The Falls (37 page)

That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a family friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour’s Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later – the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.

A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.

‘That’s us then,’ Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media – names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.

‘Oh, dear,’ Devlin said. He’d removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. ‘What a terrible shame.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jean Burchill said, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she approached. Rebus was out of his chair, taking the coat from her, asking what she wanted to drink.

‘Let me buy a round,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘My invitation. That makes it my duty to get in the first round at least.’

They had colonised the back room’s top table. The place wasn’t busy, and the TV in the opposite corner meant they were unlikely to be overheard.

‘Some sort of pow-wow?’ Jean asked, after Rebus had gone.

‘Or maybe a wake,’ Wylie guessed.

‘It’s her then?’ Jean asked. Their silence was answer enough.

‘You work on witchcraft and stuff, don’t you?’ Siobhan asked Jean.

‘Belief systems,’ Jean corrected her, ‘but, yes, witchcraft falls into it.’

‘It’s just that with the coffins, and Flip’s body being found in a place called Hellbank … You said yourself there might be some connection with witchcraft.’

Jean nodded. ‘It’s true that Hellbank may have come by its name that way.’

‘And true that the little coffins on Arthur’s Seat might have been to do with witchcraft?’

Jean looked to Donald Devlin, who was following the dialogue intently. She was still debating what to say when Devlin spoke up.

‘I very much doubt there’s any element of witchcraft involved in the Arthur’s Seat coffins. But you do propose an interesting hypothesis, in that, enlightened though we might think ourselves, we are always ready to invite such mumbo-jumbo.’ He smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’m impressed that a police detective should be so minded.’

‘I didn’t say I was,’ Siobhan snapped back.

‘Clutching at straws then, perhaps?’

When Rebus returned with Jean’s lime and soda, he couldn’t help but note the silence which had fallen over the table.

‘Well,’ Wylie said impatiently, ‘now we’re all here … ?’

‘Now we’re all here …’ Rebus echoed, lifting his pint, ‘cheers!’

He waited till they’d lifted their own glasses before putting his own to his mouth. Scotland: you couldn’t refuse a toast.

‘All right,’ he said, putting the glass back down, ‘there’s a murder case needs solving, and I just want to be sure in my own mind where we all stand.’

‘Isn’t that what the morning briefings are for?’

He looked at Wylie. ‘Then call this an unofficial briefing.’

‘With the booze as a bribe?’

‘I’ve always been a fan of incentive schemes.’ He managed to force a smile from her. ‘Right, here’s what I think we’ve got so far. We’ve got Burke and Hare – taking things chronologically – and soon after them we’ve got lots of little coffins found on Arthur’s Seat.’ He looked towards Jean, noticing for the first time that though there was a space on the bench next to Devlin, she’d pulled a chair over from one of the other tables so she was next to Siobhan instead. ‘Then, connected or not, we’ve got a series of similar coffins turning up in places where women happen to have disappeared or turned up dead. One such coffin is found in Falls, just after Philippa Balfour goes missing. She then turns up dead on Arthur’s Seat, location of the original coffins.’

‘Which is a long way from Falls,’ Siobhan felt bound to point out. ‘I mean, those other coffins you’ve got, they were found near the scene, weren’t they?’

‘And the Falls coffin is different from the others,’ Ellen Wylie added.

‘I’m not saying otherwise,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘I’m just trying to establish whether I’m the only one who sees possible links?’

They all looked at each other; no one said anything until Wylie lifted her Bloody Mary and, studying its red surface, mentioned the German student. ‘Swords and sorcery, role-playing, ends up dead on a Scottish hillside.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But,’ Wylie continued, ‘hard to tie in with your disappearances and drownings.’

Devlin seemed persuaded by her tone. ‘It’s not,’ he added, ‘as if the drownings were considered suspicious at the time, and my examination of the pertinent details doesn’t persuade me otherwise.’ He had taken his hands from his pockets; they now rested on the shiny knees of his baggy grey trousers.

‘Fine,’ Rebus said, ‘then I’m the only one who’s even remotely convinced?’

This time, not even Wylie spoke up. Rebus took another long swallow of beer. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Look, why are we here?’ Wylie laid her hands on the table. ‘You’re trying to convince us to work as a team?’

‘I’m just saying all these little details may end up being part of the same story.’

‘Burke and Hare to the Quizmaster’s Treasure Hunt?’

‘Yes.’ But Rebus looked like he was believing it less himself now. ‘Christ, I don’t know …’ He ran a hand over his head.

‘Look, thanks for the drink …’ Ellen Wylie’s glass was empty. She picked her shoulder-bag up from the bench, started getting to her feet.

‘Ellen …’

She looked at him. ‘Big day tomorrow, John. First full day of the murder inquiry.’

‘It’s not officially a murder inquiry until the pathologist pronounces,’ Devlin reminded her. She looked ready to say something, but just graced him with the coldest of smiles. Then she squeezed out between two of the chairs, said a general goodbye, and was gone.

‘Something connects them,’ Rebus said quietly, almost to himself. ‘I can’t for the life of me think what it is, but it’s there …’

‘It can be detrimental,’ Devlin pronounced, ‘to begin obsessing – as our transatlantic cousins might say – on a case. Detrimental both to the case and to oneself.’

Rebus tried for the same smile Ellen Wylie had just given. ‘I think the next round’s yours,’ he said.

Devlin checked his watch. ‘Actually, I’m afraid I’m unable to tarry.’ He seemed to find it painful rising from the table. ‘I don’t suppose one of the young ladies might proffer a lift?’

‘You’re on my way home,’ Siobhan conceded at last.

Rebus’s sense of desertion was softened when he saw her glance in Jean’s direction: she was leaving the two of them alone, that was all.

‘But I’ll get a round in before I go,’ Siobhan added.

‘Maybe next time,’ Rebus told her with a wink. He sat in silence with Jean until they’d gone, and was about to speak when Devlin came shuffling back.

‘Am I right to assume,’ he said, ‘that my usefulness is now at an end?’ Rebus nodded. ‘In which case, will the files be sent back to their place of origin?’

‘I’ll get DS Wylie to do it first thing,’ Rebus promised.

‘Many thanks then.’ Devlin’s smile was directed at Jean. ‘It’s been a pleasure to have met you.’

‘And you,’ she said.

‘I may pop into the Museum some day. Perhaps you’d do me the honour of showing me round … ?’

‘I’d love to.’

Devlin bowed his head, and started back towards the stairs again.

‘I hope he doesn’t,’ she muttered when he’d gone.

‘Why not?’

‘He gives me the creeps.’

Rebus looked over his shoulder, as though some final view of Devlin might persuade him she was right. ‘You’re not the first to say that.’ He turned back to her. ‘But don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe with me.’

‘Oh, I hope not,’ she said, eyes twinkling above her glass.

They were in bed when the news came through. Rebus took the call, seated naked on the edge of the mattress, uncomfortably aware of the view he was presenting to Jean: probably two spare tyres around his middle, arms and shoulders more fat than muscle. The silver lining was: the view could only be worse from the front …

‘Strangulation,’ he told her, sliding back under the bedclothes.

‘It was quick then?’

‘Definitely. There’s bruising on the neck just at the carotid artery. She probably passed out, then he strangled her.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Easier to kill someone when they’re compliant. No struggle.’

‘You’re quite the expert, aren’t you? Ever killed someone, John?’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘That’s a lie, isn’t it?’

He looked at her and nodded. She leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

‘You don’t want to talk about it. That’s okay.’

He wrapped his arm around her, kissed her hair. There was a mirror in the room, one of those floor-standing models so you could see yourself head to foot. It faced away from the bed. Rebus wondered if that was on purpose or not, but he wasn’t about to ask.

‘Where’s the carotid artery?’ she asked.

He placed a finger on his own neck. ‘Put pressure on it, the person blacks out in a matter of seconds.’

She felt her neck until she’d found it. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Does everyone except me know that?’

‘Know what?’

‘Where it is, what it does.’

‘I don’t suppose so, no. What are you getting at?’

‘It’s just that whoever did it was in the know.’

‘Cops know about it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not much used these days, for obvious reasons. But there was a time it could make an unruly prisoner manageable. The Vulcan death-grip, we used to call it.’

She smiled. ‘The what?’

‘You know, Spock on
Star Trek
.’ He pinched her shoulder blade. She wriggled free and gave his chest a slap, resting her hand there. Rebus was thinking of his army training, and how he’d been taught attack techniques, including pressure on the carotid …

‘Would doctors know?’ Jean asked.

‘Probably anyone who’s had medical training would.’

She looked thoughtful.

‘Why?’ he asked at last.

‘Just something from the paper. Wasn’t one of Philippa’s friends a medical student, one of the ones she was going to meet that night … ?’

His name was Albert Winfield – ‘Albie’ to his friends. He seemed surprised that the police wanted to talk to him again, but turned up at St Leonard’s at the appointed time next morning. Rebus and Siobhan left him fully fifteen minutes while they got on with other work, then made sure two burly uniforms led him to the interview room, where they left him for a further quarter of an hour. Outside the room, Siobhan and Rebus locked eyes and nodded at one another. Then Rebus pushed open the door forcefully.

‘Many thanks for coming along, Mr Winfield,’ he snapped. The young man almost leaped from his chair. The window was closed tight, the room stifling. Three chairs – two on one side of the narrow table, one on the other. Winfield had been facing those two empty chairs. Tape recorders and a video recorder were bolted to the wall where it met the table. There were scratched names on the table itself, evidence of time being whittled away by previous occupants called things like Shug, Jazz and Bomber. A No Smoking sign on the wall, defaced with ballpoint pen, and a video camera mounted where wall met ceiling, peering down on proceedings should anyone decide a video record was required.

Rebus ensured his chair-legs made the maximum noise as he scraped them in towards the table. He’d thrown a bulky folder down: no names on it. Winfield seemed mesmerised. He couldn’t know it was full of blank sheets of paper borrowed from one of the photocopiers.

Rebus rested his hand on the folder and smiled at Winfield.

‘It must have come as a terrible shock.’ A quiet voice, soothing, solicitous … Siobhan sat down beside her thuggish colleague. ‘I’m DC Clarke, by the way. This is DI Rebus.’

‘What?’ the young man said. Perspiration made his forehead shine. His short brown hair came to a widow’s peak. There was acne on his chin.

‘The news of Flip’s murder,’ Siobhan continued. ‘It must have been a shock.’

‘Y-es … absolutely.’ He sounded English, but Rebus knew he wasn’t. Private education south of the border had ironed out all trace of his Scottish roots. Father a businessman in Hong Kong until three years ago, divorced from the mother, who lived in Perthshire.

‘You knew her well then?’

Winfield kept his eyes on Siobhan. ‘I suppose so. I mean, she was Camille’s friend really.’

‘Camille’s your girlfriend?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Foreign, is she?’ Rebus barked.

‘No …’ The eyes strayed to Rebus, but only for a second. ‘No, she’s from Staffordshire.’

‘Like I said, foreign.’

Siobhan glanced at Rebus, worried he was milking his role. As Winfield stared down at the table-top, Rebus gave Siobhan a wink of reassurance.

‘Hot in here, isn’t it, Albert?’ Siobhan paused. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Albert?’

‘No … no, that’s fine.’ He glanced up at her again, but whenever he did his eyes were drawn towards her neighbour.

‘Would you like me to open a window?’

‘Wonderful, yes.’

Siobhan looked at Rebus, who pushed his chair back with as much noise as possible. The windows were narrow, fixed high on the external wall. Rebus stood on tiptoe to open one of them, pulling it in three or four inches. The breeze swept over him.

‘Better?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Yes, thanks.’

Rebus stayed standing, over to Winfield’s left. He folded his arms and rested against the wall, directly below the camera.