‘Well, David?’ Costello asked his son.
‘I’ve no idea what he means.’
‘I mean,’ Rebus said, pretending to check his notes, ‘that Mrs Balfour harboured the thought that you’d somehow poisoned Flip’s mind.’
‘You must have misheard the lady,’ Thomas Costello said. He was bunching his fists again.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Look at the strain she’s been under... doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
‘I think she knew.’ Rebus was still looking at David.
‘It’s right enough,’ he said. He’d lost all interest in the apple. It hung from his hand, the white, exposed flesh already beginning to discolour. His father gave a questioning look. ‘Jacqueline had some notion that I was giving Flip ideas.’
‘What sort of ideas?’
‘That she hadn’t had a happy childhood. That she was remembering it all wrong.’
‘And did you think she was?’ Rebus asked.
‘It was Flip, not me,’ David stated. ‘She’d been having this dream. She was back in London, back at the house there, and running up and down stairs trying to get away from something. Same dream most nights for a fortnight.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Looked in a couple of textbooks, told her it might be to do with repressed memory.’
‘The boy’s lost me,’ Thomas Costello admitted. His son turned his head towards him.
‘Something bad that you’ve managed not to think about. I was quite envious, actually.’ They stared at one another. Rebus thought he knew what David was talking about: growing up with Thomas Costello couldn’t have been easy. Maybe it explained the son’s teenage years...
‘She never explained what that might be?’ Rebus asked.
David shook his head. ‘Probably it was nothing; dreams can have all sorts of meanings.’
‘But Flip believed it?’
‘For a little while, yes.’
‘And told her mother as much?’
David nodded. ‘Who then blamed the whole thing on me.’
‘Bloody woman,’ Thomas Costello hissed. He rubbed his forehead. ‘But then she’s been under a lot of strain, lot of strain...’
‘This was before Flip went missing,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘I don’t mean that: I mean Balfour’s,’ Costello growled. The slight against his son was still fresh.
Rebus frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘Lots of money men in Dublin. You get to hear rumours.’
‘About Balfour’s?’
‘I don’t understand it all myself: overstretched... liquidity ratios... just words to me.’
‘You’re saying Balfour’s Bank is in trouble?’
Costello shook his head. ‘Just a few stories that they might be headed that way if they don’t turn things around. Problem with banking is, it’s all about confidence, isn’t it? Few wild stories can do a lot of damage...’
Rebus got the feeling Costello wouldn’t have said anything, but Jacqueline Balfour’s accusations against his son had tipped the balance. He made his first note of the interview: ‘check Balfour’s’.
He’d had a notion himself: to bring up the matter of father and son’s wild days in Dublin. But David seemed calmer now, his teenage years in the past. And as for his father, well, Rebus had seen intimations of a short temper. He didn’t think he needed a further lesson.
There was silence in the room again.
‘Will that do you for now, Inspector?’ Costello said, making show of reaching into his trousers and drawing out a pocket watch, flipping it open and snapping it closed.
‘Just about,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’
‘Wednesday,’ Costello said.
It was sometimes the case, in a murder inquiry, that the victim was left unburied as long as possible, just in case some new piece of evidence came to light. Rebus reckoned strings had been pulled: John Balfour again, getting his own way.
‘Is it a burial?’
Costello nodded. A burial was good. With a cremation, it wasn’t quite so easy to disinter the body should the need arise...
‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless there’s anything either of you would like to add...?’
There wasn’t. Rebus got to his feet. ‘All right, DS Wylie?’ he said. It was as if she’d been roused from sleep.
Costello insisted on seeing them to the door, shook both their hands. David didn’t get up from his chair. He was lifting the apple to his mouth as Rebus said goodbye.
Outside, the door clicked shut. Rebus stood there for a moment, but couldn’t make out any voices from within. He noticed the next door along was open a couple of inches, Theresa Costello peering out.
‘Everything okay?’ she was asking Wylie.
‘Everything’s fine, madam,’ Wylie told her.
Before Rebus could get there, the door had closed again. He was left wondering whether Theresa Costello felt as trapped as she looked...
In the lift, he told Wylie he’d drop her off.
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m walking.’
‘Sure?’ She nodded, and he checked his watch. ‘Your half-eleven?’ he guessed.
‘That’s right.’ Her voice died away.
‘Well, thanks for all your help.’
She blinked, as though having difficulty taking the words in. He stood in the main lobby and watched her make for the revolving door. A moment later, he followed her out on to the street. She was crossing Princes Street, holding her bag in front of her, almost jogging. She made her way up the side of Fraser’s store, towards Charlotte Square, where Balfour’s had its headquarters. He wondered where she was headed: George Street, or maybe Queen Street? Down into the New Town? The only way to find out was to follow her, but he doubted she would appreciate his curiosity.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered to himself, making for the crossing. He had to wait for the traffic to stop, and only caught sight of her when he reached Charlotte Square: she was over the other side, walking briskly. By the time he was on George Street, he’d lost her. He smiled to himself: some detective. Walked along as far as Castle Street, then doubled back. She could be in one of the shops or cafés. To hell with it. He unlocked the Saab and drove out of the hotel car park.
Some people had their demons. He got the feeling Ellen Wylie was among them. He was a good judge of character that way. Experience always told.
Back in St Leonard’s, he phoned a contact on a Sunday newspaper’s business pages.
‘How sound is Balfour’s?’ he asked, no preamble.
‘I’m assuming you mean the bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘There are rumours in Dublin.’
The journalist chuckled. ‘Ah, rumours, where would the world be without them?’
‘Then there’s no problem?’
‘I didn’t say that. On paper, Balfour’s is ticking along as ever. But there are always margins where figures can be buried.’
‘And?’
‘And their half-year forecast has been revised downwards; not quite enough to give big investors the jitters, but Balfour’s is a loose affiliation of smaller investors. They have a tendency towards hypochondria.’
‘Bottom line, Terry?’
‘Balfour’s should survive, a hostile takeover notwithstanding. But if the balance sheet looks murky at year’s end, there may have to be one or two ritual beheadings.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Who would go?’
‘Ranald Marr, I should think, if only to show that Balfour himself has the ruthlessness necessary for this day and age.’
‘No place for old friendships?’
‘Truth be told, there never was.’
‘Thanks, Terry. A large G and T will be waiting for you behind the bar of the Ox.’
‘It may wait a while.’
‘You on the wagon?’