Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

From the pedestrian bridge, she could look down on to the railway tracks and the concourse. Above her was the station’s leaky glass roof. When something plummeted, just on the edge of her vision, she thought she was imagining it. She looked across and saw snow falling. No, not snow: big flakes of glass. There was a hole in the roof, and below on one of the platforms someone was yelling. A couple of taxi drivers had opened their doors, were making for the scene.

Another leaper: that’s what it was. An area of darkness on the platform: it was like staring into a black hole. But really it was a long coat, the coat the leaper had been wearing. Siobhan made for the steps down to the concourse. Passengers were waiting for the sleeper to London. A woman was crying. One of the taxi drivers had taken off his jacket and laid it over the top half of the body. Siobhan moved forward. The other taxi driver put a hand out to stop her.

‘I wouldn’t, love,’ he said. For a moment she misheard him: I wouldn’t love. I wouldn’t love because love makes you weak. I wouldn’t love because your job will kill it dead .

‘I’m a police officer,’ she told him, reaching for her warrant card.

So many people had jumped from North Bridge, the Samaritans had bolted a sign to the parapet. North Bridge connected Old Town Edinburgh to the New Town and passed over the deep gully which housed Waverley Station. By the time Siobhan got there, no one was around. Distant shapes and voices: drinkers heading home. Taxis and cars. If anyone had seen the fall, they hadn’t bothered stopping. Siobhan leaned over the parapet, looked down on Waverley’s roof. Almost directly below was the hole. Through it, she could glimpse movement on the platform. She’d called for assistance, told them to alert the mortuary. She was off duty; let one of the uniforms — Rebus called them woolly suits — deal with it. From the dead man’s clothes, she was assuming he was a tramp. Only you didn’t call them tramps these days, did you? Problem was, she couldn’t think of the right word. Already in her head she was writing her report. Looking around at the empty street, she realised she could just walk away. Leave it to others. Her foot touched something. A plastic carrier bag. She nudged it and felt resistance. Stooping, she picked it up. It was one of the oversized bags you carried skirts or dresses home in. A Jenners bag, no less. The upmarket department store was a couple of minutes’ walk away. She doubted the leaper had ever shopped there. But she guessed his whole life was contained in the bag, so she took it with her back down to Waverley.

She’d dealt with suicides before. People who turned on the gas and sat down next to the fire. Cars left running in locked garages. Pill bottles by the bed, blue lips flecked with white. A CID officer had jumped from Salisbury Crags not so long ago. Plenty of places like that in Edinburgh; no shortage of suicide spots.

‘You could go home, you know,’ a uniform told her. She nodded. The woman officer smiled. ‘So what’s keeping you?’

A good question. It was as if she knew, knew there was so little to go home to.

‘You’re one of DI Rebus’s, aren’t you?’ the uniform asked.

Siobhan glared at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Sorry I spoke.’ Then she turned and walked away. They’d cordoned off the section of platform where the body lay. A doctor had confirmed death, and one of the mortuary vans was getting ready to remove the remains. Station staff were in search of a hose, wanted to get a jet-spray on to the platform. Blood and brains would be washed on to the tracks.

The sleeper passengers had departed, the station readying to close for the night. No taxis now. Siobhan wandered over to the left-luggage lockers. There was a desk there, and a male uniform was emptying the Jenners bag on to it, picking out each item gingerly, as if dealing with contamination.

‘Anything?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Just what you see.’

There had been no form of ID on the deceased, nothing in his pockets but a handkerchief and some coins. Siobhan studied the items on the table. A polythene bread bag seemed to contain a rudimentary wash-kit. There were a few articles of clothing, an old copy of Reader’s Digest . A small transistor radio, its back held on with sticking tape. The day’s evening paper, folded and crumpled...

You’re one of DI Rebus’s . Meaning what? Meaning she’d grown to be like him: a loner, a drifter? Were there just the two types of cop: John Rebus or Derek Linford? And did she have to choose?

A sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper; a child’s lemonade bottle, half-filled with water. More clothing was appearing from the bag, which was all but empty now. The uniform tipped the remnants out. They looked like things the deceased had collected on his travels: a few pebbles, a cheap ring, shoelaces and buttons. A small, thin cardboard box which, from the faded picture on it, had once contained the radio. Siobhan picked it up and shook it, pulled it open and shook out a little book which at first she took for a passport.

‘It’s a passbook,’ the uniform said. ‘Building society.’

‘So it’ll have a name on it,’ Siobhan said.

The uniform opened the book. ‘Mr C. Mackie. There’s an address in the Grassmarket.’

‘And how was Mr Mackie’s investment portfolio doing?’

The uniform turned a couple of pages, angling the passbook as if he was having trouble focusing.

‘Not bad,’ he said at last. ‘Just over four hundred grand in credit.’

‘Four hundred thousand? Looks like the drinks are on him then.’

But the uniform turned the passbook towards her. She reached out and took it. He hadn’t been joking. The tramp being scraped and hosed off platform 11 was worth four hundred thousand pounds.

Tuesday, Rebus was back at St Leonard’s. Chief Superintendent Watson wanted a meeting with him. When he arrived, Derek Linford was already seated, a mug of oily-looking coffee untouched in one hand.

‘Help yourself,’ Watson said.

Rebus raised the beaker he was holding. ‘Already got some, sir.’ Whenever he remembered, he tried to bring half a cup of coffee with him. There was a sign you saw above some bars — ‘Do not ask for credit as a refusal can often offend’. The beaker was Rebus’s way of not giving offence to his senior officer.

When they were all seated, the Chief Super got straight to the point.

‘ Everyone ’s interested in this case: reporters, public, government...’

‘In that order, sir?’ Rebus asked.

Watson ignored him. ‘. . which means I’m going to be keeping closer tabs on you than usual.’ He turned to Linford. ‘John here can be like a bull in a china shop. I’m looking to you to be on matador duty.’

Linford smiled. ‘As long as the bull’s okay about it.’ He looked to Rebus, who stayed quiet.

‘Reporters are foaming at the mouth. The parliament, the elections... dry as dust. Now at last they’ve got a story.’ Watson held up thumb and forefinger. ‘Two stories actually. Couldn’t be any connection, could there?’

‘Between Grieve and the skeleton?’ Linford seemed to consider it, glanced towards Rebus who was busy checking the crease in his left trouser leg. ‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. Not unless Grieve was killed by a ghost.’

Watson wagged a finger. ‘That’s just the sort of thing the journalists are after. Joking’s fine in here, but not outside, understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Linford looked suitably abashed.

‘So what have we got?’

‘We’ve conducted preliminary interviews with the family,’ Rebus answered. ‘Further interviews to follow. Next step is to talk to the deceased’s political agent, then maybe to the local Labour Party.’