The Falls Read Free Page A

the hot tap, remembering it was something his parents had done for him when he was a kid. You came in muddy from the football pitch, and it was a hot bath with washing-up liquid. It wasn’t that the family couldn’t afford bubble-bath: ‘It’s just washing liquid at a posh price,’ his mother had said.
    Philippa Balfour’s bathroom had boasted over a dozen different ‘balms’, ‘bathing lotions’ and ‘foaming oils’. Rebus did his own stock-take: razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and a single toothbrush, plus a bar of soap. In the medicine cabinet: sticking plasters, paracetamol and a packet of condoms. He looked in the packet – one left. The sell-by was the previous summer. When he closed the cabinet, he met the gaze of his reflection. Grey-faced, hair streaked grey, too. Jowly, even when he stuck out his chin. Tried smiling, saw teeth which had missed their last two appointments. His dentist was threatening to strike him from his list.
    ‘Get in line, pal,’ Rebus muttered, turning away from the mirror before undressing.
    The retirement party for Detective Chief Superintendent ‘Farmer’ Watson had commenced at six. It was actually the third or fourth party of its kind, but was to be the last – and the only official gathering. The Police Club on Leith Walk had been decked out with streamers, balloons and a huge banner which read FROM UNDER ARREST TO A WELL-DESERVED REST. Someone had dumped a bale of straw on the dance-floor, completing the farmyard scene with an inflatable pig and sheep. The bar was doing roaring business when Rebus arrived. He’d passed a trio of departing Big House brass on his way in. Checked his watch: six-forty. They’d given the retiring DCS forty minutes of their valuable time.
    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