The Falls (20 page)

‘What’s going on?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking the barman.

‘Eh?’

‘The film, what’s happening in it?’

‘Same as always,’ the barman said. It was as if each day held its identical routine, right down to the drama being played out on the screen.

‘How about yourself ?’ the barman said. ‘How’s your day been?’ The words sounded rusty in his mouth: small talk with the customers not part of the routine.

Rebus thought of possible answers. The potential that some serial killer was on the loose, and had been since the early seventies. A missing girl almost sure to turn up dead. A single, twisted face shared by Siamese twins.

‘Ach, you know,’ he said at last. The barman nodded agreement, as though it was exactly the answer he’d expected.

Rebus left the bar soon after. A short walk back on to Nicolson Street and the doors of Surgeons’ Hall now, as Professor Devlin had predicted, standing open. Guests were already filtering in. Rebus had no invite to show to staff, but an explanation and his warrant card seemed to do the trick. Early arrivals were standing on the first-floor landing, drinks in hand. Rebus made his way upstairs. The banqueting hall was set for dinner, waiters scurrying around making last-minute adjustments. A trestle table just inside the doorway had been covered with a white cloth and an array of glasses and bottles. The serving staff wore black waistcoats over crisp white shirts.

‘Yes, sir?’

Rebus considered another whisky. The problem was, once he had three or four under his belt, he wouldn’t want to stop. And if he did stop, the thumping head would be nestling in just about the time he was due to meet Jean.

‘Just an orange juice, please,’ he said.

‘Holy Mother, now I can die a peaceful death.’

Rebus turned towards the voice, smiling. ‘And why’s that?’ he asked.

‘Because I’ve seen all there is to see on this glorious planet of ours. Give the man a whisky and don’t be niggardly,’ he ordered the barman, who stopped halfway through pouring the orange juice. The barman looked at Rebus.

‘Just the juice,’ he said.

‘Well now,’ Father Conor Leary said. ‘I can smell whisky on your breath, so I know you’ve not gone TT on me. But for some inexplicable reason you want to stay sober …’ He grew thoughtful. ‘Is the fairer sex involved at all?’

‘You’re wasted as a priest,’ Rebus said.

Father Leary roared with laughter. ‘I’d have made a good detective, you mean? And who’s to say you’re wrong?’ Then, to the barman: ‘Do you need to ask?’ The barman didn’t, and was generous with the measure. Leary nodded and took the glass from him.

‘
Slainte!
’ he said.

‘
Slainte
.’ Rebus sipped the juice. Conor Leary looked almost too well. When Rebus had last spoken with him, the old priest had been ailing, medicines jostling for space with the Guinness in his fridge.

‘It’s been a while,’ Leary stated.

‘You know how it is.’

‘I know you young fellows have little enough time to visit the weak and infirm. Too busy with the sins of the flesh.’

‘Been a long time since my flesh saw any sins worth reporting.’

‘And by God there’s plenty of it.’ The priest slapped Rebus’s stomach.

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ Rebus admitted. ‘You, on the other hand …’

‘Ah, you were expecting me to wither and die? That’s not the way I’d choose. Good food, good drink and damn the consequences.’

Leary wore his clerical collar beneath a grey V-neck jumper. His trousers were navy blue, the shoes polished black. It was true he’d lost some weight, but his stomach and jowls sagged, and his thin silver hair was like spun silk, the eyes sunken beneath a Roman fringe. He held his whisky glass the way a workman would grip a flask.

‘We’re neither of us dressed for the occasion,’ he said, looking around at the array of dinner jackets.

‘At least you’re in uniform,’ Rebus said.

‘Just barely,’ Leary said. ‘I’ve retired from active service.’ Then he winked. ‘It happens, you know. We’re allowed to down tools. But every time I put the old collar on for something like this, I envision papal emissaries leaping forward, daggers drawn, to slice it from my neck.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Like leaving the Foreign Legion?’

‘Indeed! Or clipping the pigtail from a retiring Sumo.’

Both men were laughing as Donald Devlin came alongside. ‘Glad you felt able to join us,’ he told Rebus, before taking the priest’s hand. ‘I think you were the deciding factor, Father,’ he said, explaining about the dinner invitation.

‘The offer of which still stands,’ he added. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to hear the Father’s speech.’ Rebus shook his head.

‘Last thing a heathen like John needs is me telling him what’s good for him,’ Leary said.

‘Too right,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And I’m sure I’ve heard it all before anyway.’ He caught Leary’s eye, and in that moment they shared a memory of the long talks in the priest’s kitchen, fuelled by trips to the fridge and the drinks cabinet. Conversations about Calvin and criminals, faith and the faithless. Even when Rebus agreed with Leary, he’d try to play devil’s advocate, the old priest amused by his stubbornness. Long talks they’d had, and regularly … until Rebus had started finding excuses to stay away. Tonight, if Leary asked why, he knew he couldn’t give a reason. Maybe it was because the priest had begun to offer him certainties, and Rebus had no time for them. They’d played this game, Leary convinced he could convert ‘the heathen’.

‘You’ve got all these questions,’ he’d tell Rebus. ‘Why won’t you let someone supply the answers?’

‘Maybe because I prefer questions to answers,’ Rebus had replied. And the priest had thrown up his hands in despair, before making another foray to the fridge.

Devlin was asking Leary about the theme of his talk. Rebus could see that Devlin had had a drink or two. He stood rosy-faced with hands in pockets, his smile contented but distant. Rebus was getting his OJ topped up when Gates and Curt appeared, the two pathologists dressed almost identically, making them seem more of a double-act than usual.

‘Bloody hell,’ Gates said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ He caught the barman’s attention. ‘Whisky for me, and a glass of tonic water for this fairy here.’

Curt snorted. ‘I’m not the only one.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s drink.

‘Ye Gods, John, tell me there’s vodka in that,’ Gates boomed. Then: ‘What the hell are you doing here anyway?’ Gates was sweating, his shirt collar constricting his throat. His face had turned almost puce. Curt, as usual, looked completely at ease. He’d gained a couple of pounds but still looked slim, though his face was grey.

‘I never see sunlight,’ was the excuse he always gave when asked about his pallor. More than one woolly-suit at St Leonard’s had taken to calling him Dracula.

‘I wanted to catch the pair of you,’ Rebus said now.

‘The answer’s no,’ Gates said.

‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’

‘That tone of voice was enough. You’re going to ask a favour. You’ll say it won’t take long. You’ll be wrong.’

‘Just some old PM results. I need a second opinion.’

‘We’re rushed off our feet,’ Curt said, looking apologetic.

‘Whose are they?’ Gates asked.

‘I haven’t got them yet. They’re from Glasgow and Nairn. Maybe if you were to put in a request, it would push things along.’

Gates looked around the group. ‘See what I mean?’

‘University duties, John,’ Curt said. ‘More students and coursework, fewer people to do the teaching.’

‘I appreciate that …’ Rebus began.

Gates lifted his cummerbund and pointed to the pager hidden there. ‘Even tonight, we could get a call, another body to deal with.’

‘I don’t think you’re winning them over,’ Leary said, laughing.

Rebus fixed Gates with a hard look. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.

‘So am I. First night off I’ve had in ages, and you’re after one of your famous “favours”.’

Rebus decided there was no point pushing it, not when Gates was in a mood. Hard day at the office maybe, but then weren’t they all?

Devlin cleared his throat. ‘Might I perhaps … ?’

Leary slapped Devlin’s back. ‘There you are, John. A willing victim!’

‘I know I’ve been retired a good few years, but I don’t suppose the theory and practice have changed.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘the most recent case is nineteen eighty-two.’

‘Donald was still wielding the scalpel in eighty-two,’ Gates said. Devlin acknowledged this truth with a small bow.

Rebus hesitated. He wanted someone with a bit of clout, someone like Gates.

‘Motion carried,’ Curt said, deciding the matter for him.

Siobhan Clarke sat in her living room watching TV. She’d tried cooking herself a proper dinner, but had given up halfway through chopping the red peppers, putting everything in the fridge and pulling a ready-meal from the freezer. The empty container was on the floor in front of her. She sat on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, head resting on one arm. The laptop was on the coffee table, but she’d unhooked her mobile phone. She didn’t think Quizmaster would be calling again. She lifted her notepad and stared at the clue. She’d gone through dozens of sheets of paper, working out possible anagrams and meanings. Seven fins high is king … and mentions of the queen and ‘the bust’: it sounded like something from a card game, but the compendium of card games she’d borrowed from the Central Library hadn’t been any help. She was just wondering if she should read it through a final time when her phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Grant.’

Siobhan turned the sound down on the TV. ‘What’s up?’

‘I think maybe I’ve cracked it.’

Siobhan swivelled her legs so her feet were on the floor. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘I’d rather show you.’

There seemed to be a lot of background noise on the line. She stood up. ‘Are you on your mobile?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Parked right outside.’

She walked over to the window and looked out. Sure enough, his Alfa was sitting in the middle of the street. Siobhan smiled. ‘Find a parking space then. My buzzer’s second from the top.’

By the time she’d taken the dirty dishes through to the sink, Grant was at her intercom. She checked anyway that it was him, then pressed the button to let him into the tenement. She was standing by the open door when he hauled himself up the last few steps.

‘Sorry it’s so late,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t keep it to myself.’

‘Coffee?’ she asked, closing the door after him.

‘Thanks. Two sugars.’

They took the coffees into the living room. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘I like it.’

He sat down next to her on the sofa and placed his coffee mug on the table. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a London A–Z.

‘London?’ she said.

‘I went through all the kings I could think of from history, then anything else to do with the word king.’ He held up the book so its back cover was showing. A map of the London Underground.

‘King’s Cross?’ she guessed.

He nodded. ‘Take a look.’

She took the book from him. He could hardly sit still in his seat.

‘Seven fins high is king,’ he said.

‘And you think the king is King’s Cross?’

He slid across the sofa, his finger tracing the light blue line which went through the station. ‘Do you see?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said grimly. ‘So you’d better tell me.’

‘Go one stop north of King’s Cross.’

‘Highbury and Islington?’

‘And again.’

‘Finsbury Park … then Seven Sisters.’

‘Now backwards,’ he said. He was practically bouncing on the spot.

‘Don’t wet yourself,’ she said. Then she looked at the map again. ‘Seven Sisters … Finsbury Park … Highbury and Islington … King’s Cross.’ And saw it. The exact same sequence, but abbreviated. ‘Seven … Fins … High Is … King.’ She looked at Grant. He was nodding. ‘Well done you,’ she added, meaning it. Grant leaned over and gave her a hug, which she squirmed out of. Then he leaped from the sofa and clapped his hands together.

‘I couldn’t believe it myself,’ he said. ‘The way it just suddenly screamed at me. It’s the Victoria Line.’

She nodded, couldn’t think of anything to say. It was indeed a section of London Underground’s Victoria Line.

‘But what does it mean?’ she said at last.

He sat down again, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘That’s what we have to work out next.’

She slid across the sofa a little, making some space between them, then lifted her pad and read from it. ‘“This queen dines well before the bust.”’ She looked at him, but he just shrugged.

‘Could the answer be in London?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Buckingham Palace? Queen’s Park Rangers?’ He shrugged. ‘Could be London.’

‘All these Underground stops … what do they mean?’

‘They’re all on the Victoria Line,’ was all he could think to say. Then they stared at one another.

‘Queen Victoria,’ they said in unison.

Siobhan had a London guidebook, bought for a weekend away which she’d never taken. It took her a while to find it. Meantime Grant booted up the computer and did a search on the Internet.

‘Could be the name of a pub,’ he suggested. ‘Like in
EastEnders
.’

‘Yes,’ she said, busy reading. ‘Or the Victoria and Albert Museum.’

‘Not forgetting Victoria Station – also on the Victoria Line. There’s a coach station there too. Worst cafeteria in Britain.’

‘You’re speaking from experience?’

‘I bussed it down there a few weekends in my teens. Didn’t like it.’ He was scrolling down some text.

‘Didn’t like the bus or didn’t like London?’

‘Both, I suppose. “Bust” couldn’t mean a drug bust, could it?’

‘Maybe. Or some stock-market crash. There was one not that long back, wasn’t there? Black Monday?’

He nodded.

‘Still, more likely it’s a statue,’ she said. ‘Maybe of Queen Victoria, with a restaurant in front of it.’

They worked in silence for a while after that, until Siobhan’s eyes started to hurt and she got up to make more coffee.

‘Two sugars,’ Grant said.