really?’
‘I thought you were right about it being interesting. Singularly interesting.’
She smiled. ‘You caught that too?’
He nodded. ‘Costello kept saying “we”, while her father used “I”.’
‘As if Flip’s mother didn’t matter.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It might mean nothing more than that Mr Balfour has an inflated sense of his own importance.’ He paused. ‘Now wouldn’t that be a first in a merchant banker? How’s the computer stuff going?’
She smiled – ‘computer stuff’ just about summed up Rebus’s knowledge of hard disks and the like. ‘I got past her password.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I can check her most recent e-mails … soon as I get back to my desk.’
‘No way to access the older ones?’
‘Already done. Of course, there’s no way of telling what’s been deleted.’ She was thoughtful. ‘At least I don’t think there is.’
‘They’re not stored somewhere on the … mainframe?’
She laughed. ‘You’re thinking of sixties spy films, computers taking up whole rooms.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing okay for someone who thinks LOL means Loyal Orange Lodge.’
They’d moved out of the office and into the corridor. ‘I’m heading back to St Leonard’s. Need a lift?’
She shook her head. ‘Got my car with me.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘It looks like we’re getting hooked up to HOLMES.’
This was one piece of new technology Rebus did know something about: the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It was a software system that collated information and speeded up the whole process of gathering and sifting. Its application meant that Philippa Balfour’s disappearance was now the priority case in the city.
‘Won’t it be funny if she traipses back from an unannounced shopping spree?’ Rebus mused.
‘It would be a relief,’ Siobhan said solemnly. ‘But I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?’
‘No,’ Rebus said quietly. Then he went to find himself something to eat on the way back to base.
*
Back at his desk, he went through the files again, concentrating on family background. John Balfour was the third generation of a banking family. The business had started in Edinburgh’s Charlotte Square in the early 1900s. Philippa’s great-grandfather had handed the running of the bank to her grandfather in the 1940s, and he hadn’t taken a back seat until the 1980s, when John Balfour had taken over. Almost the first thing Philippa’s father had done was open a London office, concentrating his efforts there. Philippa had gone to a private school in Chelsea. The family relocated north in the late eighties after the death of John’s father, Philippa changing to a school in Edinburgh. Their home, Junipers, was a baronial mansion in sixteen acres of countryside somewhere between Gullane and Haddington. Rebus wondered how Balfour’s wife Jacqueline felt. Eleven bedrooms, five public rooms … and her husband down in London a minimum of four days each week. The Edinburgh office, still in its original premises in Charlotte Square, was run by an old friend of John Balfour’s called Ranald Marr. The two had met at university in Edinburgh, heading off together to the States for their MBAs. Rebus had called Balfour a merchant banker, but Balfour’s was really a small private bank geared to the needs of its client list, a wealthy elite requiring investment advice, portfolio management, and the kudos of a leatherbound Balfour’s chequebook.
When Balfour himself had been interviewed, the emphasis had been on the possibility of a kidnapping for profit. Not just the family phone, but those in the Edinburgh and London offices were being monitored. Mail was being intercepted in case any ransom demand arrived that way: the fewer fingerprints they had to deal with, the better. But as yet, all they’d had were a few crank notes. Another possibility was a deal gone sour: revenge the motive. But Balfour was adamant that he had
‘I thought you were right about it being interesting. Singularly interesting.’
She smiled. ‘You caught that too?’
He nodded. ‘Costello kept saying “we”, while her father used “I”.’
‘As if Flip’s mother didn’t matter.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘It might mean nothing more than that Mr Balfour has an inflated sense of his own importance.’ He paused. ‘Now wouldn’t that be a first in a merchant banker? How’s the computer stuff going?’
She smiled – ‘computer stuff’ just about summed up Rebus’s knowledge of hard disks and the like. ‘I got past her password.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I can check her most recent e-mails … soon as I get back to my desk.’
‘No way to access the older ones?’
‘Already done. Of course, there’s no way of telling what’s been deleted.’ She was thoughtful. ‘At least I don’t think there is.’
‘They’re not stored somewhere on the … mainframe?’
She laughed. ‘You’re thinking of sixties spy films, computers taking up whole rooms.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing okay for someone who thinks LOL means Loyal Orange Lodge.’
They’d moved out of the office and into the corridor. ‘I’m heading back to St Leonard’s. Need a lift?’
She shook her head. ‘Got my car with me.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘It looks like we’re getting hooked up to HOLMES.’
This was one piece of new technology Rebus did know something about: the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It was a software system that collated information and speeded up the whole process of gathering and sifting. Its application meant that Philippa Balfour’s disappearance was now the priority case in the city.
‘Won’t it be funny if she traipses back from an unannounced shopping spree?’ Rebus mused.
‘It would be a relief,’ Siobhan said solemnly. ‘But I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?’
‘No,’ Rebus said quietly. Then he went to find himself something to eat on the way back to base.
*
Back at his desk, he went through the files again, concentrating on family background. John Balfour was the third generation of a banking family. The business had started in Edinburgh’s Charlotte Square in the early 1900s. Philippa’s great-grandfather had handed the running of the bank to her grandfather in the 1940s, and he hadn’t taken a back seat until the 1980s, when John Balfour had taken over. Almost the first thing Philippa’s father had done was open a London office, concentrating his efforts there. Philippa had gone to a private school in Chelsea. The family relocated north in the late eighties after the death of John’s father, Philippa changing to a school in Edinburgh. Their home, Junipers, was a baronial mansion in sixteen acres of countryside somewhere between Gullane and Haddington. Rebus wondered how Balfour’s wife Jacqueline felt. Eleven bedrooms, five public rooms … and her husband down in London a minimum of four days each week. The Edinburgh office, still in its original premises in Charlotte Square, was run by an old friend of John Balfour’s called Ranald Marr. The two had met at university in Edinburgh, heading off together to the States for their MBAs. Rebus had called Balfour a merchant banker, but Balfour’s was really a small private bank geared to the needs of its client list, a wealthy elite requiring investment advice, portfolio management, and the kudos of a leatherbound Balfour’s chequebook.
When Balfour himself had been interviewed, the emphasis had been on the possibility of a kidnapping for profit. Not just the family phone, but those in the Edinburgh and London offices were being monitored. Mail was being intercepted in case any ransom demand arrived that way: the fewer fingerprints they had to deal with, the better. But as yet, all they’d had were a few crank notes. Another possibility was a deal gone sour: revenge the motive. But Balfour was adamant that he had
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