The Falls (24 page)

The Sheriff Court was in a new building on Chambers Street, just across from the museum complex. Grant dashed back down to Grassmarket to feed coins to the meter, despite Siobhan’s protestation that it’d have been cheaper getting a fine slapped on him. She went on ahead and asked around the court until she’d located Harriet Brough. The lawyer was wearing yet another tweed two-piece with grey stockings and flat black shoes. Shapely ankles though, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing.

‘My dear girl, this is splendid,’ Brough said, taking Siobhan’s hand and working her arm as if it were a water-pump. ‘Simply splendid.’ Siobhan noted that the elder woman’s make-up served merely to heighten her wrinkles and the folds of skin, and gave her face a garish pall.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Siobhan began.

‘Not in the slightest.’ They were in the court’s main entrance hall, busy with ushers and lawyers, security staff and worried-looking families. Elsewhere in the building, guilt and innocence were being judged, sentences handed down. ‘Are you here for a trial?’

‘No, I just had a question and I wondered if you might be able to help.’

‘I’d be delighted to.’

‘It’s a note I’ve found. It might relate to a case, but it seems to be in some sort of code.’

The lawyer’s eyes widened. ‘How exciting,’ she gasped. ‘Let’s just grab somewhere to sit and then you can tell me all about it.’

They found a free bench and sat down. Brough read the note through its polythene jacket. Siobhan watched as she mouthed the words silently, her brow creasing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe the context would help.’

‘It’s a missing person inquiry,’ Siobhan explained. ‘We think she may have been taking part in a game.’

‘And you need to solve this to reach the next stage? How very curious.’

Grant Hood arrived, breathing heavily. Siobhan introduced him to Harriet Brough.

‘Anything?’ he asked. Siobhan just shook her head. He looked towards the lawyer. ‘B4 doesn’t mean anything in Scots Law? Some paragraph or sub-section?’

‘My dear boy,’ Brough laughed, ‘there could be several hundred examples, though they’d more likely be 4B rather than B4. We use numerals first, as a general rule.’

Hood nodded. ‘So it would be “paragraph 4, sub-section b”?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The first clue,’ Siobhan added, ‘had a royal connection. The answer was Victoria. We’re wondering if this one might have something to do with Holyrood.’ She explained her reasoning, and Brough took another look at the note.

‘Well, the pair of you are cleverer than I am,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe my lawyer’s mind is too literal.’ She made to hand the note to Siobhan, but then snatched it back again. ‘I wonder if the phrase “Scots Law” is there to put you off the scent.’

‘How do you mean?’ Siobhan asked.

‘It’s just that if the clue is meant to be wilfully obscure, then whoever wrote it might have been thinking laterally.’

Siobhan looked to Hood, who merely shrugged. Brough was pointing to the note.

‘Something I learned from my hill-walking days,’ she said, ‘is that “law” is the Scots word for a hill …’

Rebus was on the phone to the manager of the Huntingtower Hotel.

‘So it might be in storage?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ the manager said.

‘Could you take a look? Maybe ask around, see if anyone knows?’

‘It could have been thrown out during a refit.’

‘That’s the sort of positive attitude I thrive on, Mr Ballantine.’

‘Maybe the person who found it …’

‘He says he handed it in.’ Rebus had already called the
Courier
and spoken with the reporter who’d covered the case. The reporter had been curious, and Rebus had admitted that another coffin had turned up in Edinburgh, while stressing that any connection was ‘the longest shot in history’. Last thing he wanted was the media sniffing around. The reporter had given him the name of the man whose dog had found the coffin. A couple of calls later, Rebus had traced the man, only to be told that he’d left the coffin at Huntingtower and had thought no more about it.

‘Well,’ the manager was saying now, ‘I won’t make any promises …’

‘Let me know as soon as you find it,’ Rebus said, repeating his name and phone number. ‘It’s a matter of urgency, Mr Ballantine.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ the manager said with a sigh.

Rebus broke the connection and looked across to the other desk, where Ellen Wylie was seated with Donald Devlin. Devlin was dressed in another old cardigan, this time with most of its buttons intact. Between the pair of them, they were trying to track down the autopsy notes from the Glasgow drowning. By the look on Wylie’s face they were having little luck. Devlin, whose chair was side by side with hers, kept leaning in towards her as she spoke on the phone. He might just have been trying to catch what was being said, but Rebus could see Wylie didn’t like it. She kept trying to move her chair surreptitiously, angling her body so she presented a lot of shoulder and back to the pathologist. So far, she’d avoided eye contact with Rebus.

He made a note to himself about Huntingtower, then got back on the phone. The Glasgow coffin was more awkward. The reporter who’d covered the story had moved on. Nobody at the news desk could remember anything about it. Rebus eventually got a number for the church manse and spoke to a Reverend Martine.

‘Have you any idea what happened to the coffin?’ Rebus asked.

‘I think the journalist took it,’ Reverend Martine said.

So Rebus thanked him and got back to the newspaper, where he was able eventually to speak to the editor, who wanted to hear Rebus’s own story. So he explained about the ‘Edinburgh coffin’ and how he was working for the Department of Long Shots.

‘This Edinburgh coffin, where was it found exactly?’

‘Near the Castle,’ Rebus said blithely. He could almost see the editor writing a note to himself, maybe thinking of following the story up.

After another minute or so, Rebus was transferred to personnel, where he was given a forwarding address for the journalist, whose name was Jenny Gabriel. It was a London address.

‘She went to work for one of the broadsheets,’ the personnel manager stated. ‘It was what Jenny always wanted.’

So Rebus went out and bought coffee, cakes and four newspapers:
The Times, Telegraph, Guardian
and
Independent
. He went through each, studying the by-lines, but didn’t find Jenny Gabriel’s name. Undaunted, he called each paper and asked for her by name. At the third attempt, the switchboard asked him to hold. He glanced across to where Devlin was dropping cake crumbs on to Wylie’s desk.

‘Transferring you now.’

The sweetest words Rebus had heard all day. Then the call was picked up.

‘News desk.’

‘Jenny Gabriel, please,’ Rebus said.

‘Speaking.’

And it was time for the spiel again.

‘My God,’ the reporter said at last, ‘that was twenty years ago!’

‘Just about,’ Rebus agreed. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the doll?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Rebus felt his heart sink a little. ‘When I moved south, I gave it to a friend. He’d always been fascinated by it.’

‘Any chance you could put me in touch with him?’

‘Hang on, I’ll get his number …’ There was a pause. Rebus spent the time working loose the mechanism of his ballpoint pen. He realised he had only the vaguest idea how such a pen worked. Spring, casing, refill … he could take it to pieces, put it back together again, and be none the wiser.

‘He’s in Edinburgh actually,’ Jenny Gabriel said. Then she gave him a number. The friend’s name was Dominic Mann.

‘Many thanks,’ Rebus said, cutting the call. Dominic Mann wasn’t home, but his answering machine gave Rebus a mobile number to try. The call was picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Dominic Mann … ?’ And Rebus was off again. This time getting the result he wanted. Mann still owned the coffin, and could drop it into St Leonard’s later on in the day.

‘I’d really appreciate that,’ Rebus said. ‘Funny thing to hold on to all these years … ?’

‘I was planning to use it in one of my installations.’

‘Installations?’

‘I’m an artist. At least, I was. These days I run a gallery.’

‘You still paint?’

‘Infrequently. Just as well I didn’t end up using it. It might have been wrapped in paint and bandages and sold to some collector.’

Rebus thanked the artist and put down the phone. Devlin had finished his cake. Wylie had put hers to one side, and the old man was eyeing it now. The Nairn coffin was easier: two calls got Rebus the result he wanted. He was told by a reporter that he’d do some digging, and was called back with the number of someone in Nairn, who then did some digging of their own and found the coffin stored in a neighbour’s shed.

‘You want me to post it to you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Rebus said. ‘Next-day delivery.’ He’d thought of sending a car, but didn’t think the budget would stretch. There’d been memos flying on the subject.

‘What about the postage?’

‘Enclose your details and I’ll see you get a refund.’

The caller thought about this. ‘Seems all right, I suppose. Just have to trust you, won’t I?’

‘If you can’t trust the police, who can you trust?’

He put down the phone and looked across to Wylie’s desk again. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Getting there,’ she said, her voice tired and irritated. Devlin got up, crumbs tumbling from his lap, and asked where the ‘facilities’ were. Rebus pointed him in the right direction. Devlin started to leave, but paused in front of Rebus.

‘I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this.’

‘Glad someone’s happy, Professor.’

Devlin prodded Rebus’s jacket lapel with a finger. ‘I think
you’re
in your element.’ He beamed, and shuffled out of the room. Rebus walked across to Wylie’s desk.

‘Better eat that cake, if you don’t want him drooling.’

She considered this, then broke the cake in two and stuffed half into her mouth.

‘I got a result on the dolls,’ he told her. ‘Two traced, with another possible.’

She took a gulp of coffee, washing down the sugary sponge. ‘Doing better than us then.’ She studied the remaining half of the cake, then dropped it into the bin. ‘No offence,’ she said.

‘Professor Devlin will be gutted.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

‘He’s here to help, remember?’

She stared at him. ‘He smells.’

‘Does he?’

‘You’ve not noticed?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

She looked at him as though this comment said much about him. Then her shoulders fell. ‘Why did you ask for me? I’m useless. All those reporters and TV viewers saw it. Everybody knows it. Have you got a thing about cripples or what?’

‘My daughter’s a cripple,’ he said quietly.

Her face reddened. ‘Christ, I didn’t mean …’

‘But to answer your question, the only person around here who seems to have a problem with Ellen Wylie is Ellen Wylie herself.’

Her hand had gone to her face, as if trying to force the blood back down. ‘Tell that to Gill Templer,’ she said at last.

‘Gill ballsed things up. It’s not the end of the world.’ His phone was ringing. He started backing towards his desk. ‘Okay?’ he said. When she nodded, he turned away and answered the call. It was Huntingtower. They’d found the coffin in a cellar used for lost property. A couple of decades’ worth of umbrellas and pairs of spectacles, hats and coats and cameras.

‘Amazing, the stuff down there,’ Mr Ballantine said. But all Rebus was interested in was the coffin.

‘Can you post it next-day delivery? I’ll see you get a refund …’

By the time Devlin came back in, Rebus was on the trail of the Dunfermline coffin, but this time he hit a wall. Nobody – local press, police – seemed to know what had happened to it. Rebus got a couple of promises that questions would be asked, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Nearly thirty years had passed; unlikely it would turn up. At the other desk, Devlin was clapping his hands silently as Wylie finished another call. She looked across to Rebus.

‘Post-mortem report on Hazel Gibbs is on its way,’ she said. Rebus held her gaze for a few moments, then nodded slowly and smiled. His phone went again. This time it was Siobhan.

‘I’m going to talk to David Costello,’ she said. ‘If you’re not doing anything.’

‘I thought you’d paired up with Grant?’

‘DCS Templer has snared him for a couple of hours.’

‘Has she now? Maybe she’s offering him your liaison job.’

‘I refuse to let you wind me up. Now, are you coming or not … ?’

Costello was in his flat. When he opened the door to them, he looked startled. Siobhan assured him that it wasn’t bad news. He didn’t seem to believe her.

‘Can we come in, David?’ Rebus asked. Costello looked at him for the first time, then nodded slowly. To Rebus’s eyes, he was wearing the same clothes as on his last visit, and the living room didn’t seem to have been tidied in the interim. The young man was growing a beard, too, but seemed self-conscious, rubbing his fingertips against its grain.

‘Is there any news at all?’ he asked, slumping on to the futon, while Rebus and Siobhan stayed standing.

‘Bits and pieces,’ Rebus said.

‘But you can’t go into details?’ Costello kept shifting, trying to get comfortable.

‘Actually, David,’ Siobhan said, ‘the details – some of them at least – are the reason we’re here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s the first clue from a game. A game we think Flip was playing.’

Costello sat forward, looked at the message again. ‘What sort of game?’

‘Something she found on the Internet. It’s run by someone called Quizmaster. Solving each clue takes the player to a new level. Flip was working on a level called Hellbank. Maybe she’d solved it, we don’t know.’

‘Flip?’ Costello sounded sceptical.

‘You’ve never heard of it?’

He shook his head. ‘She didn’t say a word.’ He looked across towards Rebus, but Rebus had picked up a poetry book.

‘Was she interested in games at all?’ Siobhan asked.

Costello shrugged. ‘Dinner-party stuff. You know: charades and the like. Maybe Trivial Pursuit or Taboo.’