The Falls (25 page)

‘But not fantasy games? Role-playing?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘Nothing on the Internet?’

He rubbed at his bristles again. ‘This is news to me.’ He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and back again. ‘You’re
sure
this was Flip?’

‘We’re pretty sure,’ Siobhan stated.

‘And you think it has something to do with her disappearance?’

Siobhan just shrugged, and glanced in Rebus’s direction, wondering if he had anything to add. But Rebus was busy with his own thoughts. He was remembering what Flip Balfour’s mother had said about Costello, about how he’d turned Flip against her family. And when Rebus had asked why, she’d said:
Because of who he is
.

‘Interesting poem, this,’ he said, waving the book. It was more of a pamphlet really, pink cover with a line-drawing illustration. Then he recited a couple of lines:

‘“You do not die for being bad, you die

For being available.”’

Rebus closed the book, put it down. ‘I’d never thought of it like that before,’ he said, ‘but it’s true.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘Do you remember when we talked, David?’ He inhaled, then thought to offer the packet to Costello, who shook his head. The half-bottle of whisky was empty, as were half a dozen cans of lager. Rebus could see them on the floor near the kitchen, along with mugs, plates and forks, the wrappings from takeaway food. He hadn’t taken Costello for a drinker; maybe he’d have to revise that opinion. ‘I asked you if Flip might have met someone, and you said something about how she’d have told you. You said she couldn’t keep things to herself.’

Costello was nodding.

‘And yet here’s this game she was playing. Not an easy game either, lots of puzzles and word-play. She might have needed help.’

‘She didn’t get it from me.’

‘And she never mentioned the Internet, or anyone called Quizmaster?’

He shook his head. ‘Who is he anyway, this Quizmaster?’

‘We don’t know,’ Siobhan admitted. She’d walked over to the bookshelf.

‘But he should come forward, surely?’

‘We’d like him to.’ Siobhan lifted the toy soldier from the shelf. ‘This is a gaming piece, isn’t it?’

Costello turned his head to look. ‘Is it?’

‘You don’t play?’

‘I’m not even sure where it came from.’

‘Been in the wars though,’ Siobhan said, studying the broken musket.

Rebus looked over to where Costello’s own computer – a laptop – sat ready and waiting. There were textbooks on the worktop next to it, and on the floor underneath a printer. ‘I take it you’re on the Internet yourself, David?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t everybody?’

Siobhan forced a smile, put the toy soldier back. ‘DI Rebus here is still wrestling with electric typewriters.’

Rebus saw what she was doing: trying to soften Costello up, using Rebus as the comedy prop.

‘To me,’ he said, ‘the Internet is what the Milan goalie tries to defend.’

This got a smile from Costello.
Because of who he is
… But who was David Costello really? Rebus was beginning to wonder.

‘If Flip kept this from you, David,’ Siobhan was saying now, ‘might there be other things she kept secret?’

Costello nodded again. He was still shifting on the futon, as if he’d never again be at rest. ‘Maybe I didn’t know her at all,’ he conceded. He studied the clue again. ‘What does it mean, do you know?’

‘Siobhan worked it out,’ Rebus admitted. ‘But all it did was lead her to a second clue.’

Siobhan handed over the copy of the second note. ‘It makes less sense than the first,’ Costello said. ‘I really can’t believe it of Flip. It’s not her sort of thing at all.’ He made to hand the note back.

‘What about her other friends?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Do any of them like games, puzzles?’

Costello’s eyes fixed on her. ‘You think one of them could … ?’

‘All I’m wondering is whether Flip might have gone to anyone else for help.’

Costello was thoughtful. ‘No one,’ he said at last. ‘No one I can think of.’ Siobhan took the second note from him. ‘What about this one?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what it means?’

She looked at the clue for maybe the fortieth time. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet.’

Afterwards, Siobhan drove Rebus back to St Leonard’s. They were silent for the first few minutes. Traffic was bad. The evening rush hour seemed to start earlier with each passing week.

‘What do you think?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I think we’d have been quicker walking.’

It was pretty much the response she’d expected. ‘Your dolls in boxes, there’s a playful quality to them, isn’t there?’

‘Bloody queer game, if you ask me.’

‘Every bit as queer as running a quiz over the Internet.’

Rebus nodded, but didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t want to be the one seeing a connection here,’ Siobhan added.

‘My department?’ Rebus guessed. ‘The potential’s there though, isn’t it?’

It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘
If
all the dolls link up.’

‘Give us time,’ Rebus said. ‘Meanwhile, a bit of background on Mr Costello might be in order.’

‘He seemed genuine enough to me. That look on his face when he answered the door, he was terrified something had happened. Besides, background check’s already been done, hasn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t mean we didn’t miss anything. If I remember rightly, Hi-Ho Silvers was given the job, and that bugger’s so lazy he thinks sloth’s an Olympic sport.’ He half turned towards her. ‘What about you?’

‘I try to at least
look
like I’m doing something.’

‘I mean what are you going to do now?’

‘I think I’m going to head home. Call it a day.’

‘Better be careful, DCS Templer likes her officers to put in a full eight hours.’

‘In that case she owes me … and you too, I shouldn’t wonder. When was the last time you only worked an eight-hour shift?’

‘September, nineteen eighty-six,’ Rebus said, raising a smile.

‘How’s the flat coming on?’

‘Rewiring’s all but finished. The painters are moving in now.’

‘Found somewhere to buy?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s bugging you, isn’t it?’

‘If you want to sell up, that’s your decision.’

He gave her a sour look. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Quizmaster?’ She considered her answer. ‘I could almost enjoy it …’

‘If ?’

‘If I didn’t get the sense that he’s enjoying it too.’

‘By manipulating you?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘And if he’s doing it to me, he did it to Philippa Balfour too.’

‘You keep assuming it’s a “he”,’ Rebus said.

‘For convenience only.’ There was the sound of a mobile. ‘Mine,’ Siobhan said, as Rebus reached into his own pocket. Her phone was attached to its own little charger beside the car stereo. Siobhan pressed a button, and an inbuilt microphone and speaker did the rest.

‘Hands-free,’ Rebus said, impressed.

‘Hello?’ Siobhan called out.

‘Is that DC Clarke?’

She recognised the voice. ‘Mr Costello? What can I do for you?’

‘I was just thinking … what you were saying about games and stuff ?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I do know someone who’s into all that. Rather, Flip knows someone.’

‘What’s their name?’

Siobhan glanced towards Rebus, but he already had his notepad and pen ready.

David Costello said the name, but his voice broke up halfway through. ‘Sorry,’ Siobhan said. ‘Could you give me that again?’

This time they both caught the name loud and clear: ‘Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan frowned, mouthing the name silently. Rebus nodded. He knew exactly who Ranald Marr was: John Balfour’s business partner, the man who ran Balfour’s Bank in Edinburgh.

The office was quiet. Officers had either clocked off, or were in meetings at Gayfield Square. There’d be shoe-leather patrols out there too, but scaled down now. There was almost no one left to interview. Another day without any sighting of Philippa, and no word from her, no sign that she was still alive. Credit cards and bank balance untouched, friends and family uncontacted. Nothing. Word around the station was, Bill Pryde had thrown a wobbly, sent his clipboard sailing across the open-plan office so that staff had to duck to avoid it. John Balfour had been putting the pressure on, giving media interviews critical of the lack of progress. The Chief Constable had asked for a status report from the ACC, which meant the ACC was on
everyone’s
back. In the absence of any new leads, they were interviewing people for the second or third time. Everyone was jittery, frayed. Rebus tried calling Bill Pryde at Gayfield, but couldn’t get through. He then placed a call to the Big House and asked to speak to Claverhouse or Ormiston in Crime Squad, Number 2 Branch. Claverhouse picked up.

‘It’s Rebus here. I need a favour.’

‘And what makes you think I’d be daft enough to oblige?’

‘Are your questions always this tough?’

‘Bugger off back under your rock, Rebus.’

‘Nothing I’d like better, but your mum’s adopted it, says it loves her more than you ever did.’ It was the only way to deal with Claverhouse: sarcasm at twelve paces.

‘She’s right, I’m a mean bastard at heart, which brings me back to my first question.’

‘The tough one? Let’s put it this way then: sooner you help me, sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious.’

‘Christ, man, why didn’t you say? Fire away.’

Rebus smiled into the receiver. ‘I need an in.’

‘Who with?’

‘The
gardai
in Dublin.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Philippa Balfour’s boyfriend. I want a background check.’

‘I put a tenner on him at two-to-one.’

‘Best reason I can think of for helping me out.’

Claverhouse was thoughtful. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Don’t move from that number.’

‘I’ll be here.’

Rebus put the phone down and sat back in his chair. Then he noticed something across the room. It was the Farmer’s old chair. Gill must have turfed it out only for someone to claim it. Rebus wheeled it over to his own desk, made himself comfortable. He thought about what he’d said to Claverhouse:
sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious
. It had been part of the routine, but a large chunk of him wanted it anyway, wanted that hazy oblivion that only drink could provide. Oblivion: the name of one of Brian Auger’s bands, Oblivion Express. He had their first album somewhere,
A Better Land
. A bit too jazzy for his taste. When the phone rang, he picked it up, but it was still ringing: his mobile. He fished it from his pocket, put it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘John?’

‘Hello, Jean. I was meaning to call you.’

‘Is this an all right time?’

‘Sure. Has that journo been hassling you?’ His desk phone started ringing: Claverhouse probably. Rebus got up from the Farmer’s chair, walked across the office and out of the door.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Jean was saying. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging, as you asked. I’m afraid I haven’t found very much.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Well, it’s taken me all day …’

‘I’ll have a look at it tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Tomorrow would be fine.’

‘Unless you’re free tonight … ?’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘I promised a friend I’d go see her. She’s just had a baby.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. We’ll meet tomorrow. Are you okay to come to the station?’

‘Yes.’

They agreed a time and Rebus went back into the CID room, ending the call. He got the feeling she was pleased with him, pleased that he’d asked to meet this evening. It was what she’d been hoping for, some hint that he was still interested, that it wasn’t just work for him.

Or he could be reading too much into it.

Back at his desk, he called Claverhouse.

‘I’m a disappointed man,’ Claverhouse said.

‘I told you I wouldn’t leave my desk, and I stuck to my word.’

‘Then how come you didn’t pick up the phone?’

‘Someone caught me on my mobile.’

‘Someone who means more to you than I do? Now I really am hurt.’

‘It was my bookie. I owe him two hundred notes.’

Claverhouse was silent for a moment. ‘This cheers me immensely,’ he said. ‘Right, the person you want to speak to is Declan Macmanus.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Wasn’t that Elvis Costello’s real name?’

‘Well, he obviously passed it on to someone in need.’ Claverhouse gave Rebus the number in Dublin, including the international code. ‘Not that I suppose the cheap bastards at St Leonard’s will let you make an international call.’

‘Forms will have to be filled in,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Thanks for your help, Claverhouse.’

‘Are you going for that drink now?’

‘I think I better had. Don’t want to be conscious when my bookie finds me.’

‘You have a point. Here’s to bad horses and good whisky.’

‘And vice versa,’ Rebus rejoined, ending the call. Claverhouse was right: the main phones at St Leonard’s were blocked for international calls, but Rebus had the feeling the Chief Super’s phone would be okay. Only problem was, Gill had locked her door. Rebus thought for a second, then remembered that the Farmer had kept a spare key for emergencies. He crouched down at Gill’s office door and peeled back the corner of carpet next to the jamb. Bingo: the Yale was still there. He inserted it into the lock and was inside her office, door closed after him.

He looked at her new chair but decided to stay standing, resting against the edge of her desk. He couldn’t help thinking of the Three Bears: who’s been sitting in my chair? And who’s been making calls from my phone?

His call was answered after half a dozen rings. ‘Can I speak to …’ he suddenly realised that he didn’t have a rank for Macmanus … ‘to Declan Macmanus, please.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’ The woman’s voice had that seductive Irish lilt. Rebus imagined raven hair and a full body.

‘Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police in Scotland.’

‘Hold, please.’

While he held, the full body had become a pint of slow-poured Guinness, the beer seemingly shaped to fit its glass.

‘DI Rebus?’ The voice was crisp, no-nonsense.