Ian Rankin - The falls

The Falls

AN INSPECTOR REBUS NOVEL

IAN RANKIN

An Orion paperback

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Orion
This paperback edition published in 2001 by Orion Books Ltd.
Orion House. 5 Upper St Martin's Lane. London WC2H 9EA

Eighth impression 2004

Copyright 2001 Ian Rankin

The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British library.

All the characters in this book arc fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 75284 405 9

Typeset by Deltatype Ltd. Birkenhead. Merseyside

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd. St Ives plc

To Allan and Euan, who set the ball rolling.

Not my accent - I didn't lose that so much as wipe it off my shoe, as soon as I started to live in England - but rather my own temperament, the prototypically Scottish part of my character that was chippy, aggressive, mean, morbid and, despite my best endeavours, persistently deist. I was, and always would be, a lousy escapee from the unnatural history museum ...

Philip Kerr, 'The Unnatural History Museum'

Contents

You think I killed her, dont you?

He sat well forward on the sofa, head slumped in towards his chest. His hair was lank, long-fringed. Both knees worked like pistons, the heels of his grubby trainers never meeting the floor.

You on anything, David? Rebus asked.

The young man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, dark- rimmed. A lean, angular face, bristles on the unshaved chin. His name was David Costello. Not Dave or Davy: David, hed made that clear. Names, labels, classification: all very important. The media had varied its descriptions of him. He was the boyfriend, the tragic boyfriend, the missing students boyfriend. He was David Costello, 22 or fellow student David Costello, in his early twenties. He shared a flat with Ms Balfour or was a frequent visitor to the disappearance riddle flat.

Nor was the flat just a flat. It was the flat in Edinburghs fashionable New Town, the quarter-million flat owned by Ms Balfours parents. John and Jacqueline Balfour were the numbed family, the shocked banker and his wife. Their daughter was Philippa, 20, a student of art history at the University of Edinburgh. She was pretty, vivacious, carefree, full of life.

And now she was missing.

Detective Inspector John Rebus shifted position, from in front of the marble fireplace to slightly to one side of it. David Costellos eyes followed the move.

The doctor gave me some pills, he said, finally answering the question.

Did you take them? Rebus asked.

The young man shook his head slowly, eyes still on Rebus.

Dont blame you, Rebus said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Knock you out for a few hours, but they dont change anything.

It was two days since Philippaknown to friends and family as Fliphad gone missing. Two days wasnt long, but her disappearance was out of character. Friends had called the flat at around seven in the evening to confirm that Flip would be meeting up with them within the hour at a bar on the South Side. It was one of those small, trendy places which had sprung up around the university, catering to an economic boom and the need for dim lighting and overpriced flavoured vodkas. Rebus knew this because hed walked past it a couple of times on his way to and from his place of work. There was an old-fashioned pub practically next door, with vodka mixers at a pound-fifty. No trendy chairs though, and serving staff who knew their way around a brawl but not a cocktail list.

Seven, seven fifteen, she probably left the flat. Tina, Thst, Camille and Aibie were already on their second round of drinks. Rebus had consulted the files to confirm those names. Trist was short for Tristram, and Aibie was Albert. Trist was with Tina; Aibie was with Camille. Flip should have been with David, but David, she explained on the phone, wouldnt be joining them.

Another bust-up, shed said, not sounding too concerned.

Shed set the flats alarm before leaving. That was another first for Rebusstudent digs with an alarm. And shed done the mortice lock as well as the Yale, leaving the flat secure. Down a single flight of stairs and out into the warm night air. A steep hill separated her from Princes Street. Another climb from there would take her to the Old Town, the South Side. No way shed be walking. But records from her home telephone and mobile had failed to find a match for any taxi firm in the city. So if shed taken one, shed hailed it on the street.

If shed got as far as hailing one.

I didnt, you know, David Costello said.

Didnt what, sir? Didnt kill her.

Nobodys saying you did.

No? He looked up again, directly into Rebuss eyes.

No, Rebus assured him, that being his job after all.

The search warrant ' Costello began.

Its standard, any case of this kind, Rebus explained. It was, too: suspicious disappearance, you checked all the places the person might be. You went by the book: all the paperwork signed, clearance given. You searched the boyfriends flat. Rebus could have added: we do it because nine times out of ten, its someone the victim knows . Not a stranger, plucking prey from the night. It was your loved ones who killed you: spouse, lover, son or daughter. It was your uncle, your closest friend, the one person you trusted. Theyd been cheating on you, or youd cheated them. You knew something, you had something. They were jealous, spurned, needed money.

If Flip Balfour was dead, her body would turn up soon; if she was alive and didnt want to be found, then the job would be more difficult. Her parents had appeared on IW, pleading with her to make contact. Police were at the family home, intercepting calls in case any ransom demand should arrive. Police were wandering through David Costellos flat on the Canongate, hoping to turn up something. And police were herein Flip Balfours flat. They were babysitting David Costellostopping the media from getting too close. This was what the young man had been told, and it was partly true.

Flips flat had been searched the previous day. Costello had keys, even to the alarm system. The phone call to Costellos own flat had come at ten p.m.: Trist, asking if hed heard from Flip, only shed been on her way to Shapiros and hadnt turned up.

Shes not with you, is she?

Im the last person shed come to, Costello had complained.

Heard youd fallen out. What is it this time? Trists voice had been slurred, ever-so-slightly amused. Costello hadnt answered him. Hed cut the call and tried Flips mobile, got her answering service, left a message asking her to phone him. Police had listened to the recording, concentrating on nuance, trying to read falseness into each word or phrase. Trist had phoned Costello again at midnight. The group had been to Flips flat: no one home. Theyd been ringing round, but none of her friends seemed to know anything. They waited until Costello himself arrived at the flat, unlocking it. No sign of Flip inside.

In their minds, she was already a Missing Person, what police called a MisPer, but theyd waited till next morning before calling Flips mother at the family home in East Lothian. Mrs Balfour had wasted no time, dialling 999 immediately. After receiving what she felt was short shrift from the police switchboard, shed called her husband at his London office. John Balfour was the senior partner in a private bank, and if the Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police wasnt a client, someone certainly was: within an hour, officers were on the caseorders from the Big House, meaning Force HQ in Fettes Avenue.