The Falls

10

His name was Albert Winfield — ‘Albie’ to his friends. He seemed surprised that the police wanted to talk to him again, but turned up at St Leonard’s at the appointed time next morning. Rebus and Siobhan left him fully fifteen minutes while they got on with other work, then made sure two burly uniforms led him to the interview room, where they left him for a further quarter of an hour. Outside the room, Siobhan and Rebus locked eyes and nodded at one another. Then Rebus pushed open the door forcefully.

‘Many thanks for coming along, Mr Winfield,’ he snapped. The young man almost leaped from his chair. The window was closed tight, the room stifling. Three chairs — two on one side of the narrow table, one on the other. Winfield had been facing those two empty chairs. Tape recorders and a video recorder were bolted to the wall where it met the table. There were scratched names on the table itself, evidence of time being whittled away by previous occupants called things like Shug, Jazz and Bomber. A No Smoking sign on the wall, defaced with ballpoint pen, and a video camera mounted where wall met ceiling, peering down on proceedings should anyone decide a video record was required.

Rebus ensured his chair-legs made the maximum noise as he scraped them in towards the table. He’d thrown a bulky folder down: no names on it. Winfield seemed mesmerised. He couldn’t know it was full of blank sheets of paper borrowed from one of the photocopiers.

Rebus rested his hand on the folder and smiled at Winfield.

‘It must have come as a terrible shock.’ A quiet voice, soothing, solicitous... Siobhan sat down beside her thuggish colleague. ‘I’m DC Clarke, by the way. This is DI Rebus.’

‘What?’ the young man said. Perspiration made his forehead shine. His short brown hair came to a widow’s peak. There was acne on his chin.

‘The news of Flip’s murder,’ Siobhan continued. ‘It must have been a shock.’

‘Y-es... absolutely.’ He sounded English, but Rebus knew he wasn’t. Private education south of the border had ironed out all trace of his Scottish roots. Father a businessman in Hong Kong until three years ago, divorced from the mother, who lived in Perthshire.

‘You knew her well then?’

Winfield kept his eyes on Siobhan. ‘I suppose so. I mean, she was Camille’s friend really.’

‘Camille’s your girlfriend?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Foreign, is she?’ Rebus barked.

‘No...’ The eyes strayed to Rebus, but only for a second. ‘No, she’s from Staffordshire.’

‘Like I said, foreign.’

Siobhan glanced at Rebus, worried he was milking his role. As Winfield stared down at the table-top, Rebus gave Siobhan a wink of reassurance.

‘Hot in here, isn’t it, Albert?’ Siobhan paused. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Albert?’

‘No... no, that’s fine.’ He glanced up at her again, but whenever he did his eyes were drawn towards her neighbour.

‘Would you like me to open a window?’

‘Wonderful, yes.’

Siobhan looked at Rebus, who pushed his chair back with as much noise as possible. The windows were narrow, fixed high on the external wall. Rebus stood on tiptoe to open one of them, pulling it in three or four inches. The breeze swept over him.

‘Better?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Yes, thanks.’

Rebus stayed standing, over to Winfield’s left. He folded his arms and rested against the wall, directly below the camera.

‘Just a few follow-up questions really,’ Siobhan was saying.

‘Right... fine.’ Winfield nodded enthusiastically.

‘So you wouldn’t say you knew Flip that well?’

‘We went out together... in a group, I mean. Dinner sometimes...’

‘At her flat?’

‘Once or twice. And at mine.’

‘You live down near the Botanics?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Nice part of town.’

‘It’s my father’s place.’

‘He lives there?’

‘No, he’s... I mean, he bought it for me.’

Siobhan looked towards Rebus.

‘All right for some,’ he muttered, arms still folded.

‘I can’t help it if my father has money,’ Winfield complained.

‘Of course you can’t,’ Siobhan agreed.

‘What about Flip’s boyfriend?’ Rebus asked.

Winfield found himself looking at Rebus’s shoes. ‘David? What about him?’

Rebus bent down, waved a hand in Winfield’s direction. ‘I’m up here, son.’ He straightened. Winfield held his gaze for all of three seconds.

‘Just wondering if you consider him a friend,’ Rebus said.

‘Well, it’s a bit awkward now... I mean, it was awkward. They kept splitting up, getting back together again...’

‘And you took Flip’s side?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘I had to, what with Camille and everything...’

‘You say they kept splitting up. Whose fault was it?’

‘I just think they had this personality clash... you know how opposites attract? Well, sometimes you get the inverse of that.’

‘I didn’t have the benefit of a university education, Mr Winfield,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe you could spell that out for me.’

‘I just mean that they were similar in lots of ways, and that made their relationship difficult.’

‘They argued?’

‘It was more that they couldn’t let an argument lie. There had to be a winner and a loser, no middle ground.’

‘Did these disagreements ever turn violent?’

‘No.’

‘But David’s got a temper on him?’ Rebus persisted.

‘No more so than anyone else.’

Rebus walked over to the table. It only took him a couple of steps. He leaned forward so that his shadow covered Winfield. ‘But you’ve seen him lose the rag?’

‘Not really.’

‘No?’

Siobhan cleared her throat, a sign that she thought Rebus had hit a wall. ‘Albert,’ she said, her voice like a balm, ‘did you know that Flip liked to play computer games?’

‘No,’ he said, looking surprised.

‘Do you play them?’

‘I used to play Doom in first year... maybe pinball in the student union.’

‘Computer pinball?’

‘No, just pinball.’

‘Flip was playing a game online, a sort of variation on a treasure hunt.’ Siobhan unfolded a sheet of paper and slid it across the table. ‘Do these clues mean anything to you?’

He read with a frown, then expelled some air. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘You’re studying medicine, aren’t you?’ Rebus interrupted.

‘That’s right. I’m in my third year.’

‘I bet it’s hard work,’ Siobhan said, sliding the sheet of paper back towards her.

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Winfield laughed.

‘I think we might,’ Rebus said. ‘In our line of work, we see doctors all the time.’ Though some of us, he could have added, do our best to avoid them...

‘I’m assuming you know something of the carotid artery then?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I know where it is,’ Winfield admitted, looking puzzled.

‘And what it does?’

‘It’s an artery in the neck. Actually, there are two of them.’

‘Carrying blood to the brain?’ Siobhan said.

‘I had to look it up in a dictionary,’ Rebus told Winfield. ‘It’s from the Greek, meaning sleep. Know why that is?’

‘Because compression of the carotid causes you to black out.’

Rebus nodded. ‘That’s right, a deep sleep. And if you keep on pressing...’

‘Christ, is that how she died?’

Siobhan shook her head. ‘We think she was rendered unconscious, then strangled afterwards.’

In the silence that followed, Winfield looked wildly from one detective to the other. Then he started rising to his feet, fingers gripping the table’s edge.

‘Jesus Christ, you don’t think...? For pity’s sake, you think it was me?’

‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered. In truth, Winfield hadn’t got very far up; it looked like his knees were refusing to lock.

‘We know it wasn’t you,’ Siobhan said firmly. The student fell back on to his chair, nearly toppling it.

‘We know it wasn’t you because you’ve got an alibi: you were with everyone else in the bar that night, waiting for Flip.’

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘that’s right.’

‘So you’ve nothing to worry about,’ Rebus said, backing off from the table. ‘Unless you know better.’

‘No, I... I’m...’

‘Anyone else in your group like to play games, Albert?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Nobody. I mean, Trist has a few games for his computer, Tomb Raider, that sort of thing. But probably everyone does.’

‘Probably,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘No one else in your circle studies medicine?’

Winfield shook his head, but Siobhan could see he was having a thought. ‘There’s Claire,’ he said. ‘Claire Benzie. I’ve only met her once or twice at parties, but she was a friend of Flip’s... from school days, I think.’

‘And she’s studying medicine?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t really know her?’

‘She’s a year below me, and a different specialism. God, that’s right...’ He looked up at Siobhan, then to Rebus. ‘Of all the bloody things, she wants to be a pathologist...’

‘Yes, I know Claire,’ Dr Curt said, leading them down one of the corridors. They were in part of the medical faculty at the university, in a block behind McEwan Hall. Rebus had been here before: it was where both Curt and Gates had their teaching offices. But he’d never been to the lecture halls. Curt was leading them there now. Rebus had asked if he was feeling better. Gastric problems, Curt had explained. ‘Very pleasant girl,’ he said now, ‘and a good student. I hope she stays with us.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She’s only in second year, she could yet change her mind.’

‘Are there many female pathologists?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Not many, no... not in this country.’

‘It’s a weird decision to take, isn’t it?’ Rebus said. ‘When you’re that young, I mean.’

‘Not really,’ Curt mused. ‘I was always one for dissecting the frogs at biology.’ He beamed a smile. ‘And I’d rather treat the deceased than the living: no anxious diagnoses, no expectant families, fewer negligence claims...’ He stopped at a set of doors and peered through the glass upper half. ‘Yes, in here.’

The lecture room was small and antiquated: wood veneer on the walls, curved wooden benches rising steeply. Curt checked his watch. ‘Only another minute or two.’

Rebus peered inside. Someone he didn’t know was lecturing to a few dozen students. There were fresh diagrams on the blackboard, and a podium where the lecturer stood brushing chalk from his hands.

‘Not a cadaver on view,’ Rebus commented.

‘We tend to keep those for the practicals.’

‘Are you still having to use the Western General?’

‘We are, and it’s a blessed nuisance with the traffic.’

The autopsy suite at the mortuary was out of commission. Fear of hepatitis allied to a ventilation system past its prime. No sign of funding for a new unit, which meant one of the city hospitals was bearing the brunt of the pathologists’ needs.

‘The human body is a fascinating machine,’ Curt was saying. ‘You only really get a sense of that post mortem. A hospital surgeon will concentrate on one particular area of the body, but we have the luxury of unlimited access.’

Siobhan’s look said she wished he’d stop being so remorselessly cheery on the subject. ‘It’s an old building,’ she remarked.

‘Not that old really, in the context of the university. The medical school was based at Old College in earlier times.’

‘That’s where they took Burke’s body?’ Rebus added.

‘Yes, after he was hanged. A tunnel led into Old College. The bodies were all brought in that way — by dead of night in some cases.’ He looked to Siobhan. ‘The Resurrection Men.’

‘Good name for a band.’

He graced her flippancy with a scowl. ‘Body-snatchers,’ he said.

‘And the skin was flayed from Burke’s body?’ Rebus went on.

‘You know a bit about it.’

‘I didn’t until recently. Does the tunnel still exist?’

‘Part of it.’

‘I’d be interested to see it sometime.’

‘Devlin’s your man.’

‘Is he?’

‘Unofficial historian of the medical faculty’s early days. He’s written pamphlets on the subject... self-published, but pretty enlightening.’

‘I didn’t know that. I know he knows a bit about Burke and Hare. He has a theory that Dr Kennet Lovell placed the coffins on Arthur’s Seat.’

‘Ah, the ones that’ve been in the papers of late?’ Curt frowned in thought. ‘Lovell? Well, who’s to say he isn’t right?’ He broke off and frowned again. ‘Funny you should mention Lovell actually.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Claire told me recently she’s descended from him.’ There was a sound of movement from inside. ‘Ah, Dr Easton’s finished. They’ll all filter out this way; we’d better stand back, lest we’re stampeded to death.’

‘They’re keen then?’ Siobhan said.

‘Keen to be back in the fresh air, yes.’

Only a few of the students bothered to glance in their direction. Those who did seemed to know who Curt was, some acknowledging him with a bow, smile or word. Finally, with the hall three-quarters empty, Curt went up on to his toes.

‘Claire? Could you spare a minute?’

She was tall and thin with short blonde hair and a long straight nose. Her eyes were an almost oriental shape, like tilted almonds. She carried two folders beneath one arm. There was a mobile phone in her hand. She’d been studying it on her way out of the lecture theatre: checking for messages perhaps. She came forwards with a smile.

‘Hello, Dr Curt.’ Her voice was almost playful.

‘Claire, these police officers would like a word.’

‘It’s about Flip, isn’t it?’ Her face had fallen, all humour lost to it, and the voice had taken on a sombre tone.

Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘A few follow-up questions.’

‘I keep thinking maybe it wasn’t her, maybe there’s been a mistake...’ She looked to the pathologist. ‘Did you...?’

Curt shook his head, but it was less a denial than a refusal to answer the question. Rebus and Siobhan knew Curt had been one of the pathologists at the Philippa Balfour autopsy. The other had been Professor Gates.

Claire Benzie knew it too. Her eyes were still on Dr Curt. ‘Have you ever had to... you know... on someone you knew?’

Curt glanced in Rebus’s direction, and Rebus knew he was thinking of Conor Leary.

‘It’s not a necessity,’ Curt was explaining to his student. ‘Something like that happens, you can be excused on compassionate grounds.’

‘We’re allowed compassion then?’

‘The occasional handful, yes.’ This put the smile back on to her face, albeit fleetingly.

‘So how can I help you?’ she asked Siobhan.

‘You know we’re treating Flip’s death as homicide?’

‘That’s what the news said this morning.’

‘Well, we just need your help to clear up a few things.’

‘You can use my office,’ Curt said.

As they walked, two by two, back down the corridor, Rebus watched Claire Benzie’s back. She was holding her folders in front of her, discussing her recent lecture with Dr Curt. Siobhan glanced at him and frowned, wondering what he was thinking. He shook his head: not important. But all the same, he thought Claire Benzie was interesting. The morning her friend’s murder is announced, and she’s able to attend a lecture, talk about it afterwards, even with two detectives right behind her...

One explanation: displacement. She was pushing thoughts of Flip aside, replacing them with the routine. Keeping busy to keep from bursting into tears.

Another: she was self-possession itself, Flip’s demise a minor intrusion in her universe.

Rebus knew which version he preferred, but he wasn’t sure it was necessarily the right one...

Dr Curt shared a secretary with Professor Gates. They passed through the secretary’s office: two doors next to one another, Curt and Gates. Curt turned the doorhandle and ushered them inside.

‘I’ve got one or two things to do,’ he said. ‘Just close the door after you when you’ve finished.’

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said.

But, having brought them here, Curt seemed suddenly reluctant to leave his student alone with the two detectives.

‘I’ll be fine, Dr Curt,’ Claire reassured him, as if she’d understood his hesitation. Curt nodded and left them. It was a cramped, airless room. A glass-fronted bookcase took up one whole wall. It was filled to overflowing. More books and documents covered every bit of shelf space, and while Rebus was sure there was a computer somewhere on the desk, he couldn’t place it: more documents, files and folders, learned journals, empty envelopes...

‘Doesn’t throw much out, does he?’ Claire Benzie said. ‘Ironic when you think what he does to a corpse.’

The statement, so casually made, startled Siobhan Clarke.

‘God, sorry,’ Claire said, placing a hand over her mouth. ‘They should hand out diplomas in bad taste with this course.’

Rebus was thinking of autopsies past: of innards tossed into pails, organs severed and placed on scales...

Siobhan was resting against the desk. Claire had dropped into the visitor’s chair, which looked like a remnant from a 1970s dining-room suite. Rebus was left with standing in the middle of the floor or taking Curt’s chair. He opted for the latter.

‘So,’ Claire said, placing her folders on the floor by her feet, ‘what is it you want to know?’

‘You were at school with Flip?’

‘For a few years, yes.’

They’d already been through the notes from Claire Benzie’s first interview. Two of the Gayfield Square contingent had talked to her, gleaning little.

‘You lost touch?’

‘Sort of... a few letters and e-mails. Then she started her history of art course and I found out I’d been accepted by Edinburgh.’

‘You got in touch?’

Claire nodded. She’d tucked one leg beneath her on the chair and was playing with a bracelet on her left wrist. ‘Sent her an e-mail, and we met up.’

‘You saw her often after that?’

‘Not that often. Different courses, different workloads.’

‘Different friends?’ Rebus asked.

‘Some, yes,’ Claire agreed.

‘Did you keep in touch with anyone else from school days?’

‘One or two.’

‘And did Flip?’

‘Not really.’

‘How did she meet David Costello, do you know?’ Rebus already knew the answer — they’d met at a dinner party — but was wondering how well Claire knew Costello.

‘I think she said something about a party...’

‘Did you like him?’

‘David?’ She was thoughtful. ‘Arrogant sod, very sure of himself.’

Rebus almost came back with: not at all like you then? Instead, he looked to Siobhan, who reached into her jacket for the folded note.

‘Claire,’ she said, ‘did Flip like to play games?’

‘Games?’

‘Role-playing... computer games... maybe on the Internet?’

She thought for a moment. Fine, except that Rebus knew you could use a pause to think up some story...

‘We had a dungeons and dragons club at school.’

‘You were both in it?’

‘Until we realised it was strictly a boy thing.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Come to think of it, didn’t David play at school too?’

Siobhan handed her the sheet of clues. ‘Ever seen these before?’

‘What do they mean?’

‘Some game Flip was playing. What are you smiling at?’

‘Seven fins high... she was so pleased with that.’

Siobhan’s eyes widened. ‘Sorry?’

‘She came bounding up to me in some bar... God, I forget where. Maybe Barcelona.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘It’s a bar on Buccleuch Street.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘She just... she was laughing... and she said this.’ Claire pointed to the sheet. ‘Seven fins high is king. Then she asked me if I knew what it meant. I told her I hadn’t the faintest. “It’s the Victoria Line,” she said. She seemed so pleased with herself.’

‘She didn’t tell you what it meant?’

‘I’ve just said...’

‘I mean, about it being part of a quiz clue.’

Claire shook her head. ‘I thought... well, I don’t know what I thought.’

‘Was anyone else there?’

‘Not at the bar, no. I was getting some drinks in when she came running up.’

‘Do you think she told anyone else?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘She didn’t explain any of the others?’ Siobhan gestured towards the sheet. She was feeling an intense rush of relief. Seven fins meant she’d been working out the same clues Flip had. Part of her had worried that Quizmaster was setting her new questions, questions specific to her. Now, she felt closer to Flip than ever...

‘Has this game got something to do with her death?’ Claire was asking.

‘We don’t know yet,’ Rebus told her.

‘And you’ve no suspects, no... leads?’

‘We’ve plenty of leads,’ Rebus was quick to assure her. ‘Tell me, you said you thought David Costello was arrogant. Did it ever go beyond that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘We hear there were some pretty wild fallings-out between him and Flip.’

‘Flip could give as good as she got.’ She stopped abruptly, stared into space. Not for the first time in his life, Rebus wished he were a mind-reader. ‘She was strangled, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘From what I’ve seen on the forensics course, victims struggle. They’ll scratch and kick and bite.’

‘Not if they’re unconscious,’ Rebus said quietly.

Claire closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there were tears shining there.

‘Pressure on the carotid artery,’ Rebus went on.

‘Causing ante-mortem bruising?’ Claire could have been reading from a textbook. Siobhan nodded an answer.

‘Only seems like yesterday we were schoolgirls...’

‘This was in Edinburgh?’ Rebus asked, waiting till Claire had nodded. The first interview hadn’t gone into her background, except as it related to Flip. ‘Is that where your family live?’

‘It is now. But back then, we lived in Causland.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Causland?’ He knew the name from somewhere.

‘It’s a village... more of a hamlet really. About a mile and a half from Falls.’

Rebus found himself gripping the arms of Dr Curt’s chair. ‘You know Falls then?’

‘Used to.’

‘And Junipers, the Balfours’ house?’

She nodded. ‘For a while, I was more house guest than visitor.’

‘And then your family moved away?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘My father...’ She broke off. ‘We had to move for his work.’ Rebus and Siobhan shared a look: it wasn’t what she’d been about to say.

‘Did you and Flip ever visit the waterfall?’ Rebus asked casually.

‘Do you know it?’

He nodded. ‘Been there a couple of times.’

She was smiling, eyes losing focus. ‘We used to play there, pretend it was our enchanted kingdom. Life Never-Ending we called it. If only we’d known...’

She broke down then, and Siobhan went to comfort her. Rebus walked into the outer office and asked the secretary for a glass of water. But by the time he got back with it, Claire was already recovering. Siobhan was crouching by the side of the chair, a hand on her shoulder. Rebus offered the water. Claire rubbed at her nose with a tissue.

‘Thank you,’ she said, compressing it to the single syllable kyoo.

‘I think that’s plenty to be going on with,’ Siobhan was saying. Rebus — who privately disagreed — nodded his compliance. ‘You’ve been a big help, Claire.’

‘Really?’

It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘We might be in touch again later, if that’s all right.’

‘Fine, whatever.’

Siobhan handed over her card. ‘If I’m not in the office, the pager will always find me.’

‘Okay.’ Claire slipped the card into one of her files.

‘Sure you’re all right?’

Claire nodded, stood up, clutching her files to her chest. ‘I’ve got another class,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to miss it.’

‘Dr Curt tells us you’re related to Kennet Lovell?’

She looked at him. ‘On my mother’s side.’ She paused, as if expecting a follow-up question, but Rebus didn’t have one.

‘Thanks again,’ Siobhan said.

They watched as she started to leave. Rebus was holding the door open for her. ‘Just one thing, Claire?’

She stopped beside him, staring up. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘You told us you used to know Falls.’ Rebus waited till she’d nodded. ‘Does that mean you’ve not been there recently?’

‘I might have passed through.’

He nodded acceptance of this. She made to leave again. ‘You know Beverly Dodds though,’ he added.

‘Who?’

‘I think she made that bracelet you’re wearing.’

Claire lifted her wrist. ‘This?’ It looked very much like the one Jean had bought: polished stones drilled and threaded. ‘Flip gave it to me. Said something about it being “good magic”.’ She shrugged. ‘Not that I believe in it, of course...’

Rebus watched her leave, then closed the door. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, turning back into the room.

‘I don’t know,’ Siobhan admitted.

‘A bit of acting going on?’

‘The tears seemed real enough.’

‘Isn’t that what acting’s all about?’

Siobhan sat down in Claire’s chair. ‘If a killer’s hiding in there, it’s buried deep.’

‘Seven fin high: say Flip didn’t come up to her at a bar. Say Claire already knew what it meant.’

‘Because she’s the Quizmaster?’ Siobhan shook her head.

‘Or another player,’ Rebus said.

‘Then why bother telling us anything?’

‘Because...’ But Rebus couldn’t think of an answer for that.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m wondering.’

‘Her father?’ Rebus guessed.

Siobhan nodded. ‘There’s something she was holding back.’

‘So why did her family move?’

Siobhan was thoughtful, but couldn’t think of a quick answer.

‘Her old school might tell us,’ Rebus said. While Siobhan went to ask the secretary for a phone book, Rebus called Bev Dodds’s number. She answered on the sixth ring.

‘It’s DI Rebus,’ he said.

‘Inspector, I’m a bit pushed at the moment...’

He could hear other voices. Tourists, he guessed, probably deciding what to buy. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘I ever asked you if you knew Philippa Balfour.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Do you mind if I ask you now?’

‘Not at all.’ She paused. ‘The answer is no.’

‘You never met her?’

‘Never. Why do you ask?’

‘A friend of hers is wearing a bracelet she says Philippa gave her. It looks to me like one of yours.’

‘Quite possible.’

‘But you didn’t sell it to Philippa?’

‘If it’s one of mine, chances are she bought it in a shop. There’s a craft shop in Haddington takes my work, and another in Edinburgh.’

‘What’s the name of the one in Edinburgh?’

‘Wiccan Crafts. It’s on Jeffrey Street, if you’re interested. Now, if you don’t mind...’ But Rebus had already put down the phone. Siobhan was coming back in with the number for Flip’s old school. Rebus made the call, putting the speaker on so Siobhan could listen. The headmistress had been one of the teachers during Flip and Claire’s time there.

‘Poor, poor Philippa, it’s terrible news... and what her family must be going through,’ the headmistress said.

‘I’m sure they’ve got every support,’ Rebus commiserated, trying to get as much sincerity into his voice as he could.

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line.

‘But actually, I’m phoning in connection with Claire.’

‘Claire?’

‘Claire Benzie. It’s part of the background, trying to build up a picture of Philippa. I believe she and Claire were good friends at one time.’

‘Pretty good, yes.’

‘They lived near one another, too?’

‘That’s right. Out East Lothian way.’

Rebus had a thought. ‘How did they get to school?’

‘Oh, Claire’s father usually drove them in. Either him or Philippa’s mother. A lovely lady, I do grieve for her so...’

‘Claire’s father worked in Edinburgh then?’

‘Oh, yes. Some sort of lawyer.’

‘Is that why the family moved? Was it to do with his work?’

‘Dear me, no. I think they were evicted.’

‘Evicted?’

‘Well, one shouldn’t gossip, but with him being deceased I don’t suppose it matters.’

‘We’ll hold it in strictest confidence,’ Rebus said, looking at Siobhan.

‘Well, it’s just that the poor man made some bad investments. I believe he was always a bit of a gambler, and it looks like this time he went too far, lost thousands... his house... the lot.’

‘How did he die?’

‘I think you’ve guessed. He booked into a seaside hotel quite shortly thereafter, and took an overdose of some kind of tablets. It’s quite a tumble after all, isn’t it, from lawyer to bankrupt...?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Many thanks for that.’

‘Yes, I’d better go. I’ve some sort of curriculum meeting to attend.’ Her tone told Rebus this was a regular occurrence, and not one to be savoured. ‘Such a pity, two families torn apart by tragedy.’

‘Goodbye then,’ Rebus said, putting down the phone. He looked at Siobhan.

‘Investments?’ she echoed.

‘And who would he trust if not the father of his daughter’s best friend?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘John Balfour’s about to bury his daughter,’ she reminded him.

‘Then we’ll talk to someone else at the bank.’

Siobhan smiled. ‘I know just the man...’

Ranald Marr was at Junipers, so they drove out to Falls. Siobhan asked if they could stop and look at the waterfall. A couple of tourists were doing the same thing. The man was taking a photo of his wife. He asked Rebus if he’d take one of the pair of them together. His voice was Edinburgh.

‘What brings you here?’ Rebus asked, feigning innocence.

‘Same thing as you most likely,’ the man said, positioning himself next to his wife. ‘Make sure you get the wee waterfall in.’

‘You mean you’re here because of the coffin?’ Rebus said, peering through the view-finder.

‘Aye, well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?’

‘She is that,’ Rebus said.

‘Sure you’re getting us in?’ the man asked worriedly.

‘Perfect,’ Rebus said, pressing the button. When the film was developed, there’d be a picture of sky and trees, nothing more.

‘Wee tip,’ the man said, taking his camera back. He nodded towards one of the trees. ‘She’s the one found the coffin.’

Rebus looked. There was a crude sign pinned to the tree, advertising Bev Dodds’s Pottery. A hand-drawn map showed her cottage. ‘Pottery for Sale, Teas and Coffees.’ She was branching out.

‘Did she show you it?’ Rebus asked, knowing fine well the answer. The Falls coffin was locked away with the others at St Leonard’s.

The tourist shook his head in disappointment. ‘Police are holding on to it.’

Rebus nodded. ‘So where’s your next stop?’

‘Thought we’d go look at Junipers,’ his wife said. ‘Always supposing we can find it. Took us half an hour to find this place.’ She looked at Siobhan. ‘They don’t believe in signposts out here, do they?’

‘I know where Junipers is.’ Rebus spoke authoritatively. ‘You head back down the lane, left through the town. There’s a housing scheme on the right called Meadowside. Drive into it and you’ll see Junipers just beyond.’

The man beamed. ‘Magic, thanks a lot.’

‘No problem,’ Rebus told him. The tourists waved their goodbyes, eager to be back on the trail.

Siobhan sidled over towards Rebus. ‘Completely erroneous?’

‘They’ll be lucky to get out of Meadowside with four tyres still on their car.’ He grinned at her. ‘My good deed for the day.’

Back in the car, Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘How do you want to play this?’

‘First off, I want to know if Marr’s a Mason.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll handle that.’

‘Then I think we dive straight in with Hugo Benzie.’

Rebus was still nodding. ‘Which one of us asks the questions?’

Siobhan sat back. ‘Let’s play it by ear, see which one of us Marr prefers.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘You don’t agree?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s almost exactly what I’d have said, that’s all.’

She turned towards him, held his eyes. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

Rebus’s face cracked into a smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide,’ he said, turning the ignition.

The gates at Junipers were being protected by two uniforms, including Nicola Campbell, the WPC he’d met on his first visit. A lone reporter had parked his car on the verge across the road. He was drinking something from a flask, watched Rebus and Siobhan draw up at the gates, then went back to his crossword. Rebus wound down his window.

‘No more phone taps?’ he asked.

‘Not now there’s no kidnap,’ Campbell replied.

‘What about Brains?’

‘Back at the Big House: something came up.’

‘I see there’s one vulture.’ Rebus meant the reporter. ‘Any ghouls?’

‘A few.’

‘Well, a couple more may be on their way. Who’s up there?’ Rebus pointed through the gates.

‘DCS Templer, DC Hood.’

‘Planning the next press conference,’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Who else?’ Rebus asked Campbell.

‘The parents,’ she told him, ‘house staff... someone from the funeral home. And a family friend.’

Rebus nodded. He turned to Siobhan. ‘Wonder if we’ve talked to the staff: sometimes they see and hear things...’ Campbell was opening the gates.

‘DS Dickie interviewed them,’ Siobhan said.

‘Dickie?’ Rebus put the car into gear, crawled through the gates. ‘That clock-watching wee nyaff?’

She looked at him. ‘You want to do it all yourself, don’t you?’

‘Because I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.’

‘Thanks very much.’

He took his eyes off the windscreen. ‘There are exceptions,’ he said.

Four cars were parked in the driveway outside the house, the same driveway Jacqueline Balfour had come stumbling down, thinking Rebus her daughter’s abductor.

‘Grant’s Alfa,’ Siobhan commented.

‘Chauffeuring the boss.’ Rebus guessed that the black Volvo S40 belonged to the funeral home, leaving a bronze Maserati and a green Aston Martin DB7. He couldn’t decide which belonged to Ranald Marr and which to the Balfours, and said as much.

‘The Aston’s John Balfour’s,’ Siobhan told him. He looked at her.

‘Is that a guess?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘It’s in the notes.’

‘You’ll be telling me his shoe size next.’

A maid answered the door. They showed their warrant cards and were ushered into the hall. The maid headed off without saying anything. Rebus had never really seen anyone walking on tiptoe before. No voices could be heard anywhere.

‘This place is straight out of Cluedo,’ Siobhan murmured, studying the wood panelling, the paintings of Balfours past. There was even a suit of armour at the foot of the stairs. A stack of unopened mail sat on a table next to the armour. The same door the maid had disappeared through was opening now. A tall, middle-aged and efficient-looking woman walked towards them. Her face was composed but unsmiling.

‘I’m Mr Balfour’s personal assistant,’ she said in a voice not much above a whisper.

‘It’s Mr Marr we were hoping to talk to.’

She bowed her head to acknowledge as much. ‘But you must appreciate that this is an extremely difficult time...’

‘He won’t talk to us?’

‘It’s not a case of “won’t”.’ She was becoming irritated.

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Tell you what then, I’ll just go tell Detective Chief Superintendent Templer that Mr Marr is holding up our inquiry into Miss Balfour’s murder. If you could show me the way...?’

She stared daggers at him, but Rebus wasn’t about to blink, never mind flinch.

‘If you’ll wait here,’ she said finally. When she spoke, Rebus saw her teeth for the first time. He managed a polite ‘thank you’ as she headed back towards the door.

‘Impressive,’ Siobhan commented.

‘Her or me?’

‘The general combat.’

He nodded. ‘Two more minutes, I’d have been reaching for that suit of armour.’

Siobhan walked over to the table and flicked through the mail. Rebus joined her.

‘Thought we’d have been opening it,’ he said, ‘looking for ransom demands.’

‘We probably were,’ Siobhan answered, studying the postmarks. ‘But this is all yesterday’s and today’s.’

‘Keeping the postman busy.’ Several of the envelopes were card-sized and black-edged. ‘Hope the PA opens them.’

Siobhan nodded. Ghouls again, for whom the death of someone well known was an invitation to become obsessed. You never knew who’d be sending a condolence card. ‘It should be us checking them.’

‘Good point.’ After all, the killer could be a ghoul, too.

The door opened again. This time, Ranald Marr, in black suit and tie, white shirt, strode towards them, looking upset by the interruption.

‘What is it this time?’ he asked Siobhan.

‘Mr Marr?’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘DI Rebus. I just want to say how sorry we are that we’ve had to intrude.’

Marr, accepting the apology, also accepted Rebus’s hand. Rebus had never joined ‘the craft’, but his father had taught him the handshake one drunken night, back when Rebus had been in his teens.

‘As long as it’s not going to take long,’ Marr said, pushing for advantage.

‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’

‘Along here.’ Marr led them into one of two hallways. Rebus caught Siobhan’s eye and nodded, answering her question. Marr was a Mason. She pursed her lips, looked thoughtful.

Marr had opened another door, leading into a large room filled with a wall-length bookcase and a full-size billiard table. When he flicked on the lights — the room, like the rest of the house, was curtained in a show of mourning — the green baize was illuminated. Two chairs sat against one wall, a small table between them. On the table sat a silver tray laid with a decanter of whisky and some crystal tumblers. Marr sat down and poured himself a drink. He gestured towards Rebus, who shook his head, Siobhan likewise. Marr raised his glass.

‘Philippa, God rest her soul.’ Then he drank deeply. Rebus had smelt the whisky on his breath, knew this wasn’t his first of the day. Probably not the first time he’d made the toast either. If they’d been alone together, they would have exchanged information about one another’s home lodge — and Rebus might have been in trouble — but with Siobhan here, he was safe. He rolled a red ball across the table, where it rebounded from the cushion.

‘So,’ Marr said, ‘what is it you want this time?’

‘Hugo Benzie,’ Rebus said.

The name caught Marr by surprise. His eyebrows lifted, and he took another pull on his drink.

‘You knew him?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Not very well. His daughter was at school with Philippa.’

‘Did he bank with you?’

‘You know I can’t discuss the bank’s business. It wouldn’t be ethical.’

‘You’re not a doctor,’ Rebus said. ‘You just keep people’s money for them.’

Marr’s eyes narrowed. ‘We do a sight more than that.’

‘What? You mean lose money for them too?’

Marr leaped to his feet. ‘What the hell has this got to do with Philippa’s murder?’

‘Just answer the question: did Hugo Benzie have his money invested with you?’

‘Not with us, through us.’

‘You advised him?’

Marr refilled his glass. Rebus glanced towards Siobhan. She knew her place in this, was keeping quiet, standing in the shadows beyond the baize.

‘You advised him?’ Rebus asked again.

‘We advised him against taking risks.’

‘But he wouldn’t listen?’

‘What’s life without a bit of risk: that was Hugo’s philosophy. He gambled... and lost.’

‘Did he hold Balfour’s responsible?’

Marr shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Poor bugger just did away with himself.’

‘What about his wife and daughter?’

‘What about them?’

‘Did they bear a grudge?’

He shook his head again. ‘They knew what kind of man he was.’ He put his glass down on the rim of the billiard table. ‘But what’s this got...?’ Then he seemed to realise. ‘Ah, you’re still looking for motives... and you think a dead man has risen from his grave to seek revenge on Balfour’s Bank?’

Rebus rolled another ball across the table. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

Siobhan walked forward now, and handed the sheet of paper to Marr. ‘You remember I asked about games?’

‘Yes.’

‘This clue here.’ She pointed to the one relating to Rosslyn Chapel. ‘What do you make of it?’

He narrowed his eyes in concentration. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said, handing it back.

‘Can I ask if you’re a member of a masonic lodge, Mr Marr?’

Marr glared at her. Then his eyes flickered in Rebus’s direction. ‘I’m not going to dignify that question with a response.’

‘You see, Philippa was given this clue to solve, and so was I. And when I saw the words “mason’s dream”, I had to find a member of a lodge to ask what it meant.’

‘And what did it mean?’

‘That’s not important. What may be important is whether Philippa sought help along the same lines.’

‘I’ve already told you, I knew nothing about any of this.’

‘But she might have slipped something into the conversation...?’

‘Well, she didn’t.’

‘Any other Masons of her acquaintance, Mr Marr?’ Rebus asked.

‘I wouldn’t know. Look, I really think I’ve given you enough time... today of all days.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’ He held out his hand again, but this time Marr didn’t take it. He walked to the door in silence, opened it, and walked out. Rebus and Siobhan followed him back down the hallway. Templer and Hood were standing in the entrance hall. Marr passed them without a word and disappeared through a door.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Templer asked in an undertone.

‘Trying to catch a killer,’ Rebus told her. ‘How about you?’

‘You looked good on the telly,’ Siobhan said to Hood.

‘Thanks.’

‘Yes, Grant did bloody well,’ Templer said, her attention deflected from Rebus on to Siobhan. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’

‘Me neither,’ Siobhan said with a smile.

They left the house and got into their respective cars. Templer’s parting shot: ‘I’ll want a report explaining your presence here. And John? The doctor’s waiting...’

‘Doctor?’ Siobhan asked, doing up her seat-belt.

‘It’s nothing,’ Rebus said, turning the ignition.

‘Has she got it in for you as well as me?’

Rebus turned to her. ‘Gill wanted you by her side, Siobhan. You turned that down.’

‘I wasn’t ready.’ She paused. ‘You know, this is going to sound daft, but I think she’s jealous.’

‘Of you?’

Siobhan shook her head. ‘Of you.’

‘Me?’ Rebus laughed. ‘Why would she be jealous of me?’

‘Because you don’t play by the rules, and she has to. Because despite yourself, you always seem to get people working for you, even when they don’t agree with what you’re asking them to do.’

‘I must be better than I think.’

She looked at him slyly. ‘Oh, I think you know how good you are. At least, you think you do.’

He returned her look. ‘There’s an insult buried in there somewhere, but I can’t quite see it.’

Siobhan sat back in her seat. ‘So what now?’

‘Back to Edinburgh.’

‘And?’

Rebus was thoughtful as he eased the car back down the driveway. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Back there, you’d almost have thought Marr had lost his own kid...’

‘You’re not saying...?’

‘Did he look like her at all? I’m useless at that.’

Siobhan thought about it, gnawing her lip. ‘Rich people all look the same to me. You think Marr and Mrs Balfour could have had an affair?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Hard to prove without a blood test.’ He glanced in her direction. ‘Better make sure Gates and Curt keep a sample.’

‘And Claire Benzie?’

Rebus gave a wave to WPC Campbell. ‘Claire’s interesting, but we don’t want to rattle her chain.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because a year or three from now, she could be our friendly local pathologist. I may not be around to see it, but you will, and the last thing you want is...’

‘Bad blood?’ Siobhan guessed with a smile.

‘Bad blood,’ Rebus agreed with a slow nod.

Siobhan was thoughtful. ‘But whichever way you look at it, she has every right to feel pissed off with the Balfours.’

‘Then how come she was still friends with Flip?’

‘Maybe she was playing a game of her own.’ As they drove back down the lane, she kept her eyes open for the tourists, but didn’t see them. ‘Should we check Meadowside, see if they’re all right?’

Rebus shook his head. They were silent once more until they’d left Falls far behind.

‘Marr’s a Mason,’ Siobhan said at last. ‘And he likes playing games.’

‘So now he’s the Quizmaster rather than Claire Benzie?’

‘I think it’s more likely than him turning out to be Flip’s father.’

‘Sorry I spoke.’ Rebus was thinking of Hugo Benzie. Before driving out to Falls, he’d rung a lawyer friend and asked about him. Benzie had specialised in wills and trusts, a quiet and efficient solicitor, part of a large practice in the city. The gambling wasn’t common knowledge, and had never interfered with his work. The rumour was, he’d stuck money into Far East start-ups, guided by tip-offs and the financial pages of his favoured daily paper. If this were true, then Rebus couldn’t see Balfour’s as culpable. Probably all they’d done was channel the money on his instructions, then had to call time when it disappeared up the Yangtze. Benzie hadn’t just lost all his money — as a lawyer he could always earn more. To Rebus’s mind, he’d lost something much more substantial: his faith in himself. Having stopped believing in himself, it was probably easy to start believing in suicide as an option, and sometime thereafter as absolute necessity. Rebus had been there himself once or twice, with the bottle and the darkness for company. He knew he couldn’t leap from a high place: he was scared of heights, had been ever since they’d dropped him from a helicopter during his army days. Warm bath and a razor across the wrists... the problem there was the mess, the thought of someone, friend or stranger, confronted with such a tableau. Booze and pills... it always came down to those essential drugs. Not at home, but in some anonymous hotel room, discovered by the staff. Just another lonely corpse as far as they’d be concerned.

Idle thoughts. But in Benzie’s shoes... wife and daughter... he didn’t think he could have done it, leaving behind a devastated family. And now Claire wanted to be a pathologist, a career filled with corpses and ventilated, windowless rooms. Would each body she dealt with be her father’s image...?

‘Penny for them,’ Siobhan said.

‘No sale,’ Rebus replied, fixing his eyes on the road ahead.

‘Cheer up,’ Hi-Ho Silvers said, ‘it’s Friday afternoon.’

‘So what?’

He stared at Ellen Wylie. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a date lined up?’

‘A date?’

‘You know: a meal, some dancing, then back to his place.’ He started gyrating his hips.

Wylie screwed up her face. ‘I’m having trouble keeping my lunch down as it is.’

The remains of the sandwich were on her desk: tuna mayonnaise with sweetcorn. There’d been a slight fizziness to the tuna, and now her stomach was sending her signals. Not that Silvers was about to take any notice.

‘Must have a boyfriend though, Ellen?’

‘I’ll call you when desperation takes hold.’

‘As long as it’s not Friday or Saturday night: my drinking nights, those are.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, George.’

‘And Sunday afternoon, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Wylie couldn’t help thinking that this arrangement probably suited Mrs Silvers just fine.

‘Unless we get some overtime.’ Silvers’s mind made the switch. ‘What do you reckon the chances are?’

‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ And she knew what it depended on: media pressure, forcing the brass to look for a quick result. Or maybe John Balfour, asking another favour, twisting an arm or two. Time was, CID would work seven-day weeks, twelve-hour days on a big case, and be paid accordingly. But budgets were tighter now, along with staffing levels. She’d never seen so many happy cops as the day CHOGM — the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting — had rolled into town, bringing with it an overtime jamboree. But that had been a few years back now. Still she caught officers, Silvers among them, muttering the word ‘chogm’ under their breath, as though it were a talisman. As Silvers shrugged and moved off, overtime probably still on his mind, Wylie turned her attention to the story of the German student, Jürgen Becker. She thought of Boris Becker, her favourite tennis player at one time, and wondered idly if Jürgen might be some relation. She doubted it: a famous relly would have pulled out the stops, like with Philippa Balfour.

And yet what progress had they made? They didn’t seem to be any further forward than the day the MisPer inquiry had opened. Rebus had all these ideas, but there was no focus to them. It was as if he reached out his hand and plucked possibilities from some tree or bush, expecting people to swallow them. The one time she’d worked with him before — a body found in Queensberry House, just as they were readying to knock most of it down and start building the parliament — there hadn’t been a result. He’d as good as dumped her, refused to talk about the case afterwards. Nothing had come to court.

And yet... she’d rather be part of Rebus’s team than none at all. She felt she’d burned her bridges with Gill Templer, whatever Rebus said, and she knew it was all her fault. She’d tried too hard, almost to the point of pestering Templer. It was a form of laziness: pushing to be noticed in the hope advancement would follow. And she knew Templer had rejected her precisely because she’d seen it for what it was. Gill Templer hadn’t got to the top that way — she’d had to work her damnedest throughout, fighting a prejudice against women officers which was never discussed, never admitted to.

But still there.

Wylie knew she should have kept her head down and her mouth shut. That was how Siobhan Clarke worked; she never looked pushy, even though she was every inch the careerist... and a rival — Wylie couldn’t help but see her that way. Templer’s favourite from the start, which was precisely why she — Ellen Wylie — had begun campaigning overtly and, as it turned out, too strenuously. Leaving her isolated, stuck with a piece of crap like the Jürgen Becker story. On a Friday afternoon, when there’d most likely be no one around to answer her phone calls, reply to her questions. It was dead time, that was all.

Dead time.

Grant Hood had another press conference to organise. He already knew the names to put to faces, had arranged short get-to-know meetings with the ‘majors’, these being the more reputable journalists, crime reporters of long standing.

‘Thing is, Grant,’ DCS Templer had confided in him, ‘there are some journos we can call our own, in that they’re malleable. They’ll toe the line, place a story for us if and when we want them to, while holding back stuff we don’t want getting out. You already have a foundation of trust there, but it cuts both ways. We have to give them good copy, and they’re hoping they get it an hour or two before the oppo.’

‘The oppo, ma’am?’

‘Opposition. See, they look like a solid mass when you see them in the press room, but they’re not. At times they’ll cooperate with each other — like sending one of their number on a thankless stake-out. He then shares whatever he gets with the rest of them. They take it in turns.’

Grant had nodded his understanding.

‘But in other respects, it’s dog eat dog. The hacks who’re not in the loop, they’re keenest of all, and not likely to be scrupulous. They’ll get chequebooks out when it suits, and they’ll try to win you over. Not with cash maybe, but with drinks, a bit of dinner. They’ll make you feel one of the lads, and you’ll start thinking: they’re not so bad really. That’s when you’re in trouble, because all the time they’ll be pumping you without you knowing it. You might let drop a hint or a teaser, just to show them you’re in the know. And whatever it is you’ve come out with, you can guarantee they’ll print it with knobs on. You’ll be “a police source” or “an unnamed source close to the investigation” — that’s if they’re in the mood to be kind. And if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws. They’ll want chapter and verse, or they’ll leave you on the rack.’ She’d patted his shoulder, and finished by saying: ‘Just a word to the wise.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’

‘It’s okay to be on genial terms with them all, and you should introduce yourself to the ones who matter, but never forget which side you’re on... or that there are sides. Okay?’

He’d nodded. Then she’d given him the list of ‘majors’.

He’d stuck to coffee and orange juice in each meeting, and was relieved to see most of the journalists doing likewise.

‘You might find the “elders” running on whisky and gin,’ one younger reporter had said, ‘but not us.’

The meeting after that had been with one of the most respected of the “elders”. He’d wanted nothing more than a glass of water: ‘The young ones drink like fish, but I find I can’t any more. And what’s your tipple of preference, DC Hood?’

‘This isn’t a formal occasion, Mr Gillies. Please, call me Grant.’

‘Then you must call me Allan...’

Still Grant couldn’t get Templer’s warning words out of his head. As a result, he felt he’d come over as stiff and awkward at each get-to-know. Still, one definite bonus was that Templer had arranged for him to have his own office at Fettes HQ, at least for the duration of the inquiry. She’d called it ‘prudent’, explaining that he’d be talking to journalists every day, and it was best to keep them at a distance from the main investigation. If they happened to drop into Gayfield or St Leonard’s for a briefing or even a quick chat, there was no telling what they might overhear or happen to notice.

‘Good point,’ he’d said, nodding.

‘Same goes for phone calls,’ Templer had gone on. ‘If you want to call a journalist, do so from your office, door closed. That way they’re not going to hear anything they shouldn’t in the background. One of them phones you and catches you in CID or somewhere, say you’ll call them back.’

He’d nodded again.

Thinking back, she’d probably reckoned he resembled one of those nodding dogs, the kind you got in the back of naff cars. He tried to shake the image away, focused on his screen. He was drafting a press release, copies to go to Bill Pryde, Gill Templer and ACC Carswell for their input and approval.

Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on another floor in the same building. He’d already knocked on Grant’s door and come in to wish him good luck. When Grant had introduced himself as Detective Constable Hood, Carswell had nodded slowly, his eyes those of an examiner.

‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘no cock-ups and a result on this, we’ll have to see about doing something better for you, eh?’

Meaning a hike to detective sergeant. Hood knew Carswell could do it, too. He’d already taken one young CID officer under his wing — DI Derek Linford. Problem was, neither Linford nor Carswell had any time for John Rebus, which meant Hood would have to be careful. He’d already turned down one drink with Rebus and the rest of the crew, but was conscious that he’d spent some time alone with Rebus in a bar all too recently. It was the sort of thing which, leaked to Carswell, could put a real spanner in the works. He thought again of Templer’s words: if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws... Another image flashed in front of him, that clinch with Siobhan. He’d have to be careful from now on: careful who he spoke to and what he said, careful who he spent time with, careful what he did.

Careful not to make enemies.

Another knock on the door. It was one of the civilian staff. ‘Something for you,’ she said, handing over a carrier bag. Then she smiled and retreated. He opened it. A bottle inside: José Cuervo Gold. And along with it, a little card:

Grant smiled. He thought he detected the hand of Allan Gillies. Then it struck him: he’d never answered Gillies’s inquiry about his favoured drink... yet somehow Gillies had got it right. It went beyond guesswork: someone had been talking. The smile left Grant’s face. The tequila wasn’t just a gift, it was a show of strength. Just then his mobile sounded. He took it from his pocket.

‘Hello?’

‘DC Hood?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Just thought I’d introduce myself, since I seemed to miss out on one of the invites.’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name’s Steve Holly. You’ll have seen my byline.’

‘I’ve seen it.’ Holly’s was definitely not one of the names on Templer’s list of ‘majors’. Her own succinct description of him: ‘a shit’.

‘Well, we’ll be seeing one another at all these press conferences and such like, but I thought I’d just say hello first. Did you get the bottle?’

When Grant didn’t reply, Holly just laughed.

‘He always does that, old Allan. Thinks it’s clever, but you and I know it’s just a party trick.’

‘Is it?’

‘I’m not the sort for rubbish like that, as you’ll no doubt have noticed.’

‘Noticed?’ Grant frowned.

‘Think about it, DC Hood.’ With that, the line went dead.

Grant stared at the phone, and then it dawned on him. The journalists, all they’d had from him so far were his office phone, fax and pager. He thought hard, and was sure he hadn’t given his mobile to any of them. More advice from Templer:

‘Once you get to know them, there’ll be one or two you really click with — it’s never the same combination for any liaison officer. Those really special ones, you might want to let have your mobile number. It’s a sign of trust. For the rest, forget it or your life won’t be your own... and with them clogging the line, how can any of your colleagues hope to contact you? Us and them, Grant, us and them...’

And now one of ‘them’ had his mobile number. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to get it changed.

As for the tequila, that was going with him to the press conference. He’d hand it back to Allan Gillies, tell him he was off the alcohol these days.

He was beginning to think that might not be so far from the truth. There were a lot of changes to be made if he was going to stay the course.

Grant felt he was ready.

The CID suite at St Leonard’s was emptying. Officers not involved in the murder case were clocking off for the weekend. Some would work a Saturday shift if it was offered them. Others would be on call, should a fresh case need investigating. But for most, the weekend was beginning. There was a spring in their step; they struck up choruses of old pop songs. The city had been quiet of late. A few domestics, a drug bust or two. The Drugs Squad were keeping their heads down, however, after answering a tip-off: a council house in Gracemount, silver sheeting at an upstairs bedroom window, kept closed all day and night. They’d hurtled in, ready to demolish Edinburgh’s latest cannabis supply, and had instead found a teenager’s bedroom, newly decorated. His mum had bought a moon blanket instead of curtains, thought it looked trendy...

‘Bloody Changing Rooms,’ one of the Drugs Squad had muttered.

There were other incidents, but they were isolated, hardly the stuff of a crime wave. Siobhan looked at her watch. She’d called the Crime Squad earlier, asked about computers. She hadn’t even got halfway through her explanation when Claverhouse had said, ‘Someone’s already on it. We’ll send him over.’ So now she was waiting. She’d tried Claverhouse again: no answer. He was probably on his way home or to the pub. Maybe he wasn’t sending anyone till Monday. She’d give it another ten minutes. After all, she had her own life, didn’t she? Football tomorrow if she wanted it, though it was an away match. Sunday she could go for a drive: there were all these places she’d never been — Linlithgow Palace, Falkland Palace, Traquair. A friend she hadn’t seen in months had invited her to a birthday party Saturday night. She didn’t think she’d go, but the option was always there...

‘Are you DC Clarke?’

He had a briefcase with him, which he placed on the floor. She was reminded for a second of door-to-door salesmen, cold callers. Straightening, she saw that he was overweight, most of it around the stomach. Short hair, a tuft standing up at the back of his head. He introduced himself as Eric Bain.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Don’t they call you “Brains”?’

‘Sometimes, but to be honest I prefer Eric.’

‘Eric it is. Make yourself comfortable.’

Bain pulled over a chair. As he sat, the material of his light blue shirt stretched, opening gaps between buttons at the front, exposing areas of pale pink skin.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what have we got?’

Siobhan explained, while Bain gave her his full concentration, his eyes fixed on hers. She noticed that his breath came in small wheezes, and wondered if there was an inhaler in one of his pockets.

She tried for eye contact, tried to relax, but his size and proximity made her uncomfortable. His fingers were pudgy and ringless. His watch had too many buttons on it. There was hair below his chin which the morning’s razor had failed to find.

He didn’t ask a single question throughout her speech. At the end, he asked to see the e-mails.

‘Onscreen, or printed out?’

‘Either will do.’

She took the sheets from her shoulder-bag. Bain moved his chair even closer so he could spread them out on the desk. He made a chronological line, working from the dates at the top of each one.

‘These are just the clues,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I want all the e-mails.’

So Siobhan booted up the laptop, connecting her mobile while she was at it. ‘Shall I check for new messages?’

‘Why not?’ he asked.

There were two from Quizmaster.

Game time is elapsing. Do you wish to continue, Seeker?

An hour later, this had been followed by:

Communication or cessation?

‘Knows her vocab, doesn’t she?’ Bain stated. Siobhan looked at him. ‘You keep saying “he”,’ he explained. ‘Thought it might help us keep an open mind if I...’

‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘Whatever.’

‘Do you want to reply?’

She started to shake her head, then changed it to a shrug. ‘I’m not sure what I want to say.’

‘Be easier to trace her if she doesn’t shut down.’

She looked at Bain, then typed a reply — Thinking about it — and hit ‘send’. ‘Reckon that’ll do?’ she asked.

‘Well, it definitely ranks as “communication”.’ Bain smiled. ‘Now let me have those other messages.’

She hooked up to a printer, only to find there was no paper. ‘Hell,’ she hissed. The store cupboard was locked and she’d no idea where the key was. Then she remembered Rebus’s file, the one he’d taken with him when they’d interviewed Albie the medical student. He’d made it look intimidatingly thick by padding it with sheets from the photocopier. Siobhan walked to Rebus’s desk, started opening drawers. Bingo: the file was there, the half-ream still tucked inside. Two minutes later she had the history of Quizmaster’s correspondence. Bain shuffled the sheets so that everything could fit on her desktop, covering it almost completely.

‘See all this stuff?’ he asked, pointing to the bottom halves of some of the pages. ‘You probably never look at it, do you?’

Siobhan had to admit as much. Beneath the word ‘Headers’ lay more than a dozen lines of extra material: Return-Path, Message-ID, X-Mailer... It didn’t mean much to her.

‘This,’ Bain said, drawing his lips into his mouth to moisten them, ‘is the juicy stuff.’

‘Can we identify Quizmaster from it?’

‘Not straight away, but it’s a start.’

‘How come some of the messages don’t have headers?’ Siobhan asked.

‘That,’ Bain said, ‘is the bad news. If a message has no headers, it means the sender is using the same ISP you are.’

‘But...’

Bain was nodding. ‘Quizmaster has more than one account.’

‘He’s switching ISPs?’

‘It’s not uncommon. I have a friend who’s averse to paying for Internet access. Before the freeserves came along, he’d sign up with a different ISP every month. That way he took advantage of all those “first month free” deals. When time was up, he cancelled and went looking elsewhere. One whole year, he didn’t pay a penny. What Quizmaster is doing is an extension of that.’ Bain ran his finger down each list of headers, stopping at the fourth line. ‘These tell you his ISP. See? Three different providers.’

‘Making him harder to catch?’

‘Harder, yes. But he must have set up a...’ He noticed the look on Siobhan’s face. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘You said “he”.’

‘Did I?’

‘Would it be simpler if we stuck to that, do you think? Not that I don’t appreciate your idea of keeping an open mind.’

Bain thought about it. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So, as I was saying, he — or she — must have set up a payment account with each one. At least, I’d think so. Even if you’re on a month’s free trial, they’ll usually ask for some details first, including a Visa card or bank account.’

‘So they can start charging you when the time comes?’

Bain nodded. ‘Everyone leaves traces,’ he said quietly, staring at the sheets. ‘They just don’t think they do.’

‘It’s like forensics, isn’t it? A hair, a fleck of skin...’

‘Exactly.’ Bain was smiling again.

‘So we need to talk to the service providers, get them to hand over his details?’

‘If they’ll talk to us.’

‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Siobhan said. ‘They’ll have to.’

He glanced in her direction. ‘There are channels, Siobhan.’

‘Channels?’

‘There’s a Special Branch unit deals with nothing but high-tech crime. They concentrate on hard-core mostly, track down the buyers of kiddie porn, that kind of stuff. You wouldn’t believe the stories: hard disks hidden inside other hard disks, screen-savers which hide pornographic images...’

‘We need their permission?’

Bain shook his head. ‘We need their help.’ He checked his watch. ‘And it’s too late tonight to do anything about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s Friday night in London too.’ He looked at her. ‘Buy you a drink?’

She wasn’t going to say yes: lots of excuses ready to use. But somehow she couldn’t say no, and they found themselves across the road in The Maltings. Again, he placed his briefcase on the floor next to him as they stood at the bar.

‘What do you keep in there?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’

She shrugged. ‘Laptop, mobile phone... gadgets and floppies... I don’t know.’

‘That’s what you’re supposed to think.’ He hefted the briefcase on to the bar and was about to snap it open, but then paused and shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Maybe when we know one another a bit better.’ He placed it back beside his feet.

‘Keeping secrets from me?’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s a fine start to a working relationship.’

They both smiled as their drinks arrived: bottled lager for her, a pint of beer for him. There were no free tables.

‘So what’s St Leonard’s like?’ Bain asked.

‘Much the same as any other station, I suppose.’

‘It’s not every station has a John Rebus in it.’

She looked at him. ‘How do you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s something Claverhouse said, about you being Rebus’s apprentice.’

‘Apprentice!’ Even with the stereo blaring, her outburst had heads turning towards them. ‘Bloody cheek!’

‘Easy, easy,’ Bain said. ‘It’s just something Claverhouse said.’

‘Then you tell Claverhouse to stick his head up his arse.’

Bain started laughing.

‘I’m not joking,’ she said. But then she started laughing too.

After two more drinks, Bain said he felt peckish and what about seeing if Howie’s had a table. She wasn’t about to say yes — didn’t really feel that hungry after the lager — but somehow she found herself unable to say no.

Jean Burchill was working late at the Museum. Ever since Professor Devlin had mentioned Dr Kennet Lovell, Jean had been intrigued. She’d decided to do some investigating of her own, to see if the pathologist’s theory could be substantiated. She knew that she could take a short cut by talking to Devlin himself, but something stopped her. She imagined she could still smell formaldehyde on his skin and feel the cold touch of dead flesh when he took her hand. History only brought her in contact with the long-dead, and then usually as mere references in books or artefacts discovered during digs. When her husband had died, his pathology report had made for grim reading, yet whoever had written it had done so with relish, lingering on the liver abnormalities, its swollen and overtaxed nature. ‘Overtaxed’ was the very word the writer had used. Easy enough, she supposed, to diagnose alcoholism after death.

She thought of John Rebus’s drinking. It didn’t seem to her to resemble Bill’s. Bill would toy with his breakfast, then head out to the garage where he kept a bottle hidden. A couple under his belt before getting into the car. She kept finding evidence: empty bourbon bottles in the cellar, and at the back of the topmost shelf of his closet. She never said anything. Bill went on being ‘the life and soul’, ‘steady and reliable’, ‘a fun guy’, right up until the illness stopped him working, sending him to a hospital bed instead.

She didn’t think Rebus was a secret drinker in that way. He just liked to drink. If he did it alone, that was because he didn’t have many friends. She’d asked Bill once why he drank, and he hadn’t been able to answer her. She thought probably John Rebus had answers, though he would be reluctant to give them. They’d be to do with washing away the world, scouring his mind of the problems and questions he kept stored there.

None of which would make him a more attractive drunk than Bill had been, but then so far she hadn’t seen Rebus drunk. She got the feeling he’d be a sleeper: however many drinks it took, and then crashing into unconsciousness wherever he happened to be.

When her phone rang, she was slow to pick it up.

‘Jean?’ It was Rebus’s voice.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Thought you’d have left by now.’

‘I’m working late.’

‘I was just wondering if you...’

‘Not tonight, John. I’ve a lot I want to get done.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘Fair enough.’ He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

‘What about this weekend: any plans?’

‘Well, that was something I wanted to tell you...’

‘What?’

‘Lou Reed at the Playhouse tomorrow night. I’ve got two tickets.’

‘Lou Reed?’

‘He could be great, could be mince. Only one way to find out.’

‘I haven’t listened to him in years.’

‘Don’t suppose he’s learned how to sing in the interim.’

‘No, probably not. All right then, let’s do it.’

‘Where shall we meet?’

‘I’ve some shopping to do in the morning... how about lunch?’

‘Great.’

‘If you’ve nothing else on, we could make a weekend of it.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Me too. I’m shopping in town... wonder if we can get a table at Café St Honore?’

‘Is that just along from the Oxford Bar?’

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. She thought of Edinburgh in terms of restaurants, Rebus pubs.

‘I’ll phone and book.’

‘Make it one o’clock. If they can’t fit us in, call me back.’

‘They’ll fit us in. The chef’s a regular at the Ox.’

She asked him how the case was progressing. He was reticent, until he remembered something.

‘You know Professor Devlin’s anatomist?’

‘Who? Kennet Lovell?’

‘That’s the one. I had to interview a medical student, friend of Philippa’s. Turns out she’s a descendant.’

‘Really?’ Jean tried not to sound too intrigued. ‘Same name?’

‘No: Claire Benzie. She’s related on her mother’s side.’

They chatted for another couple of minutes. When Jean put the phone down, she looked around her. Her ‘office’ was a small cubicle with desk and chair, filing cabinet and bookshelves. She’d stuck some postcards on the back of the door, including one from the Museum shop: the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Secretarial and support staff shared a larger outer office just outside her door, but they’d all gone home. There would be cleaners busy elsewhere in the building, and a security guard doing the rounds. She’d wandered all through the Museum at night, never in the least spooked by it. Even the old museum, with its displays of stuffed animals, calmed her. Friday night, she knew the restaurant at the top of the Museum would be busy. It had its own lift, and someone on the door to make sure diners headed straight for it and didn’t wander into the Museum instead.

She remembered her first meeting with Siobhan, the story of the ‘bad experience’. Couldn’t have had anything to do with the food, though the bill at the end could sometimes come as a shock. She wondered if she’d treat herself later. The price of a meal went down after ten p.m.; maybe they could squeeze her in. She touched her stomach. Lunch tomorrow... it wouldn’t hurt her to skip dinner tonight. Besides, she wasn’t sure she’d still be here at ten. Her investigation into the life of Kennet Lovell hadn’t thrown up a surfeit of information.

Kennet: she’d first thought the name a misprint, but it kept recurring. Kennet, not Kenneth. Born 1807, in Coylton, Ayrshire, making him just twenty-one at the time of Burke’s execution. His parents were farming folk, his father having employed Robert Burns’s father for a time. Kennet was given an education locally, helped by the local church minister, the Reverend Kirkpatrick...

There was a kettle in the outer office. She got up, walked out of her room. Left the door open, so her shadow stretched across the floor. She didn’t bother with the lights. Switched the kettle on and rinsed a mug under the tap. Tea-bag, powdered milk. She stood in the semi-dark, leaning against the worktop, arms folded. Through the doorway, she could see her desk and the photocopied sheets, all she’d been able to find so far on Dr Kennet Lovell, who’d assisted at a murderer’s autopsy, helped flay William Burke’s skin from his bones. The initial post-mortem examination had been undertaken by Dr Monro, in the presence of a select audience including a phrenologist and a sculptor, as well as the philosopher Sir William Hamilton and the surgeon Robert Liston. This was followed by a public dissection in the university’s packed anatomical theatre, noisy medical students gathered around like so many vultures, hungry for knowledge, while those without tickets hammered at the doors for entry and fought with police.

She was working from history books: some about the Burke and Hare case, others about the history of medicine in Scotland. The Edinburgh Room at the Central Library had proved helpful as ever, as had a contact at the National Library. Both had done photocopying for her. She’d taken a trip to Surgeons’ Hall, too, using their library and database. Hadn’t told Rebus about any of this. She knew why: because she was worried. She felt that the Arthur’s Seat case was a blind alley, and one down which John, with his need for answers, might go careering. Professor Devlin had been right about that: obsession was always a trap into which you could fall. This was history — ancient history, compared to the Balfour case. Whether the killer had known about the Arthur’s Seat coffins or not seemed irrelevant. There was no way of telling. She was conducting this research for her own satisfaction; didn’t want John reading anything more into it. He had enough on his plate without that.

There was a noise in the corridor. When the kettle clicked off, she thought no more about it. Poured the water into her mug, dunked the tea-bag a few times, then tipped it into the swing-bin. Took the mug back into her room, leaving the door open.

Kennet Lovell had arrived in Edinburgh in December 1822, aged barely fifteen. She couldn’t know whether he’d taken a coach, or walked. It wasn’t uncommon to walk such distances in those days, especially if money was an issue. One historian, in a book about Burke and Hare, speculated that Reverend Kirkpatrick had provided for Lovell’s journey, and in addition had given him an introduction to a friend, Dr Knox, recently returned from time overseas, during which he had worked as an army surgeon at Waterloo and studied in Africa and Paris. Knox had housed young Lovell for the first year or so of his life in Edinburgh. But when Lovell had started university, the two seemed to have drifted apart, and Lovell moved to lodgings in West Port...

Jean sipped her tea and flipped through the photocopied sheets: no footnotes or index, nothing to indicate the provenance of these apparent ‘facts’. Dealing as she did with beliefs and superstitions, she knew how hard it could be to sift out hard objective truths from the chaff of history. Hearsay and rumour could find their way into print. Mistakes, only occasionally pernicious, crept in. It galled her that she had no way of checking anything, had for the moment to rely on mere commentary. A case like Burke and Hare had thrown up any number of contemporary ‘experts’, who believed their testimony to be the one true and worthwhile account.

It didn’t mean she had to believe it.

More frustrating still, Kennet Lovell was a bit-player in the Burke and Hare story, existing only for that one gruesome scene, while in the history of medicine in Edinburgh his role was more negligible still. Large gaps were left in his biography. By the time she’d finished reading, she knew only that he had completed his studies, moving into the field of teaching as well as practising. He had been present at the Burke autopsy. Yet three years later he seemed to be in Africa, combining much-needed medical skills with Christian missionary work. How long he spent there she couldn’t say. His reappearance in Scotland came in the late 1840s. He set up a medical practice in the New Town, his clients probably reflecting the wealth of that enclave. One historian’s supposition had it that he had been bequeathed the bulk of the Reverend Kirkpatrick’s estate, having ‘kept in good graces with that gentleman by dint of regular correspondence down the years’. Jean would have liked to see those letters, but nobody had quoted from them in any of the books. She made a note to try tracking them down. The parish in Ayrshire might have some record, or someone at Surgeons’ Hall might know. Chances were, they couldn’t be recovered, either because they’d perished — been disposed of with Lovell’s effects when he’d died — or had gone overseas. An awful lot of historical documentation had found its way into collections overseas — mostly Canada and the US... and many of those collections were private, which meant few details of their contents were available.

She’d seen many a trail go cold, frustrated by her inability to know whether some letter or document was still in existence. Then she remembered Professor Devlin, with his dining table crafted by Lovell. Lovell, who according to Devlin was an amateur woodworker... She sifted through the papers again, sure that there was nothing in them mentioning this hobby. Either Devlin had some book, some evidence she’d failed so far to find, or else he was myth-making. This, too, she saw all the time: people who ‘just knew’ that the antique in their possession had once belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie or Sir Walter Scott. If it turned out she only had Devlin’s word for it that Lovell had worked with wood, then the whole notion that he had left the coffins on Arthur’s Seat would begin to crumble. She sat back, annoyed with herself. All this time, she’d been working on an assumption that could turn out to be false. Lovell had left Edinburgh in 1832; the boys had stumbled on the cave containing the coffins in June 1836. Could they have gone undetected for so long?

She lifted something from the desk-top. It was a Polaroid she’d taken in Surgeons’ Hall — the portrait of Lovell. He didn’t look like a man who’d suffered the ravages of Africa. His skin was pale and smooth, his face youthful. She had pencilled the artist’s name on the back. She got up and left her room again, opened the door to her boss’s office and switched on his light. He had a shelf of thick reference books, and she found the one she needed, turned to the painter’s name, J. Scott Jauncey. ‘Active in Edinburgh 1825–35,’ she read, ‘chiefly landscapes, but some portraiture.’ After which he’d taken himself to Europe for many years before settling in Hove. So Lovell had sat for the portrait during his early years in Edinburgh, before his own travels. She wondered if such a thing was the luxury it seemed, to be afforded only by the well-off. Then she thought of Reverend Kirkpatrick... maybe the portrait had been at his request, something to be sent west to the Ayrshire parish, to remind the minister of his charge.

Again, there might be a clue buried deep within Surgeons’ Hall, some record of the portrait’s history prior to its arrival there.

‘Monday,’ she said out loud. It could wait till Monday. She had the weekend to look forward to... and a Lou Reed concert to survive.

Switching off her boss’s light, she heard another noise, much closer. The door to the outer office swung open and the lights all came on. Jean took half a step back, then saw it was just the cleaner.

‘You gave me a fright,’ she said, putting a hand to her chest.

The cleaner just smiled and put a bin-bag down, heading back into the hallway to fetch her vacuum cleaner.

‘Mind if I get started?’ she asked.

‘Go ahead,’ Jean said. ‘I’m finished here anyway.’

As she tidied her desk, she noticed that her heart was still racing, her hands shaking slightly. All her night-time walks through the museum, and this was the first time she’d been fazed. The portrait of Kennet Lovell stared at her from the Polaroid. Somehow, it seemed to her, Jauncey had failed to flatter his subject. Lovell looked young, yes, but there was a coldness to the eyes, and the mouth was set, the face full of calculation.

‘Heading straight home?’ the cleaner asked, coming in to empty her bin.

‘Might make a pit-stop at the off-licence.’

‘Kill or cure, eh?’ the cleaner said.

‘Something like that,’ Jean replied, as an unwanted image of her husband flashed up in her mind. Then she thought of something and walked back to her desk. Lifted her pen and added a name to the notes she’d taken so far.

Claire Benzie.