Ian Rankin: The Falls

When asked, Costello could only assume it was Flip’s work. His words: ‘We’d had a falling-out. This was probably her way of dealing with it.’ Yes, they’d had arguments before, but no, she’d never piled up all his stuff, not that he could remember.

John Balfour had travelled to Scotland by private jet — loaned him by an understanding client — and was at the New Town flat almost before the police.

‘Well?’ had been his first question. Costello himself offered an answer: ‘I’m sorry.’

Much had been read into those words by CID officers, discussing the case in private. An argument with your girlfriend turns nasty; next you know, she’s dead; you hide the body but, confronted by her father, innate breeding takes over and you blurt out a semi-confession.

I’m sorry .

So many ways to read those two short words. Sorry we argued; sorry you’ve been troubled; sorry this has happened; sorry I didn’t look after her; sorry for what I’ve done...

And now David Costello’s parents were in town, too. They’d taken two rooms at one of the best hotels. They lived on the outskirts of Dublin. The father, Thomas, was described as ‘independently wealthy’, while the mother, Theresa, worked as an interior designer.

Two rooms: there’d been some discussion back at St Leonard’s as to why they’d need two rooms. But then, when David was their only son, why did they bother to live in an eight-bedroom house?

There’d been even more discussion about what St Leonard’s was doing in a New Town case. The nearest cop shop to the flat was Gayfield Square, but additional officers had been drafted in from Leith, St Leonard’s and Torphichen.

‘Someone’s been pulling strings,’ was the universal view. ‘Drop everything, some posh bit’s done a runner.’

Privately, Rebus didn’t disagree.

‘Do you want anything?’ he said now. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

Costello shook his head.

‘Mind if I...?’

Costello looked at him, seeming not to understand. Then realisation dawned. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s...’ He started to gesture.

‘I know where it is, thanks,’ Rebus said. He closed the door after him and stood for a moment in the hallway, glad to be out of the stifling drawing room. His temples throbbed and the nerves behind his eyes felt stretched. There were sounds coming from the study. Rebus stuck his head round the door.

‘I’m putting the kettle on.’

‘Good idea.’ Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke didn’t take her eyes from the computer screen.

‘Anything?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘I meant—’

‘Nothing yet. Letters to friends, some of her essays. I’ve got about a thousand e-mails to go through. Her password would help.’

‘Mr Costello says she never told him.’

Clarke cleared her throat.

‘What does that mean?’ Rebus asked.

‘It means my throat’s tickly,’ Clarke said. ‘Just milk in mine, thanks.’

Rebus left her and went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and searched for mugs and tea-bags.

‘When can I go home?’

Rebus turned to where Costello was standing in the hall.

‘Might be better if you didn’t,’ Rebus told him. ‘Reporters and cameras... they’ll keep on at you, phoning day and night.’

‘I’ll take the phone off the hook.’

‘Be like being a prisoner.’ Rebus watched the young man shrug. He said something Rebus didn’t catch.

‘Sorry?’

‘I can’t stay here,’ Costello repeated.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know... it’s just...’ He shrugged again, ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead. ‘Flip should be here. It’s almost too much. I keep remembering that the last time we were here together, we were having a row.’

‘What was it about?’

Costello laughed hollowly. ‘I can’t even remember.’

‘This was the day she disappeared?’

‘The afternoon, yes. I stormed out.’

‘You argue a lot then?’ Rebus tried to make the question sound casual.

Costello just stood there, staring into space, head shaking slowly. Rebus turned away, separated two Darjeeling tea-bags and dropped them into the mugs. Was Costello unravelling? Was Siobhan Clarke listening from behind the study door? They were babysitting Costello, yes, part of a team running three eight-hour shifts, but they’d brought him here for another reason, too. Ostensibly, he was on hand to explain names that occurred in Philippa Balfour’s correspondence. But Rebus had wanted him there because just maybe it was the scene of the crime. And just maybe David Costello had something to hide. The betting at St Leonard’s was even money; you could get two-to-one at Torphichen, while Gayfield had him odds-on favourite.

‘Your parents said you could move into their hotel,’ Rebus said. He turned to face Costello. ‘They’ve booked two rooms, so one’s probably going spare.’

Costello didn’t take the bait. He watched the detective for a few seconds more, then turned away, putting his head around the study door.

‘Have you found what you’re looking for?’ he asked.

‘It could take some time, David,’ Siobhan said. ‘Best just to let us get on with it.’

‘You won’t find any answers in there.’ He meant the computer screen. When she didn’t answer, he straightened a little and angled his head. ‘You’re some sort of expert, are you?’

‘It’s something that has to be done.’ Her voice was quiet, as though she didn’t want it to carry beyond the room.

He seemed about to add something, but thought better of it, and stalked back towards the drawing room instead. Rebus took Clarke’s tea through.

‘Now that’s class,’ she said, examining the tea-bag floating in the mug.

‘Wasn’t sure how strong you’d want it,’ Rebus explained. ‘What did you think?’

She considered for a moment. ‘Seems genuine enough.’

‘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.