Ian Rankin - The Falls

‘It wasn’t just that he got on my nerves,’ Hawes conceded.

‘What then?’

‘He gave me the creeps.’

Rebus looked at her. ‘Not the same thing?’

She shook her head. ‘The old-pal act he played with you, that irritated me a bit, because I wasn’t part of it. But the newspaper clipping...’

‘The one on the wall?’

She nodded. ‘ That gave me the creeps.’

‘He’s a pathologist,’ Rebus explained. ‘They’ve thicker skins than most of us.’

She thought about this, and allowed herself a little smile.

‘What?’ Rebus asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, as I was getting up to leave, I couldn’t help noticing a piece of the jigsaw on the floor under the table...’

‘Where it still sits?’ Rebus guessed, smiling too now. ‘With that kind of eye for detail, we’ll make a detective of you yet...’

He pressed the next door-buzzer, and it was back to work.

The news conference took place at the Big House, with a live feed to the inquiry room at Gayfield Square. Someone was trying to clean fingerprints and smears from the TV monitor with a handkerchief, while others tilted the blinds against the afternoon’s sudden burst of sunshine. With the chairs all filled, officers were sitting two and three to a desk. A few of them were taking a late lunch: sandwiches and bananas. There were mugs of tea and coffee, cans of juice. The conversation was muted. Whoever was in charge of the police camera at the Big House, they were coming in for some stick.

‘Like my eight-year-old with the video-cam...’

‘Seen Blair Witch a couple times too many...’

It was true that the camera seemed to be swooping and diving, picking out bodies at waist height, rows of feet, and the backs of chairs.

‘Show’s not started yet,’ a wiser head counselled. It was true: the other cameras, the ones from TV, were still being set up, the invited audience — journalists clutching mobile phones to their ears — still settling. Hard to make out anything that was being said. Rebus stood at the back of the room. A bit too far from the TV, but he wasn’t about to move. Bill Pryde stood next to him, clearly exhausted and just as clearly trying not to show it. His clipboard had become a comforter, and he held it close to his chest, now and then pulling back to look at it, as though fresh instructions might magically have appeared. With the blinds closed, thin beams of light pierced the room, highlighting motes of dust which would otherwise have remained invisible. Rebus was reminded of cinema trips in childhood, the sense of expectation as the projector came to life and the show began.

On the TV, the crowd was settling. Rebus knew the room — a soulless space used for seminars and occasions such as this. One long table sat at the end, a makeshift screen behind it displaying the Lothian and Borders badge. The police video-cam swung round as a door opened and a file of bodies trooped into the room, quieting the hubbub. Rebus could hear the sudden whirr of camera motors. Flashes of illumination. Ellen Wylie first, then Gill Templer, followed by David Costello and John Balfour.

‘Guilty!’ someone in front of Rebus called out as the camera zoomed in on Costello’s face.

The group sat down in front of a sudden array of microphones. The camera stayed with Costello, panning back a little to take in his upper body, but it was Wylie’s voice that came over the loudspeaker, preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us. I’ll just go over the format and some of the rules, before we get started...’

Siobhan was over to Rebus’s left. She was sitting on a desk alongside Grant Hood. Hood was staring at the floor. Maybe he was concentrating on Wylie’s voice: Rebus remembered that the pair of them had worked closely together on the Grieve case a few months before. Siobhan was watching the screen, but her gaze kept wandering elsewhere. She held a bottle of water, and her fingers were busy picking off the label.

She wanted that job, Rebus thought to himself. And now she was hurting. He willed her to turn his way, so he could offer something — a smile or shrug, or just a nod of understanding. But her eyes were back on the screen again. Wylie had finished her spiel, and it was Gill Templer’s turn. She was summarising and updating the details of the case. She sounded confident, an old hand at news conferences. Rebus could hear Wylie clearing her throat again in the background. It seemed to be putting Gill off.

The camera, however, showed no interest in the two CID officers. It was there to concentrate on David Costello, and — to a far lesser extent — Philippa Balfour’s father. The two men sat next to one another, and the camera moved slowly between them. Quick shots of Balfour, then back to Costello. The auto-focus was fine until the cameraman decided to zoom in or out. Then, the picture took a few seconds to clear.

‘Guilty,’ the voice repeated.

‘Want a bet?’ someone else called back.

‘Let’s have a bit of shush,’ Bill Pryde barked. The room fell silent. Rebus gave him a round of mimed applause, but Pryde was looking at his clipboard again, then back to the screen, where David Costello was beginning to speak. He hadn’t shaved, and looked to be in the same clothes as the previous night. He’d unfolded and flattened a sheet of paper against the table-top. But when he spoke, he didn’t glance down at what he’d written. His eyes flitted between cameras, never sure where he should be looking. His voice was dry and thin.

‘We don’t know what happened to Flip, and we desperately want to know. All of us, her friends, her family...’ he glanced towards John Balfour ‘... all those who know and love her, we need to know. Flip, if you’re watching this, please get in touch with one of us. Just so we know you’re... you’ve not come to any harm. We’re worried sick.’ His eyes were shining with the onset of tears. He stopped for a second, bowed his head, then drew himself straight again. He picked up the sheet of paper but couldn’t see anything there that hadn’t been said. He half turned, as if seeking guidance from the others. John Balfour put his hand out to squeeze the younger man’s shoulder, then Balfour himself started speaking, his voice booming as if the microphones might somehow be defective.

‘If anyone’s holding my daughter, please get in touch. Flip has the number for my private mobile phone. I can be reached at any time, day or night. I’d like to talk with you, whoever you are, why ever you’ve done what you’ve done. And if anyone knows Flip’s whereabouts, there’ll be a number onscreen at the end of this broadcast. I just need to know Flip’s alive and well. To people watching this at home, please take a second to study Flip’s photograph.’ A further clicking of cameras as he held up the photo. He turned slowly so every camera could capture the moment. ‘Her name’s Philippa Balfour and she’s just twenty. She’s my daughter. If you’ve seen her, or even just think you may have, please get in touch. Thank you.’

The reporters were ready with their questions, but David Costello was already on his feet and making for the exit.

It was Wylie’s voice again: ‘Not appropriate at this time... I’d like to thank you for your continuing support...’ But the questions battered against her. Meantime the video-cam was back on John Balfour. He looked quite composed, hands clasped on the table in front of him, unblinking as the flashguns threw his shadow on to the wall behind.

‘No, I really don’t...’

‘Mr Costello!’ the journalists were yelling. ‘Could we just ask...?’

‘DS Wylie,’ another voice barked, ‘can you tell us something about possible motives for the abduction?’