invisible. Rebus was reminded of cinema trips in childhood, the sense of expectation as the projector came to life and the show began.
On the TV, the crowd was settling. Rebus knew the room – a soulless space used for seminars and occasions such as this. One long table sat at the end, a makeshift screen behind it displaying the Lothian and Borders badge. The police video-cam swung round as a door opened and a file of bodies trooped into the room, quieting the hubbub. Rebus could hear the sudden whirr of camera motors. Flashes of illumination. Ellen Wylie first, then Gill Templer, followed by David Costello and John Balfour.
‘Guilty!’ someone in front of Rebus called out as the camera zoomed in on Costello’s face.
The group sat down in front of a sudden array of microphones. The camera stayed with Costello, panning back a little to take in his upper body, but it was Wylie’s voice that came over the loudspeaker, preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us. I’ll just go over the format and some of the rules, before we get started …’
Siobhan was over to Rebus’s left. She was sitting on a desk alongside Grant Hood. Hood was staring at the floor. Maybe he was concentrating on Wylie’s voice: Rebus remembered that the pair of them had worked closely together on the Grieve case a few months before. Siobhan was watching the screen, but her gaze kept wandering elsewhere. She held a bottle of water, and her fingers were busy picking off the label.
She wanted that job, Rebus thought to himself. And now she was hurting. He willed her to turn his way, so he could offer something – a smile or shrug, or just a nod of understanding. But her eyes were back on the screen again. Wylie had finished her spiel, and it was Gill Templer’s turn. She was summarising and updating the details of the case. She sounded confident, an old hand at news conferences. Rebus could hear Wylie clearing her throat again in the background. It seemed to be putting Gill off.
The camera, however, showed no interest in the two CID officers. It was there to concentrate on David Costello, and – to a far lesser extent – Philippa Balfour’s father. The two men sat next to one another, and the camera moved slowly between them. Quick shots of Balfour, then back to Costello. The auto-focus was fine until the cameraman decided to zoom in or out. Then, the picture took a few seconds to clear.
‘Guilty,’ the voice repeated.
‘Want a bet?’ someone else called back.
‘Let’s have a bit of shush,’ Bill Pryde barked. The room fell silent. Rebus gave him a round of mimed applause, but Pryde was looking at his clipboard again, then back to the screen, where David Costello was beginning to speak. He hadn’t shaved, and looked to be in the same clothes as the previous night. He’d unfolded and flattened a sheet of paper against the table-top. But when he spoke, he didn’t glance down at what he’d written. His eyes flitted between cameras, never sure where he should be looking. His voice was dry and thin.
‘We don’t know what happened to Flip, and we desperately want to know. All of us, her friends, her family …’ he glanced towards John Balfour ‘… all those who know and love her, we need to know. Flip, if you’re watching this, please get in touch with one of us. Just so we know you’re … you’ve not come to any harm. We’re worried sick.’ His eyes were shining with the onset of tears. He stopped for a second, bowed his head, then drew himself straight again. He picked up the sheet of paper but couldn’t see anything there that hadn’t been said. He half turned, as if seeking guidance from the others. John Balfour put his hand out to squeeze the younger man’s shoulder, then Balfour himself started speaking, his voice booming as if the microphones might somehow be defective.
‘If anyone’s holding my daughter, please get in touch. Flip has
On the TV, the crowd was settling. Rebus knew the room – a soulless space used for seminars and occasions such as this. One long table sat at the end, a makeshift screen behind it displaying the Lothian and Borders badge. The police video-cam swung round as a door opened and a file of bodies trooped into the room, quieting the hubbub. Rebus could hear the sudden whirr of camera motors. Flashes of illumination. Ellen Wylie first, then Gill Templer, followed by David Costello and John Balfour.
‘Guilty!’ someone in front of Rebus called out as the camera zoomed in on Costello’s face.
The group sat down in front of a sudden array of microphones. The camera stayed with Costello, panning back a little to take in his upper body, but it was Wylie’s voice that came over the loudspeaker, preceded by a nervous clearing of the throat.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us. I’ll just go over the format and some of the rules, before we get started …’
Siobhan was over to Rebus’s left. She was sitting on a desk alongside Grant Hood. Hood was staring at the floor. Maybe he was concentrating on Wylie’s voice: Rebus remembered that the pair of them had worked closely together on the Grieve case a few months before. Siobhan was watching the screen, but her gaze kept wandering elsewhere. She held a bottle of water, and her fingers were busy picking off the label.
She wanted that job, Rebus thought to himself. And now she was hurting. He willed her to turn his way, so he could offer something – a smile or shrug, or just a nod of understanding. But her eyes were back on the screen again. Wylie had finished her spiel, and it was Gill Templer’s turn. She was summarising and updating the details of the case. She sounded confident, an old hand at news conferences. Rebus could hear Wylie clearing her throat again in the background. It seemed to be putting Gill off.
The camera, however, showed no interest in the two CID officers. It was there to concentrate on David Costello, and – to a far lesser extent – Philippa Balfour’s father. The two men sat next to one another, and the camera moved slowly between them. Quick shots of Balfour, then back to Costello. The auto-focus was fine until the cameraman decided to zoom in or out. Then, the picture took a few seconds to clear.
‘Guilty,’ the voice repeated.
‘Want a bet?’ someone else called back.
‘Let’s have a bit of shush,’ Bill Pryde barked. The room fell silent. Rebus gave him a round of mimed applause, but Pryde was looking at his clipboard again, then back to the screen, where David Costello was beginning to speak. He hadn’t shaved, and looked to be in the same clothes as the previous night. He’d unfolded and flattened a sheet of paper against the table-top. But when he spoke, he didn’t glance down at what he’d written. His eyes flitted between cameras, never sure where he should be looking. His voice was dry and thin.
‘We don’t know what happened to Flip, and we desperately want to know. All of us, her friends, her family …’ he glanced towards John Balfour ‘… all those who know and love her, we need to know. Flip, if you’re watching this, please get in touch with one of us. Just so we know you’re … you’ve not come to any harm. We’re worried sick.’ His eyes were shining with the onset of tears. He stopped for a second, bowed his head, then drew himself straight again. He picked up the sheet of paper but couldn’t see anything there that hadn’t been said. He half turned, as if seeking guidance from the others. John Balfour put his hand out to squeeze the younger man’s shoulder, then Balfour himself started speaking, his voice booming as if the microphones might somehow be defective.
‘If anyone’s holding my daughter, please get in touch. Flip has
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