The Falls (57 page)

So what if someone had left coffins nearby? He couldn’t even be sure it was the same person each time; only had the carpenter’s word for it. And with the autopsy evidence, there was no way to prove any crime had been committed at all … not until the Falls coffin. Another break in the pattern: Flip Balfour was the first victim who could definitely be said to have perished at the hands of an attacker.

He held his head in his hands, felt that if he took them away it might explode. Too many ghosts, too many ifs and buts. Too much pain and grieving, loss and guilt. It was the sort of thing he’d have taken to Conor Leary once upon a night. Now, he didn’t think he had anyone to turn to …

But it was a male voice which answered Jean’s extension. ‘Sorry,’ the man said, ‘she’s been keeping her head down lately.’

‘You’re busy over there then?’

‘Not particularly. Jean’s off on one of her little mystery trips.’

‘Oh?’

The man laughed. ‘I don’t mean a bus tour or anything. She gets these projects going from time to time. They could set off a bomb in the building and Jean would be the last to know.’

Rebus smiled: the man could have been talking about
him
. But Jean hadn’t mentioned that she was busy with anything outside her normal work. Not that it was any of his business …

‘So what’s she up to this time?’ he asked.

‘Mmm, let me see … Burke and Hare, Dr Knox and all that period.’

‘The Resurrectionists?’

‘Curious term that, don’t you think? I mean, they didn’t do much resurrecting, did they, not as any good Christian would understand it?’

‘True enough.’ The man was annoying Rebus; something about his manner, his tone of voice. It even annoyed him that the man was giving information away so easily. He hadn’t even asked who Rebus was. If Steve Holly ever managed to contact this guy, he’d have everything he could possibly want on Jean, probably down to her home address and phone number.

‘But she really seemed to be focusing on this doctor who carried out the post-mortem on Burke. What’s his name again … ?’

Rebus remembered the portrait in Surgeons’ Hall. ‘Kennet Lovell?’ he said.

‘That’s right.’ The man seemed slightly put out that Rebus knew. ‘Are you helping Jean? Want me to leave her a message.’

‘You don’t happen to know where she is?’

‘She doesn’t always confide in me.’

Just as well, Rebus felt like saying. Instead he told the man there was no message, and put down the phone. Devlin had told Jean about Kennet Lovell, expounding his theory that Lovell had left the coffins on Arthur’s Seat. Obviously she was following this up. All the same, he wondered why she hadn’t said anything …

He stared at the desk opposite, the one Wylie had been using. It was piled high with documents. Narrowing his eyes, he rose from his desk and walked over, started lifting piles of paper from the top.

Right at the bottom were the autopsy notes from Hazel Gibbs and Paula Gearing. He’d meant to send them back. In the back room of the Ox, Professor Devlin had specified that they should be returned. Quite right, too. They weren’t doing anyone any good here, and might be lost forever or mis-filed if allowed to be smothered by the paperwork generated by Flip Balfour’s murder.

Rebus placed them on his own desk, then cleared all the extraneous paperwork on to the desk one along. The coffins went back into his bottom drawer, all except the one from Falls, which he placed in a Haddow’s carrier bag. Over at the photocopier, he lifted a sheet of A4 from the tray – it was the only place in the whole CID suite you could ever find spare paper. On it he wrote: COULD SOMEONE PLEASE SEND THESE ON AS SPECIFIED, PREFERABLY BY FRIDAY? CHEERS, J.R.

Looking around, it struck him that although he’d followed Siobhan’s car into the car park, there was no sign of her now.

‘Said she was headed down Gayfield Square,’ a colleague explained.

‘When?’

‘Five minutes ago.’

While he’d been on the phone, listening to gossip.

‘Thanks,’ he said, sprinting out to his car.

There was no quick route to Gayfield Square, so Rebus took a few liberties with traffic lights and junctions. Parking, he couldn’t see her car. But when he dashed indoors, she was standing right there, talking to Grant Hood, who was wearing what looked like another new suit and looking suspiciously tanned.

‘Been out in the sun, Grant?’ Rebus asked. ‘Thought that office of yours at the Big House didn’t have so much as a window?’

Self-consciously, Grant put a hand to his cheek. ‘I might have caught a few rays.’ He made a show of spotting someone across the room. ‘Sorry, got to …’ And he was off.

‘Our Grant’s beginning to worry me,’ Rebus said.

‘What do you reckon: fake tan or one of those sun bed studios?’

Rebus shook his head slowly, unable to decide. Glancing back, catching them watching him, Grant butted into another conversation, as if these were the people he’d wanted to speak to. Rebus eased himself up on to a desk.

‘Anything happening?’ he asked.

‘Ranald Marr’s already been released. All we got out of him was that Flip
did
ask him about that masonic clue.’

‘And his excuse for lying to us … ?’

She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t there, so I can’t say.’ She seemed jumpy.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ She shook her head. ‘Things to do?’ he guessed.

‘That’s right.’

‘Such as?’

‘What?’

He repeated the question. She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but for an officer under suspension, aren’t you spending an awful lot of time in the office?’

‘Something I forgot, I came to retrieve it.’ As the words came out, he realised he
had
forgotten something: the Falls coffin, still in its carrier bag at St Leonard’s. ‘Is there maybe anything
you’ve
forgotten, Siobhan?’

‘Such as?’

‘Forgetting to share your find with the rest of the team.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You did find something then? At Francis Finlay’s grave?’

‘John …’ Her eyes were avoiding his now. ‘You’re off the case.’

‘Maybe so. You, on the other hand, are on the case but off your trolley.’

‘You’ve no right to say that.’ She still wasn’t looking at him.

‘I think I have.’

‘Then prove it.’

‘DI Rebus!’ The voice of authority: Colin Carswell, standing twenty yards away in the doorway. ‘If you’d be so kind as to spare me a moment …’

Rebus looked at Siobhan. ‘To be continued,’ he said. Then he got up and left the room. Carswell was waiting for him in Gill Templer’s cramped office. Gill was there too, standing with arms folded. Carswell was already making himself comfortable behind the desk, eyes showing dismay at the amount of clutter accumulated since his last visit.

‘So, DI Rebus, what can we do for you?’ he asked.

‘Just something I had to pick up.’

‘Nothing contagious, I trust.’ Carswell offered a thin smile.

‘That’s a good one, sir,’ Rebus said coldly.

‘John,’ Gill interrupted, ‘you’re supposed to be at home.’

He nodded. ‘It’s hard though, with all these exciting developments.’ His eyes stayed on Carswell. ‘Like warning Marr he was about to be picked up, and now I hear he was allowed ten minutes with John Balfour before we interviewed him. Good calls, sir.’

‘Sticks and stones, Rebus,’ Carswell said.

‘You name the time and place.’

‘John …’ Gill Templer again. ‘I don’t think this is going to get us anywhere, do you?’

‘I want back on the case.’

Carswell just snorted. Rebus turned to Gill.

‘Siobhan’s playing a wild card. I think she’s back in touch with Quizmaster, maybe for a meet.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Call it an educated guess.’ He glanced towards Carswell. ‘And before you make some gag about intelligence not being my strong point, let me agree with you. But on this, I think I’m right.’

‘He’s sent another clue?’ Gill was hooked.

‘At the churchyard this morning.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘One of the mourners?’

‘It could have been left any time. Thing is, Siobhan’s been wanting a meeting.’

‘And?’

‘And she’s standing around in the Inquiry Room, just biding her time.’

Gill nodded slowly. ‘If it was a new clue, she’d be busy trying to work it out …’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ Carswell broke in. ‘How do we know any of this? You saw her pick up some clue?’

‘The last one was leading us to a particular grave. She crouched in front of the headstone …’

‘And?’

‘And that’s when I think she picked up the clue.’

‘You didn’t see her do it?’

‘She crouched down …’

‘But you didn’t see her do it?’

Sensing another confrontation brewing, Gill stepped in. ‘Why don’t we just bring her in here and ask her?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll fetch her.’ He paused. ‘With your permission, sir?’

Carswell sighed. ‘Go on then.’

But out in the Inquiry Room, there was no sign of Siobhan. Rebus walked the corridors, asking for her. At the drinks machine, someone said she’d just gone past. Rebus quickened his pace, hauled open the doors to the outside world. No sign of her on the pavement; no sign of her car. He wondered if she’d parked further away, looked to left and right. Busy Leith Walk one way, and the narrow streets of the New Town’s east end the other. If he headed into the New Town, her flat was five minutes away, but instead he went back indoors.

‘She’s gone,’ he told Gill. Catching his breath, he noticed Carswell was missing. ‘Where’s the ACC?’

‘Summoned to the Big House. I think the Chief Constable wanted a word.’

‘Gill, we’ve got to find her. Get some bodies out there.’ He nodded towards the Inquiry Room. ‘It’s not like they’re setting the world on fire in here.’

‘Okay, John, we’ll find her, don’t worry. Maybe Brains knows where she’s gone.’ She lifted the receiver. ‘We’ll start with him …’

But Eric Bain seemed as elusive as Siobhan. He was known to be somewhere in the Big House, but nobody knew exactly where. Meantime, Rebus tried Siobhan’s home number and mobile. He got her answering machine at the former, a recorded message at the latter, telling him the phone was in use. When he tried five minutes later, it was still in use. By that time, he was using his own mobile, walking downhill to Siobhan’s street. He tried her buzzer, with no response. Crossed the road and stared at her window for so long that passers-by started looking up too, wondering what he could see that they couldn’t. Her car wasn’t parked kerbside, nor was it in any of the surrounding streets.

Gill had already left a message with Siobhan’s pager, asking for an urgent call-back, but Rebus had wanted more, and eventually she’d agreed: patrols would be on the lookout for her car.

But now, standing outside her flat, it struck Rebus that she could be
anywhere
, not just inside the city boundary. Quizmaster had taken her to Hart Fell and Rosslyn Chapel. No telling where he’d choose for a rendezvous. The more isolated it was, the more danger Siobhan was in. He felt like punching himself in the face: he should have dragged her into that meeting with him, not given her the chance to do a runner … He tried her mobile again: still engaged. Nobody made a call that long on their mobile, way too expensive. Then, suddenly, he knew what it was: her mobile was hooked to Grant Hood’s laptop. Even now, she could be telling Quizmaster she was on her way …

Siobhan had parked her car. Two hours yet till the time Quizmaster had suggested. She reckoned she could lie low till then. The pager message from Gill Templer had told her two things: one was that Rebus had told Gill everything; two, that if she ignored Gill’s order, she’d have some explaining to do.

Explaining? She was having trouble doing that even to herself. All she knew was that the game – and she knew it wasn’t
just
a game; was something potentially much more dangerous – but all the same it had gotten to her. Quizmaster, whoever he or she turned out to be, had gotten to her, to the extent that she could think of little else. The daily clues and puzzles, she missed them, would gladly take on more of them. But more than that, she wanted to
know
, know everything there was to know about Quizmaster and the game. Stricture had impressed her, because Quizmaster had to have suspected that she would be present at the funeral, and that the clue would only start making sense to her at Flip’s graveside. Stricture indeed … but she felt the word applied to her, too, because she felt bound by the game, tied to it and to identifying its creator. And at the same time she felt almost smothered by it. Was Quizmaster present at the funeral? Had he – or
she
(remembering Bain’s advice to keep an open mind) – seen Siobhan pick up the note? Maybe … The thought made her shiver. But then, the funeral had been announced in the media. Maybe Quizmaster had found out that way. It was the nearest cemetery to Flip’s home; a good chance she’d be interred there …

None of which explained why she was doing what she was doing, going out on her own fragile limb like this. It was the sort of stupid thing she regularly chastised Rebus for. Maybe Grant had decided it for her, Grant who had shown himself a ‘company player’, with his suits and his tan, looking good on TV – good PR for the force.

One game she knew she didn’t want to play.

Many times she’d crossed the line, but always crossing back again. She’d break a rule or two, but nothing important, nothing career-threatening, and then hop back into the fold. She wasn’t a born outsider in the way she sensed John Rebus was, but she’d learned that she liked it on his side of the fence, liked it better than becoming a Grant or a Derek Linford … people who played their own games, doing anything it took to keep in with the men who mattered, men like Colin Carswell.

At one time, she’d thought maybe she could learn from Gill Templer, but Gill had become just like the others. She had her own interests to protect, whatever that took. In order to rise, she’d had to take on the worst attributes of someone like Carswell, while wrapping her own feelings inside some sort of reinforced box.

If rising through the ranks meant losing a part of herself, Siobhan didn’t want it. She’d known as much back at the dinner in Hadrian’s, when Gill had hinted at things to come.