‘Did she show you it?’ Rebus asked, knowing fine well the answer. The Falls coffin was locked away with the others at St Leonard’s.
The tourist shook his head in disappointment. ‘Police are holding on to it.’
Rebus nodded. ‘So where’s your next stop?’
‘Thought we’d go look at Junipers,’ his wife said. ‘Always supposing we can find it. Took us half an hour to find this place.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘They don’t believe in signposts out here, do they?’
‘I know where Junipers is.’ Rebus spoke authoritatively. ‘You head back down the lane, left through the town. There’s a housing scheme on the right called Meadowside. Drive into it and you’ll see Junipers just beyond.’
The man beamed. ‘Magic, thanks a lot.’
‘No problem,’ Rebus told him. The tourists waved their goodbyes, eager to be back on the trail.
Siobhan sidled over towards Rebus. ‘Completely erroneous?’
‘They’ll be lucky to get out of Meadowside with four tyres still on their car.’ He grinned at her. ‘My good deed for the day.’
Back in the car, Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘How do you want to play this?’
‘First off, I want to know if Marr’s a Mason.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll handle that.’
‘Then I think we dive straight in with Hugo Benzie.’
Rebus was still nodding. ‘Which one of us asks the questions?’
Siobhan sat back. ‘Let’s play it by ear, see which one of us Marr prefers.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘You don’t agree?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s almost exactly what I’d have said, that’s all.’
She turned towards him, held his eyes. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
Rebus’s face cracked into a smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide,’ he said, turning the ignition.
The gates at Junipers were being protected by two uniforms, including Nicola Campbell, the WPC he’d met on his first visit. A lone reporter had parked his car on the verge across the road. He was drinking something from a flask, watched Rebus and Siobhan draw up at the gates, then went back to his crossword. Rebus wound down his window.
‘No more phone taps?’ he asked.
‘Not now there’s no kidnap,’ Campbell replied.
‘What about Brains?’
‘Back at the Big House: something came up.’
‘I see there’s one vulture.’ Rebus meant the reporter. ‘Any ghouls?’
‘A few.’
‘Well, a couple more may be on their way. Who’s up there?’ Rebus pointed through the gates.
‘DCS Templer, DC Hood.’
‘Planning the next press conference,’ Siobhan guessed.
‘Who else?’ Rebus asked Campbell.
‘The parents,’ she told him, ‘house staff... someone from the funeral home. And a family friend.’
Rebus nodded. He turned to Siobhan. ‘Wonder if we’ve talked to the staff: sometimes they see and hear things...’ Campbell was opening the gates.
‘DS Dickie interviewed them,’ Siobhan said.
‘Dickie?’ Rebus put the car into gear, crawled through the gates. ‘That clock-watching wee nyaff?’
She looked at him. ‘You want to do it all yourself, don’t you?’
‘Because I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.’
‘Thanks very much.’
He took his eyes off the windscreen. ‘There are exceptions,’ he said.
Four cars were parked in the driveway outside the house, the same driveway Jacqueline Balfour had come stumbling down, thinking Rebus her daughter’s abductor.
‘Grant’s Alfa,’ Siobhan commented.
‘Chauffeuring the boss.’ Rebus guessed that the black Volvo S40 belonged to the funeral home, leaving a bronze Maserati and a green Aston Martin DB7. He couldn’t decide which belonged to Ranald Marr and which to the Balfours, and said as much.
‘The Aston’s John Balfour’s,’ Siobhan told him. He looked at her.
‘Is that a guess?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘It’s in the notes.’
‘You’ll be telling me his shoe size next.’
A maid answered the door. They showed their warrant cards and were ushered into the hall. The maid headed off without saying anything. Rebus had never really seen anyone walking on tiptoe before. No voices could be heard anywhere.
‘This place is straight out of Cluedo,’ Siobhan murmured, studying the wood panelling, the paintings of Balfours past. There was even a suit of armour at the foot of the stairs. A stack of unopened mail sat on a table next to the armour. The same door the maid had disappeared through was opening now. A tall, middle-aged and efficient-looking woman walked towards them. Her face was composed but unsmiling.
‘I’m Mr Balfour’s personal assistant,’ she said in a voice not much above a whisper.
‘It’s Mr Marr we were hoping to talk to.’
She bowed her head to acknowledge as much. ‘But you must appreciate that this is an extremely difficult time...’
‘He won’t talk to us?’
‘It’s not a case of “won’t”.’ She was becoming irritated.
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Tell you what then, I’ll just go tell Detective Chief Superintendent Templer that Mr Marr is holding up our inquiry into Miss Balfour’s murder. If you could show me the way...?’
She stared daggers at him, but Rebus wasn’t about to blink, never mind flinch.
‘If you’ll wait here,’ she said finally. When she spoke, Rebus saw her teeth for the first time. He managed a polite ‘thank you’ as she headed back towards the door.
‘Impressive,’ Siobhan commented.
‘Her or me?’
‘The general combat.’
He nodded. ‘Two more minutes, I’d have been reaching for that suit of armour.’
Siobhan walked over to the table and flicked through the mail. Rebus joined her.
‘Thought we’d have been opening it,’ he said, ‘looking for ransom demands.’
‘We probably were,’ Siobhan answered, studying the postmarks. ‘But this is all yesterday’s and today’s.’
‘Keeping the postman busy.’ Several of the envelopes were card-sized and black-edged. ‘Hope the PA opens them.’
Siobhan nodded. Ghouls again, for whom the death of someone well known was an invitation to become obsessed. You never knew who’d be sending a condolence card. ‘It should be us checking them.’
‘Good point.’ After all, the killer could be a ghoul, too.
The door opened again. This time, Ranald Marr, in black suit and tie, white shirt, strode towards them, looking upset by the interruption.
‘What is it this time?’ he asked Siobhan.
‘Mr Marr?’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘DI Rebus. I just want to say how sorry we are that we’ve had to intrude.’
Marr, accepting the apology, also accepted Rebus’s hand. Rebus had never joined ‘the craft’, but his father had taught him the handshake one drunken night, back when Rebus had been in his teens.
‘As long as it’s not going to take long,’ Marr said, pushing for advantage.
‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’
‘Along here.’ Marr led them into one of two hallways. Rebus caught Siobhan’s eye and nodded, answering her question. Marr was a Mason. She pursed her lips, looked thoughtful.
Marr had opened another door, leading into a large room filled with a wall-length bookcase and a full-size billiard table. When he flicked on the lights — the room, like the rest of the house, was curtained in a show of mourning — the green baize was illuminated. Two chairs sat against one wall, a small table between them. On the table sat a silver tray laid with a decanter of whisky and some crystal tumblers. Marr sat down and poured himself a drink. He gestured towards Rebus, who shook his head, Siobhan likewise. Marr raised his glass.