it showed. He brushed the remnants from a bag of crisps on to the floor and deposited two empty Fanta cans in the nearest bin. When the phone rang he picked it up, but it was just the local evening paper trying to pull a flanker.
‘Talk to Press Liaison,’ Rebus told the journalist.
‘Give me a break.’
Rebus was thoughtful. Liaison had been Gill Templer’s speciality. He glanced across towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘Who’s in charge of PL anyway?’
‘DS Ellen Wylie,’ the journalist said.
Rebus said thanks and cut the connection. Liaison would have been a step up for Siobhan, especially on a high-profile case. Ellen Wylie was a good officer based at Torphichen. As a liaison specialist, Gill Templer would have been asked for advice on the appointment, maybe even made the decision herself. She’d chosen Ellen Wylie. He wondered if there was anything in it.
