The Falls (35 page)

‘Parents informed?’ he asked.

Gill nodded. ‘They know a body’s been found.’

Rebus walked around her to get a better view. The face was turned away from him. There were leaves in the hair, and a slug’s shimmering trail. Her skin was mauve-coloured. Gates had probably moved the body slightly. What Rebus was seeing was lividity, the blood sinking in death, colouring the body parts nearest the ground. He’d seen dozens of corpses over the years; they never got any less sad, or made him any less depressed. Animation was the key to every living thing, its absence difficult to accept. He’d seen grieving relatives reach out to bodies on mortuary slabs and shake them, as if this would bring them back. Philippa Balfour wasn’t coming back.

‘The fingers have been gnawed at,’ Gates stated, more for his tape recorder than his audience. ‘Local wildlife most probably.’

Weasels or foxes, Rebus guessed. Facts of nature you didn’t find in the TV documentaries.

‘Bit of a bugger, that,’ Gates went on. Rebus knew what he meant: if Philippa had fought her attacker, her fingertips might have told them a lot – bits of skin or blood beneath the nails.

‘What a waste,’ Pryde suddenly said. Rebus got the feeling he didn’t mean Philippa’s death as such, but the effort they’d expended during the days since her disappearance – the checks on airports, ferries, trains … working on the assumption that she was maybe – just maybe – still alive. And throughout, she’d been lying here, each day robbing them of possible evidence, possible clues.

‘Lucky she was found so soon,’ Gates commented, perhaps to comfort Pryde. True enough, another woman’s body had been found a few months back in a different part of the park, hardly any distance at all from a popular path. Yet the body had lain there for over a month. It had turned out to be a ‘domestic’, that handy euphemism when victims were killed by their loved ones.

Down below, Rebus recognised one of the grey mortuary vans arriving. The body would be bagged and taken away to the Western General, where Gates would conduct his autopsy.

‘Drag marks on her heels,’ Gates was reciting into his tape machine. ‘Not too severe. Lividity consistent with body’s position, so she was either still alive or only just dead when she was dragged here.’

Gill Templer looked around. ‘How far do we need to widen the search?’

‘Fifty, a hundred yards maybe,’ Gates told her. She glanced in Rebus’s direction, and he saw that she wasn’t hopeful. Unlikely they’d be able to pinpoint exactly where she was dragged from, unless she’d dropped something.

‘Nothing in the pockets?’ Rebus asked.

Gates shook his head. ‘Jewellery on the hands, and quite an expensive watch.’

‘Cartier,’ Gill added.

‘At least we can rule out robbery,’ Rebus muttered, causing Gates to smile.

‘No signs of the clothing having been disturbed,’ the pathologist commented, ‘so you can probably rule out a sexual motive while you’re at it.’

‘Better and better.’ Rebus looked at Gill. ‘This is going to be a cinch.’

‘Hence my ear-to-ear grin,’ she parried solemnly.

Back at St Leonard’s, the station was buzzing with the news, but all Siobhan could feel was a dazed numbness. Playing Quizmaster’s game – the way Philippa probably had – had made Siobhan feel an affinity with the missing student. Now she was no longer a MisPer, and the worst fears had been realised.

‘We always knew, didn’t we?’ Grant said. ‘It was just a matter of when the body turned up.’ He dropped his notebook on to the desk in front of him. Three or four pages were covered with anagrams. He sat down and turned to a fresh sheet, pen in hand. George Silvers and Ellen Wylie were in the CID room too.

‘I took my kids up Arthur’s Seat just last weekend,’ Silvers was saying.

Siobhan asked who found the body.

‘Someone out walking,’ Wylie replied. ‘Middle-aged woman, I think. Daily constitutional.’

‘Be a while before she takes that route again,’ Silvers muttered.

‘Was Flip lying there all this time?’ Siobhan was looking across to where Grant was busy juggling letters. Maybe he was right to keep working, but she couldn’t help feeling a certain distaste. How could he not be affected by the news? Even George Silvers – as cynical as they came – looked a bit shell-shocked.

‘Arthur’s Seat,’ he repeated. ‘Just last weekend.’

Wylie decided to answer Siobhan’s question. ‘Chief Super seems to think so.’ As she spoke, she looked down at her desk, and rubbed her hand along it as though wiping off dust.

It hurts her, Siobhan thought … even saying the words ‘Chief Super’ reminds her of that TV appearance and hardens the sense of resentment.

When one of the phones rang, Silvers went to answer.

‘No, he’s not here,’ he told the caller. Then: ‘Hang on, I’ll check.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ellen, any idea when Rebus will be back?’

She shook her head slowly. Suddenly Siobhan knew where he was: he was on Arthur’s Seat … while Wylie, who was supposed to be his partner, wasn’t. She thought of Gill Templer, telling Rebus he was needed there. He’d have gone like a shot, leaving Wylie behind. It looked to Siobhan like a calculated snub by Templer. She would know
exactly
how Wylie would feel.

‘Sorry, no idea,’ Silvers said into the phone. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He held the receiver out towards Siobhan.

‘Lady wants to speak to you.’

Siobhan crossed the floor, mouthing the word ‘who?’, but Silvers just shrugged, handed her the phone.

‘Hello, DC Clarke speaking?’

‘Siobhan, it’s Jean Burchill.’

‘Hi, Jean, what can I do for you?’

‘Have you identified her yet?’

‘Not a hundred per cent. How did you know?’

‘John told me, then he rushed off.’

Siobhan’s lips formed a silent O. John Rebus and Jean Burchill … well, well. ‘Do you want me to tell him you called?’

‘I tried his mobile.’

‘He might have it turned off: you don’t always want interruptions at the locus.’

‘The what?’

‘The crime scene.’

‘Arthur’s Seat, isn’t it? We were there only yesterday morning.’

Siobhan looked across to Silvers. It seemed like every other person had been on Arthur’s Seat recently. When her eyes moved to Grant, she saw that he was staring at his notepad, as if mesmerised by something there.

‘Do you know where on Arthur’s Seat?’ Jean was asking.

‘Across the road from Dunsapie Loch and a bit further around towards the east.’

Siobhan was watching Grant. His eyes were on her as he got up from his chair, picking up the notebook.

‘Where’s that … ?’ The question was rhetorical, Jean trying to picture the location. Grant was holding the notebook out in front of him, but still too far away for her to make out much: jumbles of letters, and then a couple of words circled. Siobhan narrowed her eyes.

‘Oh,’ Jean said suddenly, ‘I know where you mean. Hellbank, I think it’s called.’

‘Hellbank?’ Siobhan made sure Grant could hear her, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

‘Quite a steep slope,’ Jean was saying, ‘which might explain the name, though of course the folklore prefers witches and devilry.’

‘Yes,’ Siobhan said, dragging the word out. ‘Look, Jean, I’ve got to go.’ She was staring at the words circled on Grant’s notepad. He’d worked out the anagram. ‘That’s a surer’ had become ‘Arthur’s Seat’.

Siobhan put down the phone.

‘He was leading us to her,’ Grant said quietly.

‘Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, “maybe”?’

‘You’re saying he knew Flip was dead. We can’t know that for certain. All he was doing was taking us to the places Flip went.’

‘She turned up dead at this one. And who apart from Quizmaster knew she’d be there?’

‘Someone could have followed her, or even chanced upon her.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ Grant said confidently.

‘I’m playing devil’s advocate, Grant, that’s all.’

‘He killed her.’

‘Then why bother helping us play the game?’

‘To fuck with our heads.’ He paused. ‘No, to fuck with
your
head. And maybe more than that.’

‘Then he’d have killed me before now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because now I don’t need to play the game any more. I’ve come as far as Flip did.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘You’re saying if he sends you the clue for … what’s the next stage?’

‘Stricture.’

He nodded. ‘If he sends it, you won’t be tempted?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re lying.’

‘Well, after this there’s no way I’d go anywhere without back-up, and he must know that.’ She had a thought. ‘Stricture,’ she said.

‘What about it?’

‘He e-mailed Flip …
after
she’d been killed. Why on earth would he do that if he’d killed her?’

‘Because he’s a psychopath.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You should get online and ask him.’

‘Ask if he’s a psychopath?’

‘Tell him what we know.’

‘He could just disappear. Face it, Grant, we could walk past him in the street and not know him. He’s just a name – and not even a real name.’

Grant thumped the desk. ‘Well, we’ve got to do
something
. Any minute now he’s going to hear on the radio or TV that the body’s been found. He’ll be expecting to hear from us.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. The laptop was in her shoulder-bag, still hooked up to the mobile phone. She got it out and set it up, plugging both computer and phone into the floor point for a recharge.

Which gave Grant time enough to start having second thoughts. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘we need to clear this with DCS Templer.’

She gave him a look. ‘Back to playing by the rules, eh?’

His face reddened, but he nodded. ‘Something like this, we need to tell her.’

Silvers and Wylie, who’d been listening intently throughout, had understood enough to know something important was going on.

‘I’m with Siobhan,’ Wylie said. ‘Strike while the iron is hot and all that.’

Silvers disagreed. ‘You know the score: Chief Super’ll blast the pair of you if you go behind her back.’

‘We’re not going behind her back,’ Siobhan stated, eyes on Wylie.

‘Yes we are,’ Grant said. ‘It’s a murder case now, Siobhan. The time for playing games just stopped.’ He rested both hands on her desk. ‘Send that e-mail, and you’re on your own.’

‘Maybe that’s where I want to be,’ she retorted, regretting the words the moment they were out.

‘Nice to have a bit of plain speaking,’ Grant said.

‘I’m all for it,’ John Rebus said from the doorway. Ellen Wylie straightened up and folded her arms. ‘Speaking of which,’ he went on, ‘sorry, Ellen, I should have called you.’

‘Forget it.’ But it was clear to everyone in the room that
she
wouldn’t.

When Rebus had listened to Siobhan’s version of the morning’s events – Grant interrupting now and then with a comment or different perspective – they all looked to him for a decision. He ran a finger along the top of the laptop’s screen.

‘Everything you’ve just told me,’ he advised, ‘needs to be taken to DCS Templer.’

To Siobhan’s eyes, Grant didn’t look so much vindicated as revoltingly smug. Ellen Wylie, meantime, looked like she was spoiling for a fight with anyone … about anything. As a murder team, they weren’t exactly ideal.

‘Okay,’ she said, ready to make at least a partial peace, ‘we’ll go talk to the Chief Super.’ And, as Rebus started nodding, she added: ‘Though I’m willing to bet it’s not what you would have done.’

‘Me?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have had the first clue, Siobhan. Know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because e-mail’s a black art as far as I’m concerned.’

Siobhan smiled, but there was a thread running through her mind: black art … coffins used in witches’ spells … Flip’s death on a hillside called Hellbank.

Witchcraft?

Six of them in the cramped office at Gayfield Square: Gill Templer and Bill Pryde; Rebus and Ellen Wylie; Siobhan and Grant. Templer was the only one sitting. Siobhan had printed off all the e-mails, and Templer was sifting through them silently. Finally she looked up.

‘Is there
any
way we can identify Quizmaster?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Siobhan admitted.

‘It’s possible,’ Grant added. ‘I mean, I’m not sure how, but I think it’s possible. Look at these viruses, somehow the Americans always seem to be able to trace them back.’

Templer nodded. ‘That’s true.’

‘The Met has a computer crime unit, doesn’t it?’ Grant went on. ‘They could have links to the FBI.’

Templer studied him. ‘Think you’re up to it, Grant?’

He shook his head. ‘I like computers, but this is way out of my league. I mean, I’d be happy to liaise …’

‘Fair enough.’ Templer turned to Siobhan. ‘This German student you were telling us about …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like a bit more detail.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

Suddenly Templer’s gaze shifted to Wylie. ‘Can you run with that, Ellen?’

Wylie looked surprised. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re splitting us up?’ Rebus interrupted.

‘Unless you can think of a good reason not to.’

‘A doll was left at Falls, now the body’s turned up. It’s the same pattern as before.’

‘Not according to your coffin-maker. Different workmanship altogether, I believe he said.’

‘You’re putting it down to coincidence?’

‘I’m not putting it down to anything, and if something else crops up in connection with it, you can start back in again. But we’re on a murder case now, and that changes everything.’

Rebus glanced towards Wylie. She was simmering – the transfer from dusty old autopsies to a background check on a student’s curious demise … it wasn’t exactly thrilling her. But at the same time she wasn’t going to throw her weight behind Rebus – too busy working on her own sense of injustice.

‘Right,’ Templer said into the silence. ‘For the moment, you’ll be going back to the body of the investigation – and yes, I know there’s a joke in there somewhere.’ She tidied the sheets of paper together, made to hand them back to Siobhan. ‘Can you stay behind for a sec?’

‘Sure,’ Siobhan said. The rest of them squeezed out of the room, glad of the fresher, cooler air. Rebus, however, loitered near Templer’s door. He stared across the room to the array of information on the far wall – faxes, photos and the rest. Someone was busy dismantling the collage, now that this was no longer a MisPer inquiry. The pace of the investigation seemed already to have slowed, not from any sense of shock or out of respect for the dead, but because things had changed: there was no need to rush, no one out there whose life they might just possibly save …