The Falls (50 page)

‘There’s been outside assistance,’ Grant Hood argued. ‘A museum curator, a retired pathologist …’

Rebus laid a hand on Hood’s arm, silencing him. ‘It was me,’ he said. Heads turned towards him. ‘I think it might have been me.’

He concentrated on not looking in Ellen Wylie’s direction, but was aware of her eyes burning into him.

‘Early on, I was out at Falls talking to a woman called Bev Dodds. She’d found the coffin by the waterfall. Steve Holly had already been sniffing around, and she’d given him the story …’

‘And?’

‘And I let it slip that there’d been more coffins … let slip to her, I mean.’ He was remembering the slip – a slip Jean had in fact made. ‘If she yapped to Holly, he’d have been on a flyer. I had Jean Burchill with me – she’s the curator. That might have given him the Arthur’s Seat connection …’

Carswell was staring at him coldly. ‘And the Internet game?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That one I can’t explain, but it’s not exactly a well-kept secret. We’ve been shoving the clues at all the victim’s friends, asking if she’d asked them for help … any one of them could have told Holly.’

Carswell was still staring. ‘You’re taking the fall for this?’

‘I’m saying it could be my fault. Just that one slip …’ He turned to the others. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I let all of us down.’ His gaze skirted Wylie’s face, concentrating on her hair.

‘Sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘what DI Rebus has just admitted could go for any one of us. I’m sure I may have said a little more than I should on occasion …’

Carswell wafted his hand in front of him, quieting her.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said, ‘I’m suspending you from active duty, pending further inquiries.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Ellen Wylie blurted out.

‘Shut up, Wylie!’ Gill Templer hissed.

‘DI Rebus knows the consequences,’ Carswell was saying.

Rebus nodded. ‘Someone needs to be punished.’ He paused. ‘For the sake of the team.’

‘That’s right,’ Carswell said, nodding. ‘Otherwise mistrust begins its corrosive influence. I don’t think any of us wants that, do we?’

‘No, sir.’ Grant Hood’s voice proved a lone one.

‘Go home, DI Rebus,’ Carswell said. ‘Write your version down, leaving nothing out. We’ll talk again later.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said, turning and opening the door. Linford was directly outside, and smiling with one side of his face. Rebus didn’t doubt he’d been listening. It struck him suddenly that Carswell and Linford might well conspire to make the case against him look as black as possible.

He’d just given them the perfect excuse for getting rid of him for good.

His flat was ready to be put on the market, and he called the selling solicitor and told her so.

‘Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons for viewing?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so.’ He was sitting in his chair, staring out of the window. ‘Is there any way I can … not be here?’

‘You want someone to show the flat for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have people who’ll do that for a small fee.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t want to be around when strangers were opening doors, touching things … He didn’t think he’d make the best salesman for the place.

‘We already have a photograph,’ the solicitor was saying. ‘So the ad could go in the ESPC guide as early as Thursday next.’

‘Not the day after tomorrow?’

‘I’m afraid not …’

When he’d finished the call, he walked into the hall. New light switches, new sockets. The place was a lot brighter, the fresh coats of paint helping. Not much clutter – he’d made three trips to the dump-site on Old Dalkeith Road: a coat-rack he’d inherited from somewhere; boxes of old magazines and newspapers; a two-bar electric fire with frayed cable; the chest of drawers from Samantha’s old room, still decorated with stickers of eighties pop stars … The carpets were back down. A drinking acquaintance from Swany’s Bar had lent a hand, asking if he wanted them nailed at the edges. Rebus hadn’t seen the point.

‘New owners will turf them out anyway.’

‘You should’ve had these floors sanded, John. They’d’ve come up a treat …’

Rebus had whittled his possessions down until they wouldn’t fill a one-bedroom flat, never mind the three he currently possessed. But still he had nowhere to go. He knew what the market was like in Edinburgh. If Arden Street went on the market next Thursday, it could go to a closing date the week after. Two weeks from now, he could find himself homeless.

And, come to that, jobless.

He’d been expecting phone calls, and eventually one came. It was Gill Templer.

Her opening words: ‘You stupid bastard.’

‘Hi there, Gill.’

‘You could have kept your mouth shut.’

‘I suppose I could.’

‘Always the willing martyr, eh, John?’ She sounded angry, tired and under pressure. He could see reasons for all three.

‘I just told the truth,’ he said.

‘
That
would be a first … not that I believe it for a minute.’

‘No?’

‘Come on, John. Ellen Wylie practically had “guilty” stamped on her forehead.’

‘You think I was shielding her?’

‘I don’t exactly take you for Sir Galahad. You’ll have had your reasons. Maybe it was simply to piss off Carswell; you know he hates your guts.’

Rebus didn’t like to concede that she might be right. ‘How’s everything else?’ he asked.

Her anger was played out. ‘Liaison’s snowed under. I’m giving a helping hand.’

Rebus bet she was busy: all the other papers and media, trying to play catch-up with Steve Holly.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘What about me?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

‘Well …’

‘I’d better let you get back, Gill. Thanks for calling.’

‘Bye, John.’

As he put the phone down, it started ringing again. Grant Hood this time.

‘I just wanted to thank you for getting us off the hook like that.’

‘You weren’t on the hook, Grant.’

‘I was, believe me.’

‘I hear you’re busy.’

‘How … ?’ Grant paused. ‘Oh, DCS Templer’s been on to you.’

‘Is she helping out or taking over?’

‘Hard to say at the minute.’

‘She’s not in the room with you, is she?’

‘No, she’s in her own office. When we came out of that meeting with the ACC … she was the one who looked most relieved.’

‘Maybe because she has the most to lose, Grant. You probably can’t see that right now, but it’s true.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ But he didn’t sound convinced that his own survival wasn’t more important in the scheme of things.

‘Off you go, Grant, and thanks for finding the time to call.’

‘See you around some time.’

‘You never know your luck …’

Rebus put the phone down and waited, staring at it. But no more calls came. He went to the kitchen to make a mug of tea, and discovered he was out of tea-bags and milk. Without bothering with a jacket, he headed downstairs and out to the local deli, where he added some ham, rolls and mustard to the shopping. Back at the main door to the tenement, someone was trying one of the buzzers.

‘Come on, I know you’re there …’

‘Hello, Siobhan.’

She turned towards him. ‘Christ, you gave me a …’ She put a hand to her throat. Rebus stretched an arm past her and unlocked the door.

‘Because I sneaked up on you, or because you thought I was sitting upstairs with my wrists slashed?’ He held the door open for her.

‘What? No, that’s not what I was thinking.’ But the colour was rising to her cheeks.

‘Well, just to stop you worrying, if I’m ever going to top myself, it’ll be with a lot of drink and some pills. And by “a lot” I mean two or three days’ worth, so you’ll have plenty of warning.’

He preceded her up the stairs, opened his front door.

‘Your lucky day,’ he said. ‘Not only am I not dead, but I can offer tea and rolls with ham and mustard.’

‘Just tea, thanks,’ she said, finally regaining some composure. ‘Hey, the hall looks great!’

‘Take a look around. I may as well get used to it.’

‘You mean it’s on the market?’

‘As from next week.’

She opened a bedroom door, stuck her head round. ‘Dimmer switch,’ she commented, trying it out.

Rebus went into the kitchen and stuck the kettle on, found two clean mugs in the cupboard. One of them said ‘World’s Greatest Dad’. It wasn’t his; one of the sparkies must have left it. He decided Siobhan could have her tea in it, he’d have the taller one with the poppies and the chipped rim.

‘You didn’t paint the living room,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.

‘It was done not so long ago.’

She nodded. There was something he wasn’t saying, but she wasn’t going to force it.

‘You and Grant still an item then?’ he asked.

‘We never were. And that’s the subject closed.’

He got the milk from the fridge. ‘Better be careful, you’ll be getting a rep.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Unsuitable men. One of them was staring daggers at me all morning.’

‘Oh God, Derek Linford.’ She was thoughtful. ‘Didn’t he look awful?’

‘Doesn’t he always?’ Rebus placed a tea-bag in each mug. ‘So, are you here to check up on me or thank me for sticking my neck out?’

‘I’m not about to thank you for
that
. You could have stayed quiet, and you know it. If you owned up, it was because
you
wanted to.’ She broke off.

‘And?’ he encouraged her.

‘And you’ll have some agenda going.’

‘Actually I don’t … not particularly.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘It was the quickest way, the simplest. If I’d bothered to think for a moment … maybe I’d have kept my mouth shut.’ He poured water and milk into the mugs, handed one over. Siobhan looked at the tea-bag floating there. ‘Spoon it out when it’s strong enough,’ he suggested.

‘Yummy.’

‘Sure I can’t tempt you with a ham roll?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘Maybe later,’ he said, leading them through to the living room. ‘Everything calm at base camp?’

‘Say what you like about Carswell, he’s a pretty good motivator. Everyone thinks it was that speech of his that made you feel guilty.’

‘And they’re now working harder than ever?’ He waited till she’d nodded. ‘A team of happy gardeners with no nasty moles to bother them.’

Siobhan grinned. ‘It was pretty bloody corny, wasn’t it?’ She looked around. ‘Where are you going to go when you sell this place?’

‘Got a spare room, have you?’

‘Depends for how long.’

‘I’m just joking, Siobhan. I’ll be fine.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘So what exactly
does
bring you here?’

‘You mean apart from checking up on you?’

‘I’m guessing that wasn’t all.’

She reached down to place her mug on the floor. ‘I got another message.’

‘Quizmaster?’ She nodded. ‘Saying what exactly?’

She unfolded some sheets from her pocket, reached over towards him with them. Their fingers touched as he took them. The first was an e-mail from Siobhan:

Still awaiting Stricture
.

‘I sent that first thing this morning,’ she said. ‘Thought maybe he wouldn’t have heard.’

Rebus turned to the second sheet. It was from Quizmaster.

I’m disappointed in you, Siobhan. I’m taking my ball home now
.

Then Siobhan:

Don’t believe everything you read. I still want to play
.

Quizmaster:

And go yapping to your bosses?

Siobhan:

You and me this time, that’s a promise
.

Quizmaster:

How can I trust you?

Siobhan:

I’ve been trusting you, haven’t I? And you always know where to find me. I still don’t have the first clue about you
.

‘I had to wait a while after that. The final sheet came in about’ – she checked her watch – ‘forty minutes ago.’

‘And you came straight here?’

She shrugged. ‘More or less.’

‘You didn’t show it to Brains?’

‘He’s off on some errand for Crime Squad.’

‘Anyone else?’ She shook her head. ‘Why me?’

‘Now that I’m here,’ she said, ‘I don’t really know.’

‘Grant’s the one with the puzzle mind.’

‘Right now he’s too busy puzzling over how to keep his job.’

Rebus nodded slowly and re-read the final sheet:

Add Camus to ME Smith, they’re boxing where the sun don’t shine, and Frank Finlay’s the referee
.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’ve shown me it …’ He made to hand the sheets back. ‘And it doesn’t mean a thing to me.’

‘No?’

He shook his head. ‘Frank Finlay was an actor – might still be, for all I know. I think he played Casanova on TV, and he was in something called
Barbed Wire and Bouquets …
something like that.’

‘
Bouquet of Barbed Wire?
’

‘Could have been.’ He glanced at the clue a final time. ‘Camus was a French writer. I used to think it was pronounced “came as” until I heard it mentioned on the radio or the box.’

‘Boxing – that’s something you know about.’

‘Marciano, Dempsey, Cassius Clay before he became Ali …’ He shrugged.

‘Where the sun don’t shine,’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s an American expression, isn’t it?’

‘It means out your arse,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘You think suddenly Quizmaster’s American?’

She smiled, but there was no humour to it.

‘Take my advice, Siobhan. Give it to Crime Squad or Special Branch or whoever’s supposed to be tracking this arsehole down. Or just e-mail him back telling him to get stuffed.’ He paused. ‘You said he knows where to find you?’

She nodded. ‘He knows my name, that I’m CID in Edinburgh.’

‘But nothing about where you live? He hasn’t got your phone number?’ She shook her head and Rebus nodded, satisfied. He was thinking of all the numbers pinned to Steve Holly’s office wall.

‘Then let him go,’ he said quietly.

‘Is that what you’d do?’

‘It’s what I’d strongly advise.’

‘Then you don’t want to help me?’

He looked at her. ‘Help you how?’