Ian Rankin: The Falls

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.