the number for my private mobile phone. I can be reached at any time, day or night. I’d like to talk with you, whoever you are, why ever you’ve done what you’ve done. And if anyone knows Flip’s whereabouts, there’ll be a number onscreen at the end of this broadcast. I just need to know Flip’s alive and well. To people watching this at home, please take a second to study Flip’s photograph.’ A further clicking of cameras as he held up the photo. He turned slowly so every camera could capture the moment. ‘Her name’s Philippa Balfour and she’s just twenty. She’s my daughter. If you’ve seen her, or even just think you may have, please get in touch. Thank you.’
The reporters were ready with their questions, but David Costello was already on his feet and making for the exit.
It was Wylie’s voice again: ‘Not appropriate at this time … I’d like to thank you for your continuing support …’ But the questions battered against her. Meantime the video-cam was back on John Balfour. He looked quite composed, hands clasped on the table in front of him, unblinking as the flashguns threw his shadow on to the wall behind.
‘No, I really don’t …’
‘Mr Costello!’ the journalists were yelling. ‘Could we just ask …?’
‘DS Wylie,’ another voice barked, ‘can you tell us something about possible motives for the abduction?’
‘We don’t have any motives yet.’ Wylie was sounding flustered.
‘But you accept that it is an abduction?’
‘I don’t … no, that’s not what I meant.’
The screen showed John Balfour trying to answer someone else’s question. The ranks of reporters had become a scrum.
‘Then what did you mean, DS Wylie?’
‘I just … I didn’t say anything about …’
And then Ellen Wylie’s voice was replaced by Gill Templer’s. The voice of authority. The reporters knew her of old, just as she knew them.
‘Steve,’ she said, ‘you know only too well that we can’t speculate on details like that. If you want to make up lies just to sell a few more papers, that’s your concern, but it’s hardly respectful to Philippa Balfour’s family and friends.’
Further questions were handled by Gill, who insisted on some calm beforehand. Although Rebus couldn’t see her, he imagined Ellen Wylie would be shrinking visibly. Siobhan was moving her feet up and down, as though all of a sudden some adrenalin had kicked in. Balfour interrupted Gill to say that he’d like to respond to a couple of the points raised. He did so, calmly and effectively, and then the conference started to break up.
‘A cool customer,’ Pryde said, before moving off to regroup his troops. It was time to get back to the real work again.
Grant Hood approached. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which station was giving the longest odds on the boyfriend?’
‘Torphichen,’ Rebus told him.
‘Then that’s where my money’s going.’ He looked to Rebus for a reaction, but didn’t get one. ‘Come on, sir,’ he went on, ‘it was written all over his face!’
Rebus thought back to his night-time meeting with Costello … the story of the eyeballs and how Costello had come up close. Take a good long look …
Hood was shaking his head as he made to pass Rebus. The blinds had been opened, the brief interlude of sun now ended as thick grey clouds rolled back over the city. The tape of Costello’s performance would go to the psychologists. They’d be looking for a glimmer of something, a short outburst of bright illumination. He wasn’t sure they’d find it. Siobhan was standing in front of him.
‘Interesting, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘I don’t think Wylie’s cut out for liaison,’ Rebus answered.
‘She shouldn’t have been there. A case like this for her first outing … she was as good as thrown to the lions.’
‘You didn’t enjoy it?’ he asked slyly.
She stared at him. ‘I don’t like blood sports.’ She made to move away, but hesitated. ‘What did you think,
The reporters were ready with their questions, but David Costello was already on his feet and making for the exit.
It was Wylie’s voice again: ‘Not appropriate at this time … I’d like to thank you for your continuing support …’ But the questions battered against her. Meantime the video-cam was back on John Balfour. He looked quite composed, hands clasped on the table in front of him, unblinking as the flashguns threw his shadow on to the wall behind.
‘No, I really don’t …’
‘Mr Costello!’ the journalists were yelling. ‘Could we just ask …?’
‘DS Wylie,’ another voice barked, ‘can you tell us something about possible motives for the abduction?’
‘We don’t have any motives yet.’ Wylie was sounding flustered.
‘But you accept that it is an abduction?’
‘I don’t … no, that’s not what I meant.’
The screen showed John Balfour trying to answer someone else’s question. The ranks of reporters had become a scrum.
‘Then what did you mean, DS Wylie?’
‘I just … I didn’t say anything about …’
And then Ellen Wylie’s voice was replaced by Gill Templer’s. The voice of authority. The reporters knew her of old, just as she knew them.
‘Steve,’ she said, ‘you know only too well that we can’t speculate on details like that. If you want to make up lies just to sell a few more papers, that’s your concern, but it’s hardly respectful to Philippa Balfour’s family and friends.’
Further questions were handled by Gill, who insisted on some calm beforehand. Although Rebus couldn’t see her, he imagined Ellen Wylie would be shrinking visibly. Siobhan was moving her feet up and down, as though all of a sudden some adrenalin had kicked in. Balfour interrupted Gill to say that he’d like to respond to a couple of the points raised. He did so, calmly and effectively, and then the conference started to break up.
‘A cool customer,’ Pryde said, before moving off to regroup his troops. It was time to get back to the real work again.
Grant Hood approached. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which station was giving the longest odds on the boyfriend?’
‘Torphichen,’ Rebus told him.
‘Then that’s where my money’s going.’ He looked to Rebus for a reaction, but didn’t get one. ‘Come on, sir,’ he went on, ‘it was written all over his face!’
Rebus thought back to his night-time meeting with Costello … the story of the eyeballs and how Costello had come up close. Take a good long look …
Hood was shaking his head as he made to pass Rebus. The blinds had been opened, the brief interlude of sun now ended as thick grey clouds rolled back over the city. The tape of Costello’s performance would go to the psychologists. They’d be looking for a glimmer of something, a short outburst of bright illumination. He wasn’t sure they’d find it. Siobhan was standing in front of him.
‘Interesting, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘I don’t think Wylie’s cut out for liaison,’ Rebus answered.
‘She shouldn’t have been there. A case like this for her first outing … she was as good as thrown to the lions.’
‘You didn’t enjoy it?’ he asked slyly.
She stared at him. ‘I don’t like blood sports.’ She made to move away, but hesitated. ‘What did you think,
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