The Falls (53 page)

‘Was it reciprocated? Did it go further than a crush?’

‘I think,’ McCoist said, ‘we’re straying somewhat from the—’

But Claire was smiling at Siobhan. ‘Not until later,’ she was saying.

‘How much later?’

‘I got the feeling she was seeing him pretty much up till she went missing …’

‘What’s all the excitement?’ Rebus asked.

Bain looked up from the desk he was working at. ‘Brought in Claire Benzie for questioning.’

‘Why?’ Rebus leaned down, reached into one of the desk’s drawers.

‘Sorry,’ Bain said, ‘is this your … ?’

He was making to get up, but Rebus stopped him. ‘I’m suspended, remember? Just you keep it warm for me.’ He closed the drawer, not having found anything. ‘So what’s Benzie doing here?’

‘One of the e-mails, I got Special Branch to trace it.’

Rebus whistled. ‘Claire Benzie sent it?’

‘Well, it was sent from her account.’

Rebus considered this. ‘Not quite the same thing?’

‘Siobhan’s the sceptical one.’

‘Is she in with Benzie?’ Rebus waited till Bain nodded. ‘But you’re out here?’

‘DCS Templer.’

‘Ah,’ Rebus said, no further explanation needed.

Gill Templer burst into the CID office. ‘I want Ranald Marr brought in for questioning. Who wants to fetch him?’

She got two volunteers straight away – Hi-Ho Silvers and Tommy Fleming. Others were trying to place the name, wondering what it could have to do with Claire Benzie and Quizmaster. When Gill turned round, Siobhan was standing behind her.

‘That was good work in there.’

‘Was it?’ Siobhan asked. ‘I’m not so sure.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When I talk to her, it’s like I’m asking her things she
wants
to be asked. It’s as if
she’s
in control.’

‘I didn’t see that.’ Gill touched Siobhan’s shoulder. ‘Take a break. We’ll let someone else have a shot at Ranald Marr.’ She looked around the room. ‘The rest of you, back to work.’ Her eyes met those of John Rebus. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Rebus opened another drawer, this time pulling out a pack of cigarettes and shaking them.

‘Just came to collect a few personal items, ma’am.’

Gill pursed her lips, stalked out of the room. McCoist was in the corridor with Claire. The three started a short discussion. Siobhan approached Rebus.

‘What the hell
are
you doing here?’

‘You look shattered.’

‘I see your silver tongue’s as rusty as ever.’

‘Boss told you to take a break, and as luck would have it, I’m buying. While you’ve been busy scaring wee lassies, I’ve been doing the important stuff …’

Siobhan was sticking to orange juice, and kept playing with her mobile: Bain was under strictest orders to call her if and when there was news.

‘I need to get back,’ she said, not for the first time. Then she checked the mobile’s display again, just in case the battery needed recharging or the signal had been lost.

‘Have you eaten?’ Rebus asked. When she shook her head, he came back from the bar with a couple of packets of Scampi Fries, which she was devouring when she heard him say:

‘That’s when it struck me.’

‘When what struck you?’

‘Christ, Siobhan, wake up.’

‘John, I feel like my head’s about to explode. I honestly think it might.’

‘You don’t think Claire Benzie’s guilty, that much I understand. And now she says Flip Balfour was getting her end away with Ranald Marr.’

‘Do you believe her?’

He lit another cigarette, wafted the smoke away from Siobhan. ‘I’m not allowed an opinion: suspended from duty till further notice.’

She gave him a dirty look, lifted her glass.

‘It’s going to be some conversation, isn’t it?’ Rebus asked.

‘What?’

‘When Balfour asks his trusted compadre what the cops wanted him for.’

‘Think Marr will tell him?’

‘Even if he doesn’t, Balfour’s sure to find out. Funeral tomorrow should be a jolly affair.’ He blew more smoke ceilingwards. ‘You going to be there?’

‘Thinking of it. Templer and Carswell, a few others … they’ll be going.’

‘Might be needed if a fight starts.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I should head back, see what Marr’s been saying.’

‘You were told to take a break.’

‘I’ve had one.’

‘Phone in if you really feel the need.’

‘Maybe I’ll do that.’ She noticed that her mobile was still attached to the connector which, were the laptop not back at St Leonard’s, would have given her access to the Net. She stared at the connector, then up at Rebus. ‘What were you saying?’

‘About what?’

‘About Stricture.’

Rebus’s smile widened. ‘Nice to have you back with us. I was saying that I spent all afternoon in the library, and I’ve worked out the first bit of the puzzle.’

‘Already?’

‘You’re dealing with quality here, Siobhan. So, do you want to hear?’

‘Sure.’ She noticed that his glass was almost empty. ‘Should I … ?’

‘Just listen first.’ He pulled her back on to her seat. The pub was maybe half full, and most of the drinkers looked like students. Rebus reckoned he was the oldest face in the place. Standing by the bar, he might have been taken for the owner. At the corner table with Siobhan, he probably looked like a seedy boss trying to get his secretary tipsy.

‘I’m all ears,’ she told him.

‘Albert Camus,’ he began slowly, ‘wrote a book called
The Fall
.’ He slid a paperback copy from his coat and placed it on the table, tapping it with one finger. It wasn’t from the library; he’d found it in Thin’s Bookshop on his way to St Leonard’s. ‘Mark E. Smith is the singer with a band called The Fall.’

Siobhan frowned. ‘I think I had one of their singles once.’

‘So,’ Rebus went on, ‘we have
The Fall
and The Fall. Add one to the other and you get …’

‘Falls?’ Siobhan guessed. Rebus nodded. She picked up the book, examined its cover, then turned it to read the blurb on the back. ‘You think maybe that’s where Quizmaster wants to meet?’

‘I think it has to do with the next clue.’

‘But what about the rest of it, the boxing match and Frank Finlay?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Unlike Simple Minds, I didn’t promise you a miracle.’

‘No …’ She paused, then looked up at him. ‘Come to think of it, I didn’t think you were that interested.’

‘I changed my mind.’

‘Why?’

‘Ever sat at home watching paint dry?’

‘I’ve been on dates where it would have been preferable.’

‘Then maybe you know what I mean.’

She nodded, flicking the pages of the book. Then a frown appeared on her forehead, she stopped nodding, and looked up at him again. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.’

‘Good, that means you’re learning.’

‘Learning what?’

‘John Rebus’s own patented brand of existentialism.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘That’s a word I didn’t know till today, and I’ve got you to thank.’

‘So what does it mean?’

‘I didn’t say I knew what it meant, but I think it’s got quite a lot to do with choosing
not
to watch paint dry …’

They went back to St Leonard’s, but there was no news. Officers were practically bouncing off the walls. They needed a breakthrough. They needed a break. A fight had to be broken up in the toilets: two uniforms who couldn’t say how it started. Rebus watched Siobhan for a few minutes. She went from one huddle to another, desperate to know things. He could see she was having trouble holding on: a head full of theories and fancies. She, too, needed the breakthrough, the break. He walked up to her. Her eyes were glistening. Rebus took hold of her arm, escorted her outside. She resisted at first.

‘When did you last eat?’ he asked.

‘You bought me those Scampi Fries.’

‘I mean a hot meal.’

‘You sound like my mum …’

The short walk led them to an Indian restaurant on Nicolson Street. It was dark and up a flight of stairs and mostly empty. Tuesday had become the new Monday: a dead night on the town. The weekend started on Thursday as you planned how to spend your pay, and ended with a quick pint after work on the Monday so you could pick over the highlights just past. Tuesday, the sensible option was to go home, keep what cash you had.

‘You know Falls better than I do,’ she said now. ‘What landmarks are there?’

‘Well, the waterfall itself – you’ve seen that – and maybe Junipers – you’ve been there.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’

‘There’s a housing scheme, right?’

He nodded. ‘Meadowside. And there’s a petrol station just outside town. Plus Bev Dodds’s cottage and a few dozen commuters. Not even a church or a post office.’

‘No boxing ring then?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘And no bouquets, barbed wire or Frank Finlay House.’

Siobhan seemed to lose interest in her food. Rebus wasn’t too worried: she’d already dispatched a mixed tandoori starter and the bulk of her biryani. He watched her take out her phone and try the station again. She’d called once already: no one had answered. This time someone did.

‘Eric? It’s Siobhan. What’s happening there? Have we got Marr yet? What’s he saying?’ She listened, then her eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Really?’ Her voice had risen slightly in pitch. ‘That was a bit silly, wasn’t it?’

For a second, Rebus thought: suicide. He drew a finger across his throat, but Siobhan shook her head.

‘Okay, Eric. Thanks for that. See you later.’ She ended the call, took her time placing the phone back in her bag.

‘Spit it out,’ Rebus said.

She scooped up another forkful of food. ‘You’re suspended, remember? Off the case.’

‘I’ll suspend you from the ceiling if you don’t cough up.’

She smiled, put the fork down, food untouched. The waiter took a step forward, ready to clear the table, but Rebus waved him back.

‘Well,’ Siobhan said, ‘they went to pick up Mr Marr at his detached home in The Grange, only he wasn’t there.’

‘And?’

‘And the reason he wasn’t there was, he’d been told they’d be coming. Gill Templer called the ACC, said they were picking up Marr for questioning. The ACC “suggested” they phone Mr Marr beforehand, as “a courtesy”.’

She picked up the water jug, tipped the dregs into her glass. The same waiter started forward, ready to replace the jug, but Rebus waved him back again.

‘So Marr did a runner?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Looks like it. His wife says he took the call, and two minutes later when she went to look for him, he wasn’t there and neither was the Maserati.’

‘Better stick one of the napkins in your pocket,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Looks like some egg needs wiping from Carswell’s face.’

‘I can’t imagine he’ll have fun explaining to the Chief Constable,’ Siobhan agreed. Then she watched a grin light up Rebus’s face. ‘Just what you needed?’ she guessed.

‘Might help take some of the heat off.’

‘Because Carswell will be too busy covering his own arse to find time to kick yours?’

‘Eloquently put.’

‘It’s the college education.’

‘So what’s happening about Marr?’ Rebus nodded towards the waiter, who took a hesitant step forward, unsure if he’d suddenly be expelled again. ‘Two coffees,’ Rebus told him. The man made a little bow and moved off.

‘Not sure,’ Siobhan admitted.

‘Night before the funeral, could be awkward.’

‘High-speed car chase … stop and arrest …’ Siobhan was imagining the scenario. ‘Grieving parents wondering why their best friend is suddenly in custody …’

‘If Carswell’s thinking straight, he’ll do nothing till the funeral’s over. Could be Marr will turn up there anyway.’

‘A fond farewell to his secret lover?’

‘If Claire Benzie’s telling the truth.’

‘Why else would he run?’

Rebus stared at her. ‘I think you know the answer to that one.’

‘You mean if Marr killed her?’

‘I thought you had him in the frame.’

She was thoughtful. ‘That was before this happened. I don’t think Quizmaster would run.’

‘Maybe Quizmaster didn’t kill Flip Balfour.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘That’s my point. I had Marr in the frame for Quizmaster.’

‘Meaning she was killed by someone else?’

The coffees arrived, and with them the ubiquitous mints. Siobhan dunked hers in the hot liquid, quickly hoisting it into her mouth. Without being asked, the waiter had brought the bill with their coffees.

‘Split it down the middle?’ Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, took three fivers from his pocket.

Outside, he asked how she was getting home.

‘My car’s at St Leonard’s: need a lift?’

‘Nice night for a walk,’ he said, looking up at the clouds. ‘Just promise me you
will
go home, take a break …’

‘Promise, Mum.’

‘And now that you’ve convinced yourself that Quizmaster didn’t kill Flip …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, you don’t have to bother with the game any more, do you?’

She blinked, told him she supposed he was right. But he could see she didn’t believe it. The game was
her
part of the case. She couldn’t just let it go … He knew he’d have felt the same way.

They parted on the pavement, Rebus heading back to the flat. When he got in, he called Jean, but she wasn’t at home. Maybe another late night at the Museum, but she wasn’t answering there either. He stood in front of his dining table, staring at the case notes there. He’d pinned some sheets to the wall, detailing the four women – Jesperson, Gibbs, Gearing and Farmer. He was trying to answer a question: why would the killer leave the coffins? Okay, they were his ‘signature’, but that signature had not been recognised. It had taken the best part of thirty years for someone to realise that there even
was
a signature. If the killer had hoped to be identified with his crimes, wouldn’t he have repeated the exercise, or tried some other method: a note to the media or the police? So say they weren’t a signature as such; say his motive had been … what? Rebus saw them as little memorials, holding meaning only for the person who’d left them there. And couldn’t the same be said for the Arthur’s Seat coffins? Why had the person responsible not come forward in some form? Answer: because once found, the coffins had ceased to have meaning for their creator. They’d been memorials, never meant to be found or associated with the Burke and Hare killings …