Ian Rankin: The Falls

‘Did they cancel the other room then?’ he asked.

‘They sleep in separate rooms, Inspector.’ Costello looked up from where he’d been tidying the tip of the cigarette against the rim of the makeshift ashtray. ‘Not a crime, is it?’

‘I’m not best placed to judge. My wife left me more years ago than I can remember.’

‘I’ll bet you do remember.’

Rebus smiled again. ‘Guilty.’

Costello rested his head against the back of the futon, stifled a yawn.

‘I should go,’ Rebus said.

‘Finish your coffee at least.’

Rebus had already finished it, but nodded anyway, not about to leave unless pushed out. ‘Maybe she’ll turn up. People do things sometimes, don’t they? Take a notion to head for the hills.’

‘Flip was hardly the hill-heading type.’

‘But she could have had a mind to take off somewhere.’

Costello shook his head. ‘She knew they were waiting for her in the bar. She wouldn’t have forgotten that.’

‘No? Say she’d just met someone else... you know, an impulse thing, like in that advert.’

‘Someone else?’

‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

Costello’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t know. It was one of the things I thought about — whether she’d met someone else.’

‘You dismissed it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because something like that, she’d have told me. That’s the way Flip is: doesn’t matter if it’s a grand’s worth of designer dress or a Concorde flight courtesy of her parents, she can’t keep it to herself.’

‘Likes attention?’

‘Don’t we all, from time to time?’

‘She wouldn’t pull a stunt, would she, just to get us all looking for her?’

‘Fake her own disappearance?’ Costello shook his head, then stifled another yawn. ‘Maybe I should get some sleep.’

‘What time’s the press conference?’

‘Early afternoon. Something to do with catching the main news bulletins.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Don’t be nervous out there, just be yourself.’

Costello stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Who else could I be?’ He made to hand the packet and lighter back to Rebus.

‘Keep them. Never know when you might feel the need.’ He got to his feet. The blood was beating in his skull now, despite the paracetamol. That’s the way Flip is: Costello had spoken of her in the present tense — a casual remark, or something more calculated? Costello stood up too, now, and he was smiling, though without much humour.

‘You never did answer that question, did you?’ he said.

‘I’m keeping an open mind, Mr Costello.’

‘Are you now?’ Costello slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Will I see you at the press conference?’

‘Could be.’

‘And will you be on the lookout for slips of the tongue? Something like your forensic bods?’ Costello’s eyes narrowed. ‘I may be the only suspect, but I’m not stupid.’

‘Then you’ll appreciate we’re on the same side... unless you know differently?’

‘Why did you come here tonight? You’re not on duty, are you?’

Rebus took a step closer. ‘Know what they used to think, Mr Costello? They thought murder victims kept an imprint of their killer on their eyeballs — last thing they ever saw. Some killers, they gouged out the eyes after death.’

‘But we’re not so naïve these days, Inspector, are we? You can’t hope to know someone, to get the measure of them, just from eye contact.’ Costello leaned in towards Rebus, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Take a good long look, because the exhibit’s about to close.’

Rebus met the gaze, returned it. Costello was the first to blink, breaking the spell. Then he turned away and told Rebus to leave. As Rebus made for the door, Costello called out to him. He was wiping the cigarette packet with a handkerchief. He did the same with the lighter, then tossed both items towards Rebus. They fell at his feet.

‘I think your need’s probably greater than mine.’

Rebus stooped to pick them up. ‘Why the handkerchief?’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ Costello said. ‘Evidence can turn up in the strangest places.’

Rebus straightened, decided against saying anything. At the door, Costello called out goodnight to him. Rebus was halfway down the stairwell before he returned the sentiment. He was thinking about the way Costello had wiped both lighter and packet. All the years he’d been on the force, he’d never seen a suspect do anything like that. It had meant Costello was expecting to be set up.

Or, perhaps, that was what it was intended to look like. But it had shown Rebus a side of the young man that was cool and calculating. It showed someone who was capable of thinking ahead...

It was one of those cool, crepuscular days that could have belonged to any of at least three Scottish seasons; a sky like slate roofing and a wind that Rebus’s father would have called ‘snell’. His father had told a story once — many times actually — about walking into a grocer’s in Lochgelly one freezing winter’s morning. The grocer had been standing by the electric fire. Rebus’s father had pointed to the cold cabinet and asked, ‘Is that your Ayrshire bacon?’ to which the grocer had replied, ‘No, it’s my hands I’m heating.’ He’d sworn it was a true story, and Rebus — maybe seven or eight years old — had believed him at the time. But now it seemed an old chestnut of a joke, something he’d heard elsewhere and twisted to his own use.

‘Not often I see you smiling,’ his barista said as she made him a double latte . Those were her words: barista, latte . The first time she’d described her job, she’d pronounced it ‘barrister’, which had led a confused Rebus to ask if she was moonlighting. She worked from a converted police-box at the corner of the Meadows, and Rebus stopped there most mornings on his way to work. ‘Milky coffee’ was his order, which she always corrected to ‘ latte ’. Then he’d add ‘double shot’. He didn’t need to — she knew the order by heart — but he liked the feel of the words.

‘Smiling’s not illegal, is it?’ he said now, as she spooned froth on to the coffee.

‘You’d know better than me.’

‘And your boss would know better than either of us.’ Rebus paid up, punted the change into the marge tub left for tips, and headed for St Leonard’s. He didn’t think she knew he was a cop: you’d know better than me ... it had been said casually, no meaning behind it other than to continue their banter. In turn, he’d made his remark about her boss because the owner of the chain of kiosks had once been a solicitor. But she hadn’t seemed to understand.

At St Leonard’s, Rebus stayed in his car, enjoying a last cigarette with his drink. A couple of vans sat at the station’s back door, waiting for anyone who was being taken to court. Rebus had given evidence in a case a few days ago. He kept meaning to find out what the result had been. When the station door opened, he expected to see the custody line, but it was Siobhan Clarke. She saw his car and smiled, shaking her head at the inevitability of the scene. As she came forwards, Rebus lowered the window.

‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ she said.

‘And a good morning to you too.’

‘Boss wants to see you.’

‘He sent the right sniffer dog.’

Siobhan didn’t say anything, just smiled to herself as Rebus got out of the car. They were halfway across the car park before he heard the words: ‘It’s not a “he” any more.’ He stopped in his tracks.

‘I’d forgotten,’ he admitted.

‘How’s the hangover, by the way? Anything else you might have managed to forget?’