The Falls by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

silver Celtic brooch. Rebus could imagine her at a ceilidh, being spun during Strip the Willow, her face bearing the same concentration she brought to her work.
    Below the main door flat, down a curving set of external steps, was the ‘garden flat’, so called because the garden at the back of the building came with it. At the front, the stone slabs were covered in more tubs of flowers. There were two windows, with two more at ground level – the place boasted a sub-basement. A pair of wooden doors was set into the wall opposite the entrance. They would lead into cellars beneath the pavement. Though they would have been checked before, Rebus tried opening them both, but they were locked. Hawes checked her notes.
    ‘Grant Hood and George Silvers got there before you,’ she said.
    ‘But were the doors locked or unlocked?’
    ‘I unlocked them,’ a voice called out. They turned to see an elderly woman standing just inside the flat’s front door. ‘Would you like the keys?’
    ‘Yes please, madam,’ Phyllida Hawes said. When the woman had turned back into the flat, she turned to Rebus and made a T shape with the index finger of either hand. Rebus held both his thumbs up in reply.
    Mrs Jardine’s flat was a chintz museum, a home for china waifs and strays. The throw which covered the back of her sofa must have taken weeks to crochet. She apologised for the array of tin cans and metal pots which all but covered the floor of her conservatory – ‘never seem to get round to fixing the roof’. Rebus had suggested they take their tea there: every time he turned round in the living room he feared he was about to send some ornament flying. When the rain started, however, their conversation was punctuated by drips and dollops, and the splashes from the pot nearest Rebus threatened to give him the same sort of soaking he’d have had outside.
    ‘I didn’t know the lassie,’ Mrs Jardine said ruefully. ‘Maybe if I got out a bit more I’d have seen her.’
    Hawes was staring out of the window. ‘You manage to keep your garden neat,’ she said. This was an understatement: the long, narrow garden, slivers of lawn and flowerbed either side of a meandering path, was immaculate.
    ‘My gardener,’ Mrs Jardine said.
    Hawes studied the notes from the previous interview, then shook her head almost imperceptibly: Silvers and Hood hadn’t mentioned a gardener.
    ‘Could we have his name, Mrs Jardine?’ Rebus asked, his voice casually polite. Still, the old woman looked at him with concern. Rebus offered her a smile and one of her own drop scones. ‘It’s just that I might need a gardener myself,’ he lied.
    The last thing they did was check the cellars. An ancient hot-water tank in one, nothing but mould in the other. They waved Mrs Jardine goodbye and thanked her for her hospitality.
    ‘All right for some,’ Grant Hood said. He was waiting for them on the pavement, collar up against the rain. ‘So far we’ve not been offered as much as the time of day.’ His partner was Distant Daniels. Rebus nodded a greeting.
    ‘What’s up, Tommy? Working a double shift?’
    Daniels shrugged. ‘Did a swap.’ He tried to suppress a yawn. Hawes was tapping her sheaf of notes.
    ‘You,’ she told Hood, ‘didn’t do your job.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Mrs Jardine has a gardener,’ Rebus explained.
    ‘We’ll be talking to the bin-men next,’ Hood said.
    ‘We already have,’ Hawes reminded him. ‘And been through the bins, too.’
    The two of them looked to be squaring up. Rebus considered brokering the peace – he was St Leonard’s, same as Hood: he should be sticking up for him – but lit another cigarette instead. Hood’s cheeks had reddened. He was a DC, same rank as Hawes, but she had more years behind her. Sometimes you couldn’t argue with experience, which wasn’t stopping Hood from trying.
    ‘This isn’t helping Philippa Balfour,’ Distant Daniels said at last, stopping the confab dead.
    ‘Well said, son,’ Rebus