The Falls (3 page)

‘Maybe you’re just a sucker for a pretty face.’

She snorted, fished the tea-bag out and tipped it into the waste-bin. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘So what’s
your
thinking?’

‘Press conference tomorrow,’ Rebus reminded her. ‘Reckon we can persuade Mr Costello to make a public appeal?’

Two detectives from Gayfield Square had the evening shift. Rebus headed home and started to fill a bath. He felt like a long soak, and squeezed some washing-up liquid under the hot tap, remembering it was something his parents had done for him when he was a kid. You came in muddy from the football pitch, and it was a hot bath with washing-up liquid. It wasn’t that the family couldn’t afford bubble-bath: ‘It’s just washing liquid at a posh price,’ his mother had said.

Philippa Balfour’s bathroom had boasted over a dozen different ‘balms’, ‘bathing lotions’ and ‘foaming oils’. Rebus did his own stock-take: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and a single toothbrush, plus a bar of soap. In the medicine cabinet: sticking plasters, paracetamol and a packet of condoms. He looked in the packet – one left. The sell-by was the previous summer. When he closed the cabinet, he met the gaze of his reflection. Grey-faced, hair streaked grey, too. Jowly, even when he stuck out his chin. Tried smiling, saw teeth which had missed their last two appointments. His dentist was threatening to strike him from his list.

‘Get in line, pal,’ Rebus muttered, turning away from the mirror before undressing.

The retirement party for Detective Chief Superintendent ‘Farmer’ Watson had commenced at six. It was actually the third or fourth party of its kind, but was to be the last – and the only official gathering. The Police Club on Leith Walk had been decked out with streamers, balloons and a huge banner which read FROM UNDER ARREST TO A WELL-DESERVED REST. Someone had dumped a bale of straw on the dance-floor, completing the farmyard scene with an inflatable pig and sheep. The bar was doing roaring business when Rebus arrived. He’d passed a trio of departing Big House brass on his way in. Checked his watch: six-forty. They’d given the retiring DCS forty minutes of their valuable time.

There’d been a presentation earlier in the day at St Leonard’s. Rebus had missed it; he’d been babysitting at the time. But he’d heard about the speech made by Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell. Several officers from the Farmer’s previous postings – some now retired themselves – were on hand to say a few words. They’d stuck around for the evening’s proceedings, and looked to have been drinking the afternoon away: ties discarded or hanging limply askew, faces shiny with alcoholic heat. One man was singing, his voice battling the music from the ceiling-mounted loudspeakers.

‘What can I get you, John?’ the Farmer said, leaving his table to join Rebus at the bar.

‘Maybe a small whisky, sir.’

‘Half-bottle of malt over here when you’ve a minute!’ the Farmer roared at the barman, who was busy topping up pints of lager. The Farmer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Rebus. ‘Did you see those buggers from the Big House?’

‘Passed them as I came in.’

‘Bloody orange juices all round, then a quick handshake before home.’ The Farmer was concentrating on not slurring his words, overcompensating as a result. ‘Never really understood the phrase “biscuit-ersed” before, but that’s what those lot were: biscuit-ersed to a man!’

Rebus smiled, told the barman to make it an Ardbeg.

‘A bloody double, mind,’ the Farmer ordered.

‘Been enjoying a drink yourself, sir?’ Rebus asked.

The Farmer blew out his cheeks. ‘Few old pals came to see me off.’ He nodded in the direction of the table. Rebus looked, too. He saw a posse of drunks. Beyond them stood tables spread with a buffet: sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps and peanuts. He saw faces he knew from all the Lothian and Borders Divisional HQs. Macari, Allder, Shug Davidson, Roy Frazer. Bill Pryde was in conversation with Bobby Hogan. Grant Hood was standing next to a couple of Crime Squad officers called Claverhouse and Ormiston, and trying not to look as though he was sucking up to them. George ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers was finding that DC Phyllida Hawes and DS Ellen Wylie weren’t about to fall for his chat-up lines. Jane Barbour from the Big House was exchanging gossip with Siobhan Clarke, who’d at one time been attached to Barbour’s Sex Offences Unit.

‘If anyone knew about this,’ Rebus said, ‘the bad guys would have a field day. Who’s left to mind the store?’

The Farmer laughed. ‘It’s a skeleton crew at St Leonard’s, all right.’

‘Good turn-out. Wonder if I’d get as many at mine.’

‘More, I’d bet.’ The Farmer leaned close. ‘The brass would all be there for a start, just to make sure they weren’t dreaming.’

It was Rebus’s turn to smile. He lifted his glass, toasted his boss. They both savoured their drinks, then the Farmer smacked his lips.

‘How long d’you think?’ he asked.

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’ve not got my thirty yet.’

‘Can’t be long though, can it?’

‘I’m not counting.’ But he was lying: most weeks he thought about it. ‘Thirty’ meant thirty years of service. That was when your pension hit the max. It was what a lot of officers lived for: retirement in their fifties and a cottage by the sea.

‘Here’s a story I don’t often tell,’ the Farmer said. ‘My first week on the force, they had me working the front desk, graveyard shift. This young lad – not even in his teens – comes in, walks straight up to the desk. “I’ve broke my wee sister,” he says.’ The Farmer’s eyes were staring into space. ‘I can see him now, the way he looked, the exact words … “I’ve broke my wee sister.” I hadn’t a clue what he meant. Turned out he’d pushed her down the stairs, killed her.’ He paused, took another gulp of whisky. ‘My first week on the force. Know what my sergeant said? “It can only get better.”’ He forced a smile. ‘I’ve never been sure he was right …’ Suddenly his arms went into the air, the smile broadening into a grin. ‘Here she is! Here she is! Just when I thought I was being stood up.’

His embrace almost swamped DCI Gill Templer. The Farmer planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re not the floor-show by any chance?’ he asked. Then he mimed a slap to his forehead. ‘Sexist language – are you going to report me?’

‘I’ll let it go this time,’ Gill said, ‘in exchange for a drink.’

‘My shout,’ Rebus said. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Long vodka.’

Bobby Hogan was yelling for the Farmer to go settle an argument.

‘Duty calls,’ the Farmer said by way of an apology, before heading unsteadily across the floor.

‘His party piece?’ Gill guessed.

Rebus shrugged. The Farmer’s speciality was naming all the books of the Bible. His record was just under a minute; no way would it be challenged tonight.

‘Long vodka,’ Rebus told the barman. He raised his whisky glass. ‘And a couple more of these.’ He saw Gill’s look. ‘One’s for the Farmer,’ he explained.

‘Of course.’ She was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

‘Fixed a date for your own bash?’ Rebus asked.

‘Which one is that?’

‘I just thought, first female DCS in Scotland … got to be worth a night out, hasn’t it?’

‘I drank a Babycham when I heard.’ She watched the barman dribble angostura into her glass. ‘How’s the Balfour case?’

Rebus looked at her. ‘Is this my new Chief Super asking?’

‘John …’

Funny how that single word could say so much. Rebus wasn’t sure he caught all the nuances, but he caught enough.

John, don’t push this
.

John, I know there’s a history between us, but that’s long dead
.

Gill Templer had worked her arse off to get where she was now, but she was also under the microscope – plenty of people would want her to fail, including some she probably counted as friends.

Rebus just nodded and paid for the drinks, tipping one of the whiskies into the other glass.

‘Saving him from himself,’ he said, nodding towards the Farmer, who was already on to the New Testament.

‘Always the willing martyr,’ Gill said.

A cheer went up as the Farmer’s recitation finished. Someone said it was a new record, but Rebus knew it wasn’t. It was just another gesture, another version of the gold watch or mantel-clock. The malt tasted of seaweed and peat, but Rebus knew that whenever he drank Ardbeg from now on, he’d think of a small boy walking through the doors of a police station …

Siobhan Clarke was making her way across the room.

‘Congratulations,’ she said.

The two women shook hands.

‘Thanks, Siobhan,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe it’ll be you one day.’

‘Why not?’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Glass ceiling’s what truncheons are for.’ She punched her fist into the air above her head.

‘Need a drink, Siobhan?’ Rebus asked.

The two women shared a look. ‘About all they’re good for,’ Siobhan said with a wink. Rebus left the pair of them laughing.

The karaoke started at nine. Rebus went to the toilets and felt the sweat cooling on his back. His tie was already off and in his pocket. His jacket was slung over one of the chairs near the bar. Personnel at the party changed as some headed off, either to prepare for the night shift or because their mobile or pager had news for them. Others arrived, having been home to change out of work clothes. A female officer from the St Leonard’s comms room had turned up in a short skirt, the first time Rebus had seen her legs. A rowdy quartet from one of the Farmer’s postings in West Lothian arrived bearing photos of the Farmer from a quarter-century before. They’d slipped a few doctored prints into the mix, grafting the Farmer’s head on to beefcake bodies, some of them in positions which went several leagues beyond compromising.

Rebus washed his hands, splashing some of the water on to his face and the back of his neck. Then of course there was only an electric hand-drier, so he had to use his handkerchief as a towel. Which was when Bobby Hogan walked in.

‘See you’re bottling it too,’ Hogan said, making for the urinals.

‘Ever heard me sing, Bobby?’

‘We should do a duet: “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”.’

‘We’d be about the only buggers who knew it.’

Hogan chuckled. ‘Remember when it was us that were the young turks?’

‘Long dead,’ Rebus said, half to himself. Hogan thought he’d misheard, but Rebus just shook his head.

‘So who’s next for the golden cheery-bye?’ Hogan asked, ready to head out again.

‘Not me,’ Rebus stated.

‘No?’

Rebus was wiping at his neck again. ‘I can’t retire, Bobby. It would kill me.’

Hogan snorted. ‘Same here. But then the job’s killing me too.’ The two men studied one another, then Hogan winked and yanked open the door. They walked back out into the heat and noise, Hogan opening his arms wide to greet an old friend. One of the Farmer’s cronies pushed a glass towards Rebus.

‘Ardbeg, right?’

Rebus nodded, sucked at where some had spilled on to the back of his hand, then, picturing a small boy with news to impart, raised the glass and downed it.

He took the set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the main door of the tenement block. The keys were shiny new, cut just that day. His shoulder rubbed against the wall as he headed for the stairs, and he kept a tight grip on the banister as he climbed. The second and third shiny keys unlocked the door to Philippa Balfour’s flat.

There was no one inside, and the alarm hadn’t been set. He switched on the lights. The loose rug underfoot seemed to want to wrap itself around his ankles, and he had to fight his way loose, holding on to the wall. The rooms were just as he’d left them, except that the computer was now missing from its desk, having been transferred to the station, where Siobhan was certain someone from Balfour’s Internet service provider could help bypass the password.

In the bedroom, someone had removed the neat pile of David Costello’s clothes from the chair. Rebus presumed the culprit to be Costello himself. He wouldn’t have done so without permission – nothing left the flat unless okayed by the bosses. Forensics would have checked the clothes first, maybe taken samples from them. Already there were rumours of belt-tightening. A case like this, the cost could spiral skywards like smoke.

In the kitchen, Rebus poured himself a big glass of water and went through to sit in the drawing room, pretty much where David Costello had sat. A little of the water dribbled down his chin. The paintings on the walls – framed abstracts – were playing tricks, moving with him as he moved his eyes. He bent down to place the empty glass on the floor, and ended up on his hands and knees. Some bastard had spiked the drinks, only explanation. He turned and sat down, closed his eyes for a moment. MisPers: sometimes you worried in vain; they either turned up, or didn’t want to be found. So many of them … photos and descriptions were always passing through the office, the faces slightly out of focus as though they were in the process of becoming ghosts. He blinked open his eyes and raised them to the ceiling, with its ornate cornicing. Big flats, the New Town had, but Rebus preferred it where he lived: more shops, not quite so smug …

The Ardbeg, it had to’ve been spiked. He probably wouldn’t drink it again. It would come with its own ghost. He wondered what had happened to the boy: had it been accident or design? The boy would be a parent himself these days, maybe even a grandparent. Did he still dream about the sister he’d killed? Did he remember the young, nervous uniform standing behind the reception desk? Rebus ran his hands over the floor. It was bare wood, sanded and sealed. They hadn’t taken the boards up, not yet. He felt for a gap between two planks and dug his nails in, but couldn’t get any purchase. Somehow he knocked the glass and it started rolling, the noise filling the room. Rebus watched it until it stopped in the doorway, progress blocked by a pair of feet.

‘What in the hell’s going on?’

Rebus stood up. The man in front of him was in his mid-forties, hands in the pockets of a three-quarter-length black woollen overcoat. The man opened his stance a little, filling the doorway.

‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.

The man slid a hand from his pocket, angled it towards his ear. He was holding a mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.