The Falls by Ian Rankin

collywobbles whenever I happen to be on whichever floor it is.’
    ‘The fourth,’ Burchill said quietly. She was, Siobhan decided, very pretty. Small and slender, with straight brown hair hanging in a pageboy cut. Her chin was dimpled, her cheeks well defined and tinged pink, even in the discreet lighting of the Palm Court. She wore no make-up that Siobhan could see, nor did she need any. She was all muted, pastel shades: jacket and trousers which had probably been called ‘taupe’ in the shop; grey cashmere sweater beneath the jacket, and a russet pashmina fixed at the shoulder with a Rennie Mackintosh brooch. Late forties again. It struck Siobhan that she was the youngest person here by probably fifteen years.
    ‘Jean and I were at school together,’ Gill explained. ‘Then we lost touch and bumped into one another just four or five years back.’
    Burchill smiled at the memory.
    ‘Wouldn’t want to meet anyone I was at school with,’ Harriet Brough said through a mouthful of nuts. ‘Arseholes, the lot of them.’
    ‘More champagne, ladies?’ the waiter said, lifting the bottle from its ice-bucket.
    ‘About bloody time,’ Brough snapped.
*
    Between dessert and coffee, Siobhan headed to the loo. Walking back along the corridor to the brasserie, she met Gill.
    ‘Great minds,’ Gill said with a smile.
    ‘It was a lovely meal, Gill. Are you sure I can’t … ?’
    Gill touched her arm. ‘My treat. It’s not every day I have something worth celebrating.’ The smile melted from her lips. ‘You think your e-mail will work?’ Siobhan just shrugged, and Gill nodded, accepting the assessment. ‘What did you reckon to the press conference?’
    ‘The usual jungle.’
    ‘Sometimes it works,’ Gill mused. She’d had three glasses of wine on top of the champagne, but the only sign that she wasn’t stone-cold sober was a slight tilt to her head and heaviness to her eyelids.
    ‘Can I say something?’ Siobhan asked.
    ‘We’re off duty, Siobhan. Say what you like.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have given it to Ellen Wylie.’
    Gill fixed her with a stare. ‘It should have been you, eh?’
    ‘That’s not what I mean. But to give someone that as their first liaison job …’
    ‘You’d have done it better?’
    ‘I’m not saying that.’
    ‘Then what are you saying?’
    ‘I’m saying it was a jungle and you threw her in there without a map.’
    ‘Careful, Siobhan.’ Gill’s voice had lost all its warmth. She considered for a moment, then sniffed. When she spoke, her eyes surveyed the hallway. ‘Ellen Wylie’s been bending my ear for months. She wanted liaison, and as soon as I could, I gave it to her. I wanted to see if she was as good as she thinks she is.’ Now her eyes met Siobhan’s. Their faces were close enough for Siobhan to smell the wine. ‘She fell short.’
    ‘How did that feel?’
    Gill held up a finger. ‘Don’t push this, Siobhan. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.’ It seemed she was about to say something more, but she merely wagged the finger and forced a smile. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said, sliding past Siobhan and pushing open the door to the loos. Then she paused. ‘Ellen’s no longer liaison officer. I was thinking of asking you …’ The door closed behind her.
    ‘Don’t do me any favours,’ Siobhan said, but she said it to the same closed door. It was as if Gill had hardened overnight, the humiliation of Ellen Wylie an early show of strength. The thing was … Siobhan did want liaison, but at the same time she felt disgusted with herself, because she’d enjoyed watching the press conference. She’d enjoyed Ellen Wylie’s defeat.
    When Gill emerged from the toilets, Siobhan was sitting on a chair in the corridor. Gill stood over her, gazing down.
    ‘The spectre at the feast,’ she commented, turning away.

3
    ‘I was expecting some pavement artist,’ Donald Devlin said. To Rebus’s eyes, he was wearing the exact same clothes as when they’d last met. The