Falls

by Ian Rankin

  The dining room was dominated by a long wooden table and six un-upholstered, straight-backed chairs. There was a serving-hatch—what Rebus’s family would have called a ‘bowley-hole’—through to the kitchen, and a dark-stained sideboard spread with a dusty array of glassware and silver. The few framed pictures looked like early examples of photography: posed studio shots of Venetian boat-life, maybe scenes from Shakespeare. The tall sash window looked out on to gardens at the rear of the building. Down below, Rebus could see that Mrs Jardine’s gardener had shaped her plot—either by accident or design—so that from above it resembled a question mark.

  On the table lay a half-finished jigsaw: central Edinburgh photographed from above. ‘Any and all help,’ Devlin said, waving a hand expansively over the puzzle, ‘will be most gratefully received.’

  ‘Looks like a lot of pieces,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Just the two thousand.’

  Hawes, who had at last introduced herself to Devlin, was having trouble getting comfortable on her chair. She asked how long Devlin had been retired.

  ‘Twelve … no, fourteen years. Fourteen years …’ He shook his head, marvelling at time’s ability to speed up even as the heartbeat slowed.

  Hawes looked at her notes. ‘At the first interview, you said you’d been home that evening.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you didn’t see Philippa Balfour?’

  'Your information is correct thus far.’

  Rebus, deciding against the chairs, leaned back, putting his weight on the windowsill, and folded his arms.

  ‘But you knew Ms Balfour?’ he asked.

  ‘We’d exchanged pleasantries, yes.’

  ‘She’s been your neighbour for the best part of a year,’ Rebus said.

  'You’ll recall that this is Edinburgh, DI Rebus. I’ve lived in this apartment nearly three decades—I moved in when my wife passed away. It takes time to get to know one’s neighbours. Often, I’m afraid, they move on before one has had the opportunity.’ He shrugged. ‘After a while, one ceases trying.’

  ‘That’s pretty sad,’ Hawes said.

  ‘And you live where … ?’

  ‘If I could just,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘bring us back to the matter in hand.’ He’d moved off the windowsill, hands now resting on the table-top. His eyes were on the loose pieces of the jigsaw.

  ‘Of course,’ Devlin said.

  'You were in all evening, and didn’t hear anything untoward?’

  Devlin glanced up, perhaps appreciative of Rebus’s final word. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Or see anything?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Hawes wasn’t just looking uncomfortable now; she was clearly irritated by these responses. Rebus sat down across from her, trying for eye contact, but she was ready with a question of her own.

  ‘Have you ever had a falling-out with Ms Balfour, sir?’

  ‘What is there to fall out about?’

  ‘Nothing now,’ Hawes stated coldly.

  Devlin gave her a look and turned towards Rebus. ‘I see you’re interested in the table, Inspector.’

  Rebus realised that he’d been running his fingers along the grain of the wood.

  ‘It’s nineteenth century,’ Devlin went on, ‘crafted by a fellow anatomist.’ He glanced towards Hawes, then back to Rebus again. 'There was something I remembered … probably nothing important.’

  'Yes, sir?’

  ‘A man standing outside.’

  Rebus knew that Hawes was about to say something, so beat her to it. ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of days before she vanished, and the day before that, too.’ Devlin shrugged, all too aware of the effect his words were having. Hawes had reddened; she was dying to scream out something like when were you going to tell us? Rebus kept his voice level.

  ‘On the pavement outside?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  Another shrug. ‘In his twenties, short dark hair … not cropped, just neat.’

  ‘Not a neighbour?’

  ‘It’s always possible. I’m merely telling you what I saw. He seemed to be waiting for someone or something. I recall him checking his watch.’

  ‘Her boyfriend maybe?’

  ‘Oh no, I know David.’

  'You do?’ Rebus asked. He was still casually scanning the jigsaw.

  ‘To talk to, yes. We met a few times in the stairwell. Nice young chap … ’

  ‘How was he dressed?’ Hawes asked.

  ‘Who? David?’

  ‘The man you saw.’

  Devlin seemed almost to relish the glare which accompanied her words. ‘Jacket and trousers,’ he said, glancing down at his cardigan. ‘I can’t be more specific, never having been a follower of fashion.’

  Which was true: fourteen years ago, he’d worn similar cardigans under his green surgeon’s smock, along with bow-ties which were always askew. You could never forget your first autopsy: those sights, smells and sounds which were to become familiar. The scrape of metal on bone, or the whispering of a scalpel as it parted flesh. Some pathologists carried a cruel sense of humour and would put on an especially graphic performance for any ‘virgins’. But never Devlin; he’d always focused on the corpse, as if the two of them were alone in the room, that intimate final act of filleting carried out with a decorum bordering on ritual.

  ‘Do you think,’ Rebus asked, ‘that if you thought about it, maybe let your mind drift back, you could come up with a fuller description?’

  ‘I rather doubt it, but of course if you think it important … '

  ‘Early days, sir. You know yourself, we can’t rule anything out.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Rebus was treating Devlin as a fellow professional … and it was working.

  ‘We might even try to put together a photofit,’ Rebus went on. ‘That way, if it turns out to be a neighbour or someone anyone knows, we can eliminate him straight away.’

  ‘Seems reasonable,’ Devlin agreed.

  Rebus got on his mobile to Gayfield and made an appointment for the next morning. Afterwards, he asked if Devlin would need a car.

  ‘Should manage to find my own way. Not utterly decrepit just yet, you know.’ But he got to his feet slowly, his joints seemingly stiff as he showed the two detectives out.

  ‘Thanks again, sir,’ Rebus said, shaking his hand.

  Devlin just nodded, avoiding eye contact with Hawes, who wasn’t about to offer him her own thanks. As they made their way up to the next landing, she muttered something Rebus didn’t catch.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said: bloody men.’ She paused. ‘Present company excluded.’ Rebus didn’t say anything, prepared to let her get it off her chest. ‘Do you suppose for one second,’ she went on, ‘that if it had been two female officers down there, he’d have said anything?’

  ‘I think that would depend how he was handled.’

  Hawes glared at him, seeking levity that wasn’t there.

  ‘Part of our job,’ Rebus went on, ‘is pretending we like everyone, pretending we’re interested in everything they have to say.’

  ‘He just—’

  ‘Got on your nerves? Mine too. Bit pompous, but that’s just his way; you can’t let it show. You’re right: I’m not sure he’d have told us anything. He’d dismissed it as irrelevant. But then he opened up, just to put you in your place.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Good work. It’s not often I get to play “good cop” around here.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that he got on my nerves,’ Hawes conceded.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He gave me the creeps.’

  Rebus looked at her. ‘Not the same thing?’

  She shook her head. ‘The old-pal act he played with you, that irritated me a bit, because I wasn’t part of it. But the newspaper dipping … ’

  ‘The one on the wall?’

  She nodded. ‘That gave me the creeps.’
<
br />   ‘He’s a pathologist,’ Rebus explained. ‘They’ve thicker skins than most of us.’

  She thought about this, and allowed herself a little smile.

  ‘What?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, as I was getting up to leave, I couldn’t help noticing a piece of the jigsaw on the floor under the table … ’

  ‘Where it still sits?’ Rebus guessed, smiling too now. ‘With that kind of eye for detail, we’ll make a detective of you yet ..

  He pressed the next door-buzzer, and it was back to work.

  The news conference took place at the Big House, with a live feed to the inquiry room at Gayfield Square. Someone was trying to clean fingerprints and smears from the TV monitor with a handkerchief, while others tilted the blinds against the afternoon’s sudden burst of sunshine. With the chairs all filled, officers were sitting two and three to a desk. A few of them were taking a late lunch: sandwiches and bananas. There were mugs of tea and coffee, cans of juice. The conversation was muted. Whoever was in charge of the police camera at the Big House, they were coming in for some stick.

  ‘Like my eight-year-old with the video-cam …'

  ‘Seen Blair Witch a couple times too many …'

  It was true that the camera seemed to be swooping and diving, picking out bodies at waist height, rows of feet, and the backs of chairs.

  ‘Show’s not started yet,’ a wiser head counselled. It was true: the other cameras, the ones from TV, were still being set up, the invited audience—journalists clutching mobile phones to their ears—still settling. Hard to make out anything that was being said. Rebus stood at the back of the room. A bit too far from the TV, but he wasn’t about to move. Bill Pryde stood next to him, clearly exhausted and just as clearly trying not to show it. His clipboard had become a comforter, and he held it close to his chest, now and then pulling back to look at it, as though fresh instructions might magically have appeared. With the blinds closed, thin beams of light pierced the room, highlighting motes of dust which would otherwise have remained invisible. Rebus was reminded of cinema trips in childhood, the sense of expectation as the projector came to life and the show began.

  On the TV, the crowd was settling. Rebus knew the room—a soulless space used for seminars and occasions such as this. One long table sat at the end, a makeshift screen behind it displaying the Lothian and Borders badge. The police video-cam swung round as a door opened and a file of bodies trooped into the room, quieting the hubbub. Rebus could hear the sudden whirr of camera motors. Flashes of illumination. Ellen Wylie first, then Gill Templer, followed by David Costello and John Balfour.

  ‘Guilty!’ someone in front of Rebus called out as the camera zoomed in on Costello’s face.

  The group sat down in front of a sudden array of microphones. The camera stayed with Costello, panning back a little to take in his upper body, but it was Wylie’s voice that came over the loudspeaker, preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us. I’ll just go over the format and some of the rules, before we get started …'

  Siobhan was over to Rebus’s left. She was sitting on a desk alongside Grant Hood. Hood was staring at the floor. Maybe he was concentrating on Wylie’s voice: Rebus remembered that the pair of them had worked closely together on the Grieve case a few months before. Siobhan was watching the screen, but her gaze kept wandering elsewhere. She held a bottle of water, and her fingers were busy picking off the label.

  She wanted that job, Rebus thought to himself. And now she was hurting. He willed her to turn his way, so he could offer something—a smile or shrug, or just a nod of understanding. But her eyes were back on the screen again. Wylie had finished her spiel, and it was Gill Templer’s turn. She was summarising and updating the details of the case. She sounded confident, an old hand at news conferences. Rebus could hear Wylie clearing her throat again in the background. It seemed to be putting Gill off.

  The camera, however, showed no interest in the two CID officers. It was there to concentrate on David Costello, and—to a far lesser extent—Philippa Balfour’s father. The two men sat next to one another, and the camera moved slowly between them. Quick shots of Balfour, then back to Costello. The auto-focus was fine until the cameraman decided to zoom in or out. Then, the picture took a few seconds to clear.

  ‘Guilty,’ the voice repeated.

  ‘Want a bet?’ someone else called back.

  ‘Let’s have a bit of shush,’ Bill Pryde barked. The room fell silent. Rebus gave him a round of mimed applause, but Pryde was looking at his clipboard again, then back to the screen, where David Costello was beginning to speak. He hadn’t shaved, and looked to be in the same clothes as the previous night. He’d unfolded and flattened a sheet of paper against the table-top. But when he spoke, he didn’t glance down at what he’d written. His eyes flitted between cameras, never sure where he should be looking. His voice was dry and thin.

  ‘We don’t know what happened to Flip, and we desperately want to know. All of us, her friends, her family .. .’ he glanced towards John Balfour … ’all those who know and love her, we need to know. Flip, if you’re watching this, please get in touch with one of us. Just so we know you’re … you’ve not come to any harm. We’re worried sick.’ His eyes were shining with the onset of tears. He stopped for a second, bowed his head, then drew himself straight again. He picked up the sheet of paper but couldn’t see anything there that hadn’t been said. He half turned, as if seeking guidance from the others. John Balfour put his hand out to squeeze the younger man’s shoulder, then Balfour himself started speaking, his voice booming as if the microphones might somehow be defective.

  ‘If anyone’s holding my daughter, please get in touch. Flip has the number for my private mobile phone. I can be reached at any time, day or night. I’d like to talk with you, whoever you are, why ever you’ve done what you’ve done. And if anyone knows Flip’s whereabouts, there’ll be a number onscreen at the end of this broadcast. I just need to know Flip’s alive and well. To people watching this at home, please take a second to study Flip’s photograph.’ A further clicking of cameras as he held up the photo. He turned slowly so every camera could capture the moment. ‘Her name’s Philippa Balfour and she’s just twenty. She’s my daughter. If you’ve seen her, or even just think you may have, please get in touch. Thank you.’

  The reporters were ready with their questions, but David Costello was already on his feet and making for the exit.

  It was Wylie’s voice again: ‘Not appropriate at this time … I’d like to thank you for your continuing support … ’ But the questions battered against her. Meantime the video-cam was back on John Balfour. He looked quite composed, hands clasped on the table in front of him, unblinking as the flash-guns threw his shadow on to the wall behind.

  ‘No, I really don’t …'

  ‘Mr Costello!’ the journalists were yelling. ‘Could we just ask…?’

  ‘DS Wylie,’ another voice barked, ‘can you tell us something about possible motives for the abduction?’

  ‘We don’t have any motives yet.’ Wylie was sounding flustered.

  ‘But you accept that it is an abduction?’

  ‘I don’t … no, that’s not what I meant.’

  The screen showed John Balfour trying to answer someone else’s question. The ranks of reporters had become a scrum.

  ‘Then what did you mean, DS Wylie?’

  ‘I just … I didn’t say anything about … ’

  And then Ellen Wylie’s voice was replaced by Gill Templer’s. The voice of authority. The reporters knew her of old, just as she knew them.

  ‘Steve,’ she said, ‘you know only too well that we can’t speculate on details like that. If you want to make up lies just to sell a few more papers, that’s your concern, but it’s hardly respectful to Philippa Balfour’s family and friends.’

  Further questions were handled by Gill, who insis
ted on some calm beforehand. Although Rebus couldn’t see her, he imagined Ellen Wylie would be shrinking visibly. Siobhan was moving her feet up and down, as though all of a sudden some adrenaline had kicked in. Balfour interrupted Gill to say that he’d like to respond to a couple of the points raised. He did so, calmly and effectively, and then the conference started to break up.

  ‘A cool customer,’ Pryde said, before moving off to regroup his troops.—It was time to get back to the real work again.

  Grant Hood approached. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which station was giving the longest odds on the boyfriend?’

  ‘Torphichen,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘Then that’s where my money’s going.’ He looked to Rebus for a reaction, but didn’t get one. ‘Come on, sir,’ he went on, ‘it was written all over his face!’

  Rebus thought back to his night-time meeting with Costello … the story of the eyeballs and how Costello had come up close. Take a good long look …

  Hood was shaking his head as he made to pass Rebus. The blinds had been opened, the brief interlude of sun now ended as thick grey clouds rolled back over the city. The tape of Costello’s performance would go to the psychologists. They’d be looking for a glimmer of something, a short outburst of bright illumination. He wasn’t sure they’d find it. Siobhan was standing in front of him.

  ‘Interesting, wasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think Wylie’s cut out for liaison,’ Rebus answered.

  ‘She shouldn’t have been there. A case like this for her first outing … she was as good as thrown to the lions.’

  'You didn’t enjoy it?’ he asked slyly.

  She stared at him. ‘I don’t like blood sports.’ She made to move away, but hesitated. ‘What did you think, really?’

  ‘I thought you were right about it being interesting. Singularly interesting.’

  She smiled. You caught that too?’

  He nodded. ‘Costello kept saying “we”, while her father used “I”.’

  ‘As if Flip’s mother didn’t matter.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It might mean nothing more than that Mr Balfour has an inflated sense of his own importance.’ He paused. ‘Now wouldn’t that be a first in a merchant banker? How’s the computer stuff going?’