She looked at the clue for maybe the fortieth time. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet.’
Afterwards, Siobhan drove Rebus back to St Leonard’s. They were silent for the first few minutes. Traffic was bad. The evening rush hour seemed to start earlier with each passing week.
‘What do you think?’ Siobhan asked.
‘I think we’d have been quicker walking.’
It was pretty much the response she’d expected. ‘Your dolls in boxes, there’s a playful quality to them, isn’t there?’
‘Bloody queer game, if you ask me.’
‘Every bit as queer as running a quiz over the Internet.’
Rebus nodded, but didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t want to be the one seeing a connection here,’ Siobhan added.
‘My department?’ Rebus guessed. ‘The potential’s there though, isn’t it?’
It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘If all the dolls link up.’
‘Give us time,’ Rebus said. ‘Meanwhile, a bit of background on Mr Costello might be in order.’
‘He seemed genuine enough to me. That look on his face when he answered the door, he was terrified something had happened. Besides, background check’s already been done, hasn’t it?’
‘Doesn’t mean we didn’t miss anything. If I remember rightly, Hi-Ho Silvers was given the job, and that bugger’s so lazy he thinks sloth’s an Olympic sport.’ He half turned towards her. ‘What about you?’
‘I try to at least look like I’m doing something.’
‘I mean what are you going to do now?’
‘I think I’m going to head home. Call it a day.’
‘Better be careful, DCS Templer likes her officers to put in a full eight hours.’
‘In that case she owes me... and you too, I shouldn’t wonder. When was the last time you only worked an eight-hour shift?’
‘September, nineteen eighty-six,’ Rebus said, raising a smile.
‘How’s the flat coming on?’
‘Rewiring’s all but finished. The painters are moving in now.’
‘Found somewhere to buy?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s bugging you, isn’t it?’
‘If you want to sell up, that’s your decision.’
He gave her a sour look. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Quizmaster?’ She considered her answer. ‘I could almost enjoy it...’
‘If?’
‘If I didn’t get the sense that he’s enjoying it too.’
‘By manipulating you?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘And if he’s doing it to me, he did it to Philippa Balfour too.’
‘You keep assuming it’s a “he”,’ Rebus said.
‘For convenience only.’ There was the sound of a mobile. ‘Mine,’ Siobhan said, as Rebus reached into his own pocket. Her phone was attached to its own little charger beside the car stereo. Siobhan pressed a button, and an inbuilt microphone and speaker did the rest.
‘Hands-free,’ Rebus said, impressed.
‘Hello?’ Siobhan called out.
‘Is that DC Clarke?’
She recognised the voice. ‘Mr Costello? What can I do for you?’
‘I was just thinking... what you were saying about games and stuff?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I do know someone who’s into all that. Rather, Flip knows someone.’
‘What’s their name?’
Siobhan glanced towards Rebus, but he already had his notepad and pen ready.
David Costello said the name, but his voice broke up halfway through. ‘Sorry,’ Siobhan said. ‘Could you give me that again?’
This time they both caught the name loud and clear: ‘Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan frowned, mouthing the name silently. Rebus nodded. He knew exactly who Ranald Marr was: John Balfour’s business partner, the man who ran Balfour’s Bank in Edinburgh.
The office was quiet. Officers had either clocked off, or were in meetings at Gayfield Square. There’d be shoe-leather patrols out there too, but scaled down now. There was almost no one left to interview. Another day without any sighting of Philippa, and no word from her, no sign that she was still alive. Credit cards and bank balance untouched, friends and family uncontacted. Nothing. Word around the station was, Bill Pryde had thrown a wobbly, sent his clipboard sailing across the open-plan office so that staff had to duck to avoid it. John Balfour had been putting the pressure on, giving media interviews critical of the lack of progress. The Chief Constable had asked for a status report from the ACC, which meant the ACC was on everyone’s back. In the absence of any new leads, they were interviewing people for the second or third time. Everyone was jittery, frayed. Rebus tried calling Bill Pryde at Gayfield, but couldn’t get through. He then placed a call to the Big House and asked to speak to Claverhouse or Ormiston in Crime Squad, Number 2 Branch. Claverhouse picked up.
‘It’s Rebus here. I need a favour.’
‘And what makes you think I’d be daft enough to oblige?’
‘Are your questions always this tough?’
‘Bugger off back under your rock, Rebus.’
‘Nothing I’d like better, but your mum’s adopted it, says it loves her more than you ever did.’ It was the only way to deal with Claverhouse: sarcasm at twelve paces.
‘She’s right, I’m a mean bastard at heart, which brings me back to my first question.’
‘The tough one? Let’s put it this way then: sooner you help me, sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious.’
‘Christ, man, why didn’t you say? Fire away.’
Rebus smiled into the receiver. ‘I need an in.’
‘Who with?’
‘The gardai in Dublin.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Philippa Balfour’s boyfriend. I want a background check.’
‘I put a tenner on him at two-to-one.’
‘Best reason I can think of for helping me out.’
Claverhouse was thoughtful. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Don’t move from that number.’
‘I’ll be here.’
Rebus put the phone down and sat back in his chair. Then he noticed something across the room. It was the Farmer’s old chair. Gill must have turfed it out only for someone to claim it. Rebus wheeled it over to his own desk, made himself comfortable. He thought about what he’d said to Claverhouse: sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious. It had been part of the routine, but a large chunk of him wanted it anyway, wanted that hazy oblivion that only drink could provide. Oblivion: the name of one of Brian Auger’s bands, Oblivion Express. He had their first album somewhere, A Better Land. A bit too jazzy for his taste. When the phone rang, he picked it up, but it was still ringing: his mobile. He fished it from his pocket, put it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘John?’
‘Hello, Jean. I was meaning to call you.’
‘Is this an all right time?’
‘Sure. Has that journo been hassling you?’ His desk phone started ringing: Claverhouse probably. Rebus got up from the Farmer’s chair, walked across the office and out of the door.
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Jean was saying. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging, as you asked. I’m afraid I haven’t found very much.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Well, it’s taken me all day...’
‘I’ll have a look at it tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Tomorrow would be fine.’
‘Unless you’re free tonight...?’
‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘I promised a friend I’d go see her. She’s just had a baby.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We’ll meet tomorrow. Are you okay to come to the station?’
‘Yes.’
They agreed a time and Rebus went back into the CID room, ending the call. He got the feeling she was pleased with him, pleased that he’d asked to meet this evening. It was what she’d been hoping for, some hint that he was still interested, that it wasn’t just work for him.