Ian Rankin: The Falls

‘Tea would be wonderful.’

‘I can’t promise any sense of wonder from PG tea-bags.’ His smile was fixed.

‘And afterwards, maybe I could see Kennet Lovell’s table.’

‘But of course. It’s in the dining room. Bought from a reputable dealer, though I admit they couldn’t be categorical about its provenance — caveat emptor , as they say, but they were fairly persuasive, and I was willing to believe.’ He had taken his glasses off to give them a polish with his handkerchief. When he slipped them on again, his eyes seemed magnified. ‘Tea,’ he repeated, making for the hallway. She followed him out.

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked.

‘Ever since Anne passed on. The house held too many memories.’

‘That’s thirty years then?’

‘Almost.’ He was in the kitchen now. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he said.

‘Fine.’ She started to retrace her steps back to the living room. The summer of ’72, his wife had died... She passed an open doorway: the dining room. The table filled almost the whole space. A completed jigsaw lay on top of it... no, not quite complete: missing just the one piece. Edinburgh, an aerial photograph. The table itself was a plain enough design. She walked into the room, studied the table’s surface of polished wood. The legs were sturdy, lacking any ornamental flourishes. Utilitarian, she thought. The incomplete jigsaw must have taken hours... days. She crouched down, seeking the missing piece. There it was: almost completely hidden beneath one of the legs. As she reached for it, she saw that the table boasted one nice, secretive touch. Where the two leaves met in the middle, there was a central element, and into this a small cupboard had been inserted. She’d seen similar designs before, but not from as far back as the nineteenth century. She wondered if Professor Devlin had been duped into buying something from much later than Lovell’s period... She squeezed into the narrow confines so that she could open the cupboard. It was stiff, and she almost gave up, but then it clicked open, revealing its contents.

A plane, set-square and chisels.

A small saw and some nails.

Woodwork tools .

When she looked up, Professor Devlin was filling the doorway.

‘Ah, the missing piece,’ was all that he said...

Ellen Wylie had heard reports of the funeral, how Ranald Marr had suddenly turned up and been embraced by John Balfour. The talk at West End was that Marr had been brought in for questioning but then released.

‘Stitch-up,’ Shug Davidson had commented. ‘Somebody somewhere’s pulling strings.’

He hadn’t looked at her as he’d said it, but then he hadn’t needed to. He knew... and she knew. Pulling strings : wasn’t that what she’d thought she was doing when she met with Steve Holly? But somehow he’d become the puppeteer, making her the marionette. Carswell’s speech to the troops had cut into her like a knife, not just nicking the skin but radiating pain through her whole body. When they’d all been called into the office, she’d half hoped her silence would give her away. But then Rebus had stepped in, taken the whole thing upon himself, leaving her feeling worse than ever.

Shug Davidson knew it... and though Shug was a colleague and mate, he was also a friend of Rebus’s. The pair of them went way back. Now, every time he made some remark she found herself analysing it, seeking the sub-text. She couldn’t concentrate, and her home station, which she’d seen so recently as a refuge, had become inhospitable and alien.

Which was why she’d made the trip to St Leonard’s, only to find the CID suite all but deserted. A suit-carrier, hanging from one of the coat pegs, told her that at least one officer had been at the funeral, returning here to change back into work clothes. She guessed Rebus, but couldn’t be certain. There was a plastic bag beside his desk, one of the coffins inside. All that work, and no case to show for it. The autopsy notes were sitting on the desk, waiting for someone to follow the instructions left on them. She lifted the note from the top, sat down in Rebus’s chair. Without really meaning to, she found herself untying the ribbon which held the notes together. Then she opened the first file and started to read.

She’d done this before, of course; or rather, Professor Devlin had, while she’d sat by his side taking note of his findings. Slow work, yet she realised now that she’d enjoyed it — the notion that there might be some case hidden in the midst of those typewritten pages; the sense of working on the edge of things, a not-quite-investigation; and Rebus himself, as driven as the rest of them put together, biting down on a pen as he concentrated, or furrowing his brow, or stretching suddenly, unlocking his neck. He had this reputation as a loner, yet he’d been happy to delegate, happy to share the work with her. She’d accused him of pitying her, but she didn’t really believe that. He did have a martyr complex, but it seemed to work for him... and for everyone else.

Skimming the pages now, she realised finally why she’d come: she wanted to apologise in some way he’d understand... And then she looked up and he was standing not four yards away, watching her.

‘How long have you been there?’ she asked, dropping a couple of the pages.

‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing.’ She picked up the sheets. ‘I was just... I don’t know, maybe one final look before it all went back into the storeroom. How was the funeral?’

‘A funeral’s a funeral, no matter who they’re burying.’

‘I heard about Marr.’

He nodded, walked into the room.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘I was hoping Siobhan might be here.’ He walked over to her desk, hoping for some clue... something, anything .

‘I wanted to see you,’ Ellen Wylie said.

‘Oh?’ He turned away from Siobhan’s desk. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘Maybe to thank you.’

Their eyes met, communicating without words.

‘Don’t worry about it, Ellen,’ Rebus said at last. ‘I mean it.’

‘But I got you into trouble.’

‘No, you didn’t. I got myself into trouble, and maybe made things worse for you too. If I’d stayed quiet, I think you’d have spoken up.’

‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But I could have spoken up anyway.’

‘I didn’t make it any easier, for which I apologise.’

She had to stifle a smile. ‘There you go again, turning the tables. It’s me who’s supposed to be saying sorry.’

‘You’re right; I can’t help it.’ There was nothing on or in Siobhan’s desk.

‘So what do I do now?’ she asked. ‘Talk it through with DCS Templer?’

He nodded. ‘If that’s what you want. Of course, you could just keep quiet about it.’

‘And let you take the flak?’

‘Who says I don’t like it?’ The phone rang and he snatched at it. ‘Hello?’ Suddenly his face relaxed. ‘No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a...?’ He put the receiver down. ‘Someone for Silvers; no message.’

‘You’re expecting a call?’

He rubbed a hand against the grain of the day’s stubble. ‘Siobhan’s gone walkabout.’

‘In what sense?’

So he told her. Just as he was finishing, a phone on one of the other desks started ringing. He got up and answered it. Another message. He got a pen and a scrap of paper and started writing it down.

‘Yes... yes,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll stick it on his desk. No promises when he’ll see it though.’ While he’d been on the phone, Ellen Wylie had been flicking through the autopsy stuff again. As he put the receiver down, he saw her lower her face towards one of the files, as though trying to read something.