The Falls

11

‘Jesus, that was loud,’ Rebus said. They were back on the pavement outside the Playhouse, and the sky, which had still been light when they’d gone in, was now dark.

‘You don’t do this sort of thing often then?’ she asked. Her own ears were ringing. She knew she was talking too loudly, overcompensating.

‘It’s been a while,’ he admitted. The crowd had been a mix of teenagers, old punks, right up to people Rebus’s own age... maybe even a year or two older. Reed had played a lot of new material, stuff Rebus hadn’t recognised, but with a few of the classics stirred into the pot. The Playhouse: last time he’d been there had probably been UB40, around the time of their second album. He didn’t want to think how long ago that was.

‘Shall we get a drink?’ Jean suggested. They’d been drinking on and off all afternoon and evening: wine with lunch, then a quick one at the Ox. A long walk down to Dean Village and along the Water of Leith. All the way down to Leith itself, with breaks on the way to park themselves on a bench and talk. Two more drinks in a pub on The Shore. They’d considered an early supper, but were still full from the Café St Honore. Walked back up Leith Walk to the Playhouse. Still early, so they’d gone into the Conan Doyle for one, then the Playhouse bar itself.

At one point Rebus had found himself saying: ‘I’d have thought you’d steer clear of the drink.’ Regretting the remark immediately. But Jean had just shrugged.

‘You mean because of Bill? That’s not the way it works. I mean, maybe it is with some people, they either become a drunk themselves or they make a pact never to touch another drop. But it’s not the booze that’s to blame, it’s the person using it. All the time Bill had his problem, it didn’t stop me indulging. I never lectured him. And it hasn’t stopped me drinking... because I know it doesn’t mean that much to me.’ She’d paused. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ Rebus had offered his own shrug. ‘I just drink to be sociable.’

‘And when does it start working?’

They’d laughed at that, and left the subject alone. Now, just gone eleven on a Saturday night, the street was noisy with alcohol.

‘Where do you suggest?’ Jean asked. Rebus made a show of checking his watch. There were plenty of bars he could think of, but they weren’t places he wanted Jean to see.

‘Could you stand a bit more music?’

She shrugged. ‘What kind?’

‘Acoustic. It’d be standing room only.’

She was thoughtful. ‘Is it between here and your flat?’

He nodded. ‘You know the place is a tip...’

‘I’ve seen it.’ Her eyes found his. ‘So... are you going to ask?’

‘You want to stay the night?’

‘I want you to ask me to.’

‘It’s only a mattress on the floor.’

She laughed, squeezed his hand. ‘Are you doing this on purpose?’

‘What?’

‘Trying to put me off.’

‘No, it’s just...’ He shrugged. ‘I just don’t want you—’

She interrupted him with a kiss. ‘I won’t be,’ she said.

He ran a hand up her arm, let it rest on her shoulder. ‘Still want that drink first?’

‘I think so. How far is it?’

‘Just up the Bridges. Pub’s called the Royal Oak.’

‘Then lead me to it.’

They walked hand in hand, Rebus trying his best not to feel awkward. Still he found himself scanning faces they passed, looking for ones he recognised: colleagues or ex-cons, he couldn’t have said which he’d like to meet the least.

‘Do you ever relax?’ Jean asked at one point.

‘I thought I was doing a pretty good imitation.’

‘I felt it at the concert, bits of you were elsewhere.’

‘Comes with the job.’

‘I don’t think so. Gill manages to switch off. I’d guess most of the rest of CID do too.’

‘Maybe not as much as you think.’ He thought of Siobhan, imagined her sitting at home, staring into the laptop... and Ellen Wylie festering somewhere... and Grant Hood, his bed strewn with paperwork, memorising names and faces. And the Farmer, what would he be doing? Running a cloth slowly over surfaces already clean? There were some — Hi-Ho Silvers; Joe Dickie — who barely switched on when they went to work, never mind switched off at day’s end. Others like Bill Pryde and Bobby Hogan worked hard, but left the job in the office, managed the magic of separating their personal lives from their careers.

Then there was Rebus himself, who for so long had put the job first... because it saved him having to face some home truths.

Jean broke his reverie with a question. ‘Is there a twenty-four-hour shop somewhere on the route?’

‘More than one. Why?’

‘Breakfast: something tells me your fridge won’t exactly be an Aladdin’s Cave.’

Monday morning, Ellen Wylie was back at her own desk in what everyone in the force referred to as ‘West End’, meaning the police station on Torphichen Street. Her reasoning was that it would be easier to get work done there, space not exactly being at a premium. A couple of weekend stabbings, one mugging, three domestics and an arson... these were keeping her colleagues busy. When they passed her, they asked about the Balfour case. She was waiting for Reynolds and Shug Davidson in particular — the pair forming a fearsome double act — to say something about her TV appearance, but they didn’t. Maybe they were taking pity on the afflicted; most likely they were just showing solidarity. Even in a city as small as Edinburgh, rivalries existed between stations. If the Balfour investigation shat on DS Ellen Wylie, it was in effect dumping on West End.

‘Reassigned?’ Shug Davidson guessed.

She shook her head. ‘I’m following a lead. It’s as easy to do it here as there.’

‘Ah, but here you’re a long way away from the glamour chase.’

‘The what?’

He smiled. ‘The big picture, the juicy inquiry, the centre of everything.’

‘I’m at the centre of the West End,’ she told him. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ Earned herself a wink from Davidson and a round of applause from Reynolds. She smiled: she was back home.

It had niggled at her all weekend: the way she’d been sidelined — bumped from liaison and dropped off at the twilight zone in which DI John Rebus worked. And from there to this — a tourist’s suicide from years back — seemed yet another snub.

So she’d come to a decision: if they didn’t want her, she didn’t need them. Welcome back to the West End. She’d picked up all her notes on the way in. They sat on her desk, a desk she didn’t need to share with half a dozen other bodies. The telephone wasn’t going constantly, Bill Pryde flapping past with his clipboard and nicotine chewing-gum. She felt safe here, and here she could safely reach the conclusion that she was on another wild-goose chase.

Now all she had to do was prove it to Gill Templer’s satisfaction.

She was off to a flyer. She’d called the police station in Fort William and spoken to a very helpful sergeant called Donald Maclay, who remembered the case well.

‘The upper slope of Ben Dorchory,’ he told her. ‘The body had been there a couple of months. It’s a remote spot. A ghillie happened on the scene; could have lain there years otherwise. We followed procedure. Nothing in the way of ID on the body. Nothing in the pockets.’

‘Not even any money?’

‘We didn’t find any. Labels on the jacket, shirt and suchlike didn’t tell us anything. Talked to the B and Bs and hotels, checked the missing persons records.’

‘What about the gun?’

‘What about it?’

‘Did you get any prints?’

‘After that length of time? No, we didn’t.’

‘But you did check for them?’

‘Oh, aye.’

Wylie was writing everything down, abbreviating most of the words. ‘Gunpowder traces?’

‘Sorry?’

‘On the skin. He was shot in the head?’

‘That’s right. The pathologist didn’t find any burning or residues on the scalp.’

‘Isn’t that unusual?’

‘Not when half the head’s been blown away and the local wildlife have been feeding.’

Wylie stopped writing. ‘I get the picture,’ she said.

‘I mean, this wasn’t like a body, more a scarecrow. The skin was like parchment. There’s a hellish wind blows across that hill.’

‘You didn’t treat it as suspicious?’

‘We went by the autopsy findings.’

‘Any chance you can send me the file?’

‘If we get a written request, sure.’

‘Thanks.’ She tapped her pen against the desk. ‘The gun was how far away?’

‘Maybe twenty feet.’

‘You think an animal moved it?’

‘Yes. Either that or it was a reflex thing. Put a gun to your head and pull the trigger, there’s going to be a recoil, isn’t there?’

‘I’d think so.’ She paused. ‘So what happened next?’

‘Well, eventually we tried facial reconstruction, then issued the composite photo.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing very much. Thing was, we thought he was a lot older... early forties maybe, and the composite reflected that. God knows how the Germans got to hear of it.’

‘The mother and father?’

‘That’s right. Their son had been missing the best part of a year... maybe even a bit longer. Then we got this call from Munich, couldn’t make much sense of it. Next thing, they’d turned up at the station with a translator. We showed them the clothes and they recognised a couple of things... the jacket, and a wristwatch.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not. A year they’d been looking for him, going out of their minds. The jacket was just a plain green thing, nothing special about it. Same goes for the watch.’

‘You think they managed to convince themselves simply because they wanted to believe?’

‘Wanted it to be him, yes. But their son was barely twenty... experts told us we had the remains of someone twice that age. Then the bloody papers went and printed the story anyway.’

‘How did all the sword-and-sorcery stuff come into the picture?’

‘Hang on a minute, will you?’ She heard Maclay put the receiver down next to his phone. He was giving instructions to someone. ‘Just past the creels... there’s a hut Aly uses when he’s renting out his boat...’ She imagined Fort William: quiet and coastal, with islands off to the west. Fishermen and tourists; gulls overhead and the tang of seaweed.

‘Sorry about that,’ Maclay said.

‘Keeping you busy?’

‘Oh, it’s always hectic up this way,’ he replied with a laugh. She wished she were there with him. After they’d finished talking, she could walk down to the harbour, passing those creels... ‘Where were we?’ he said.

‘Sword and sorcery.’

‘First we knew about that was when they put it in the paper. The parents again, they’d been talking to some reporter.’

Wylie held the photocopy in front of her. The headline: ‘Did Role Game Kill in Highland Gun Mystery?’ The reporter’s name was Steve Holly.

Jürgen Becker was a twenty-year-old student who lived with his parents in a suburb of Hamburg. He attended the local university, specialising in psychology. He loved role-playing games, and was part of a team who played in an inter-university league on the Internet. Fellow students said that he’d been ‘anxious and troubled’ during the week leading up to his disappearance. When he left home for that last time, he took a backpack with him. In it, to the best of his parents’ knowledge, were his passport, a couple of changes of clothes, his camera, and a portable CD player with maybe a dozen or so discs.

The parents were professionals — the father an architect, mother a lecturer — but they’d given up work to concentrate on finding their son. The story shifted into bold type for its final paragraph: ‘Now, two grieving parents know they’ve found their son. Yet for them the mystery has only deepened. How did Jürgen come to die on a barren Scottish mountaintop? Who else was there with him? Whose was the gun... and who used it to end the young student’s life?’

‘The backpack and stuff, they never turned up?’ Wylie asked.

‘Never. But then if it wasn’t him, you would hardly expect them to.’

She smiled. ‘You’ve been a real help, Sergeant Maclay.’

‘Just put that request in writing, and I’ll let you have chapter and verse.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ She paused. ‘We’ve got a Maclay in Edinburgh CID, works out of Craigmillar...’

‘Aye, we’re cousins. Met him at a couple of weddings and funerals. Craigmillar’s where the posh folk live?’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Was I being fed a line?’

‘Come see for yourself sometime.’

Wylie was laughing when she finished the call, had to tell Shug Davidson why. He came over to her desk. The CID room wasn’t big: four desks, doors leading off to walk-in cupboards where they kept old case files. Davidson picked up the photocopied news story, read it through.

‘Looks like something Holly made up all by himself,’ he commented.

‘You know him?’

‘Had a couple of run-ins with him. Holly’s speciality is blowing a story up.’

She took the article from him. Sure enough, all the stuff about fantasy games and role-playing was kept ambiguous, the text peppered with conditionals: ‘may have’, ‘could be’, ‘if, as it is thought...’

‘I need to speak to him,’ she stated, picking up the phone again. ‘Do you know his number?’

‘No, but he’s based at the paper’s Edinburgh office.’ Davidson started back towards his own desk. ‘You’ll find it in Yellow Pages under “Leper Colonies”...’

Steve Holly was still on his way into work when his mobile sounded. He lived in the New Town, only three streets from what he’d recently called in print ‘the tragic death flat’. Not that his own place was in the same league as Flip Balfour’s. He was at the top of an unmodernised tenement — one of few still left in the New Town. And his street didn’t have the cachet of Flip’s address. Still, he’d watched the paper value of his flat soar. Four years ago, he’d decided he wanted to live in this part of town. But even then it had seemed beyond his means, until he started reading the death notices in the city’s daily and evening papers. When he saw a New Town address, he’d head round there with an envelope marked ‘Urgent’ and addressed to ‘The Owner’. The letter inside was short. He introduced himself as someone who’d been born and raised in whichever street, but whose family had moved away and encountered bad fortune since. With both parents dead, he now wished to return to a street which held such fond memories, and should the owner ever wish to consider selling...

And bloody hell, it had worked. An old woman — house-ridden for a decade — had died, and her niece, who was her closest living relative, had read Holly’s letter, phoning him that afternoon. He’d gone to look at the place — three bedrooms, a bit smelly and dark but he knew such things could be fixed. Nearly shot himself in the foot when the niece asked which number he’d lived at, but he’d managed to fool her well enough. Then his pitch: all the estate agents and solicitors getting their cut... better to agree a fair price between them and cut out the middle-men.

The niece lived in the Borders, didn’t seem to know what flats in Edinburgh were fetching. She’d even thrown in a lot of the old lady’s furniture, for which he’d thanked her profusely, turfing out the lot his first weekend in residence.

If he sold up now he’d have a hundred grand in his pocket, a nice nest egg. In fact, only this morning he’d wondered about trying something similar with the Balfours... only somehow he reckoned they’d know to the last penny what Flip’s place was worth. He stopped, halfway up the Dundas Street climb, and answered his mobile.

‘Steve Holly speaking.’

‘Mr Holly, this is Detective Sergeant Wylie, Lothian and Borders CID.’

Wylie? He tried to place her. Of course! That brilliant press conference! ‘Yes, DS Wylie, and what can I do for you this morning?’

‘It’s about a story you ran three years or so back... the German student.’

‘Would that be the student with the twenty-foot reach?’ he asked with a grin. He was outside a small art gallery, peered in through the window, curious about the prices first, paintings second.

‘That’s the one, yes.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve caught the killer?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

She hesitated; he frowned in concentration. ‘Some new evidence may have come to light...’

‘What new evidence?’

‘Right now, I’m afraid I can’t divulge...’

‘Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t hear every other day. Your lot always want something for nothing.’

‘And your lot don’t?’

He turned away from the window, just in time to catch a green Aston revving away from the lights: not too many about, had to be the grieving father... ‘What’s it got to do with Philippa Balfour?’ he asked.

Silence on the line. ‘Sorry?’

‘That’s not a very good answer, DS Wylie. Last time I saw you, you were attached to the Balfour case. Are you saying they’ve suddenly shifted you on to a case which isn’t even in the Lothian and Borders remit?’

‘I...’

‘You’re probably not at liberty to say, right? Me, on the other hand, I can say whatever I like.’

‘The way you made up that sword-and-sorcery stuff?’

‘That wasn’t made up. I got it from the parents.’

‘That he liked role-playing, yes, but the idea that it was some game brought him to Scotland...?’

‘Speculation based on the available evidence.’

‘But there was no evidence of such a game, was there?’

‘Highland mountains, all that Celtic myth rubbish... just the place someone like Jürgen would end up. Sent out on some quest, only there’s a gun waiting for him when he gets there.’

‘Yes, I read your story.’

‘And somehow it ties in with Flip Balfour, but you’re not going to tell me how?’ Holly licked his lips; he was enjoying this.

‘That’s right,’ Wylie said.

‘It must have hurt.’ His voice was almost solicitous.

‘What?’

‘When they pulled you from liaison. Not your fault, was it? We’re like bloody savages at times. They should have prepared you better. Christ, Gill Templer worked liaison for a hundred years... she should have known.’

Another silence on the line. Holly softened his voice. ‘And then they go and give it to a detective constable. DC Grant Hood. A shining example. Now there’s one cocky little bastard if ever I saw one. Like I say, something like that’s got to hurt. And what’s happened to you, DS Wylie? You’re stuck halfway up a Scottish mountain, scrabbling around for a reporter — one of the enemy — to put you right.’

He thought she’d gone, but then heard something which was almost a sigh.

Oh, you’re good, Stevie boy, he thought to himself. You’ll have the right address some day, and works of art on the walls for people to gawp at...

‘Detective Sergeant Wylie?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Sorry if I hit a nerve. But, look, maybe we could meet. I think I might just have a way to help, even if only a little.’

‘What is it?’

‘Face to face?’

‘No.’ The voice hardening. ‘Tell me now.’

‘Well...’ Holly angled his head towards the sun. ‘Say this thing you’re working on... it’s confidential, right?’ He took a breath. ‘Don’t answer that. We both know already. But say someone... a journalist, for want of a better example... got hold of this story. People would want to know how he got it, and do you know who they’d look to first?’

‘Who?’

‘The liaison officer, Detective Constable Grant Hood. He’s the one with the line to the media. And if a certain journalist — the one in possession of the leak — happened to... well, indicate that his source was not a thousand miles from the liaison officer... I’m sorry, it probably sounds petty to you. You probably don’t want to see DC Hood with a bit of mud on his new starched shirt, or the flak that would head the way of DCS Templer. It’s just that sometimes when I start thinking something, I need to go the whole way. Do you know what I’m saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘We could still have that meeting. I’m free all morning. I’ve already told you what you need to know about Mountain Boy, but we could talk anyway...’

Rebus had been standing in front of Ellen Wylie’s desk a full half-minute before she seemed to realise he was there. She was staring towards the paperwork in front of her, but Rebus didn’t think she was seeing it. Then Shug Davidson wandered past, slapping Rebus on the back and saying ‘Morning, John’, and Wylie looked up.

‘Weekend that bad, was it?’ Rebus asked.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you, though I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered.’

She seemed to pull herself together, ran a hand over her head and muttered something approaching an apology.

‘So am I right, was it a bad weekend?’

Davidson was passing again, papers in hand. ‘She was fine till ten minutes ago.’ He stopped. ‘Was it that wanker Holly?’

‘No,’ Wylie said.

‘Bet it was,’ Davidson stated, moving off again.

‘Steve Holly?’ Rebus guessed.

Wylie tapped the newspaper story. ‘I had to talk to him.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Just watch out for him, Ellen.’

‘I can handle him, don’t worry.’

He was still nodding. ‘That’s more like it. Now, do you feel like doing me a favour?’

‘Depends what it is.’

‘I got the feeling this German student thing would be driving you mental... Is that why you came back to West End?’

‘I just thought I might get more work done here.’ She threw her pen down on the desk. ‘Looks like I was wrong.’

‘Well, I’m here to offer you a break. I’ve got a couple of interviews to do, and I need a partner.’

‘Who are you interviewing?’

‘David Costello and his father.’

‘Why me?’

‘I thought I’d already explained that.’

‘Charity case, am I?’

Rebus let out a long breath. ‘Jesus, Ellen, you can be hard work sometimes.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I have a meeting at half-eleven.’

‘Me too: doctor’s appointment. But this won’t take long.’ He paused. ‘Look, if you don’t want to...’

‘All right,’ she said. Her shoulders were slumped. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

Too late, Rebus was having second thoughts. It was as if the fight had gone out of her. He thought he knew the reason, but knew also that there was little he could do about it.

‘Great,’ he said.

Reynolds and Davidson were watching from one of the other desks. ‘Look, Shug,’ Reynolds said, ‘it’s the Dynamic Duo!’

It seemed to take all Ellen Wylie’s effort to lift her from her chair.

He briefed her in the car. She didn’t ask much, seemed more interested in the passing parade of pedestrians. Rebus left the Saab in hotel parking and walked into the Caledonian, Wylie a couple of steps behind.

The ‘Caley’ was an Edinburgh institution, a red-stone monolith at the west end of Princes Street. Rebus had no idea what a room cost. He’d eaten in the restaurant once, with his wife and a couple of friends of hers who were honeymooning in the city. The friends had insisted on putting dinner on their room tab, so Rebus had never known the final figure. He’d been uncomfortable all evening, right in the middle of a case and wanting to get back to it. Rhona knew, too, and excluded him from the conversation by concentrating on reminiscences she shared with her friends. The honeymooners holding hands between courses, and sometimes even while they ate. Rebus and Rhona almost strangers to one another, their marriage faltering...

‘How the other half live,’ he said to Wylie as they waited for the receptionist to call the Costellos’ room. When Rebus had phoned David Costello’s flat, there’d been no answer, so he’d asked around the office and been told that the parents flew into town Sunday evening, and that their son was spending the day with them.

‘I don’t think I’ve been inside before,’ Wylie replied. ‘It’s just a hotel, after all.’

‘They’d love to hear you say that.’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

Rebus got the feeling she wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. Her mind was somewhere else, the words just filling spaces.

The receptionist smiled at them. ‘Mr Costello’s expecting you.’ She gave them the room number and directed them towards the lifts. A liveried porter was hovering, but one look at Rebus told him there was no work for him here. As the lift glided upwards, Rebus tried to get the song ‘Bell-Boy’ out of his head, Keith Moon growling and wailing.

‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ Wylie asked.

‘Mozart,’ Rebus lied. She nodded as if she’d just placed the tune...

It wasn’t a room after all, but a suite, with a connecting door to the suite next to it. Rebus caught a glimpse of Theresa Costello before her husband closed the door. The living area was compact: sofa, chair, table, TV... There was a bedroom off, and a bathroom down the hall. Rebus could smell soap and shampoo, and behind them the unaired smell you sometimes got in hotel rooms. There was a basket of fruit on the table, and David Costello, seated there, had just helped himself to an apple. He had shaved, but his hair was unwashed, lank and greasy. His grey T-shirt looked new, as did the black denims. The shoelaces on both his trainers were untied, either by accident or design.

Thomas Costello was shorter than Rebus had imagined him, a boxer’s roll to his shoulders when he walked. His mauve shirt was open-necked, and his trousers were held up with pale pink braces.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ‘sit yourselves down.’ He gestured towards the sofa. Rebus, however, took the armchair, while Wylie stayed standing. There was nothing for the father to do but sink into the sofa himself, where he spread his arms out either side of him. But a split second later he brought his hands together in a single sharp clap and exclaimed that they needed something to drink.

‘Not for us, Mr Costello,’ Rebus said.

‘You’re sure now?’ Costello looked to Ellen Wylie, who managed a slow nod.

‘Well then.’ The father once again arranged his arms either side of him. ‘So what can we be doing for you?’

‘I’m sorry we have to intrude at a time like this, Mr Costello.’ Rebus glanced towards David, who was showing about as much interest in proceedings as Wylie.

‘We quite understand, Inspector. You’ve got a job to do, and we all want to help you catch the sick bastard who did this to Philippa.’ Costello clenched his fists, showing he was ready to do some damage to the culprit himself. His face was almost wider than it was long, the hair cut short and brushed straight back from the forehead. The eyes were narrowed slightly, and Rebus guessed that the man wore contact lenses, and was ever fearful of them falling out.

‘Well, Mr Costello, we just have some follow-up questions...’

‘And do you mind me staying while you ask them?’

‘Not at all. It may even be that you can help.’

‘Go ahead then.’ His head snapped round. ‘Davey! Are you listening?’

David Costello nodded, ripping another bite from the apple.

‘The stage is all yours, Inspector,’ the father said.

‘Well, maybe I could start by asking David a couple of things.’ Rebus made a show of easing the notebook from his pocket, though he knew the questions already and didn’t think he’d need to write anything down. But sometimes the presence of a notebook could work a little magic. Interviewees seemed to trust the written word: if you had something in your notebook, then it had probably been verified. Additionally, if they thought their replies were going to be recorded, they gave each utterance more consideration, or else became flustered and blurted out the truth.

‘You’re sure you won’t sit?’ the father asked Wylie, patting the space on the sofa.

‘I’m fine,’ she answered coolly.

The exchange had somehow broken the spell; David Costello didn’t look in the least bothered about the notebook.

‘Fire away,’ he told Rebus.

Rebus took aim and fired. ‘David, we’ve asked you about this Internet game we think Flip might have been playing...’

‘Yes.’

‘And you said you didn’t know anything about it, and didn’t go much for computer games and such-like.’

‘Yes.’

‘But now we hear that in your schooldays you were a bit of a whizz at dungeons and dragons.’

‘I remember that,’ Thomas Costello interrupted. ‘You and your pals, up there in your bedroom all day and all night.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘All night, Inspector, if you can believe that.’

‘I’ve heard of grown men doing the same thing,’ Rebus said. ‘A few hands of poker and a big enough pot...’

Costello conceded as much with a smile: one gambling man to another.

‘Who told you I was a “whizz”?’ David asked.

‘It just came up.’ Rebus shrugged.

‘Well, I wasn’t. The D and D craze lasted about a month.’

‘Flip played, too, when she was at school, did you know that?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘She’d have told you though... I mean, the pair of you were into it.’

‘Not by the time we met. I don’t think the subject ever came up.’

Rebus stared into David Costello’s eyes. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

‘Then how would Flip’s friend Claire have got to hear of it?’

The young man snorted. ‘She told you? Claire the Cow?’

Thomas Costello tutted.

‘Well, she is,’ his son snapped back. ‘She was always trying to break us up, pretending she was “a friend”.’

‘She didn’t like you?’

David considered this. ‘I think it was more that she couldn’t bear to see Flip happy. When I told Flip, she just laughed in my face. She couldn’t see it. There was some history between her family and Claire’s, and I think Flip felt guilty. Claire was a real blind spot...’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

David looked at him and laughed. ‘Because Claire didn’t kill Flip.’

‘No?’

‘Christ, you’re not saying...’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, when I say Claire was vicious, it was just mind games with her... just words.’ He paused. ‘But then maybe that’s what the game was, too: is that what you’re thinking?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Rebus said.

‘Jesus, Davey,’ the father said, ‘if there’s anything you need to tell these officers, get it off your chest!’

‘It’s David!’ the young man spat. His father looked furious, but didn’t say anything. ‘I still don’t think it was Claire,’ David added, for Rebus’s benefit.

‘What about Flip’s mother?’ Rebus asked casually. ‘How did you get on with her?’

‘Fine.’

Rebus allowed the silence to linger, then repeated the word back at David, this time as a question.

‘You know how mothers are with daughters,’ David started to add. ‘Protective and all that.’

‘Rightly so, eh?’ Thomas Costello winked at Rebus, who glanced towards Ellen Wylie, wondering if this would rouse her. But she was staring out of the window.

‘Thing is, David,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘we’ve reason to believe there might have been a bit of friction there too.’

‘How so?’ Thomas Costello asked.

‘Maybe David can answer that,’ Rebus told him.

‘Well, David?’ Costello asked his son.

‘I’ve no idea what he means.’

‘I mean,’ Rebus said, pretending to check his notes, ‘that Mrs Balfour harboured the thought that you’d somehow poisoned Flip’s mind.’

‘You must have misheard the lady,’ Thomas Costello said. He was bunching his fists again.

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Look at the strain she’s been under... doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

‘I think she knew.’ Rebus was still looking at David.

‘It’s right enough,’ he said. He’d lost all interest in the apple. It hung from his hand, the white, exposed flesh already beginning to discolour. His father gave a questioning look. ‘Jacqueline had some notion that I was giving Flip ideas.’

‘What sort of ideas?’

‘That she hadn’t had a happy childhood. That she was remembering it all wrong.’

‘And did you think she was?’ Rebus asked.

‘It was Flip, not me,’ David stated. ‘She’d been having this dream. She was back in London, back at the house there, and running up and down stairs trying to get away from something. Same dream most nights for a fortnight.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Looked in a couple of textbooks, told her it might be to do with repressed memory.’

‘The boy’s lost me,’ Thomas Costello admitted. His son turned his head towards him.

‘Something bad that you’ve managed not to think about. I was quite envious, actually.’ They stared at one another. Rebus thought he knew what David was talking about: growing up with Thomas Costello couldn’t have been easy. Maybe it explained the son’s teenage years...

‘She never explained what that might be?’ Rebus asked.

David shook his head. ‘Probably it was nothing; dreams can have all sorts of meanings.’

‘But Flip believed it?’

‘For a little while, yes.’

‘And told her mother as much?’

David nodded. ‘Who then blamed the whole thing on me.’

‘Bloody woman,’ Thomas Costello hissed. He rubbed his forehead. ‘But then she’s been under a lot of strain, lot of strain...’

‘This was before Flip went missing,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘I don’t mean that: I mean Balfour’s,’ Costello growled. The slight against his son was still fresh.

Rebus frowned. ‘What about it?’

‘Lots of money men in Dublin. You get to hear rumours.’

‘About Balfour’s?’

‘I don’t understand it all myself: overstretched... liquidity ratios... just words to me.’

‘You’re saying Balfour’s Bank is in trouble?’

Costello shook his head. ‘Just a few stories that they might be headed that way if they don’t turn things around. Problem with banking is, it’s all about confidence, isn’t it? Few wild stories can do a lot of damage...’

Rebus got the feeling Costello wouldn’t have said anything, but Jacqueline Balfour’s accusations against his son had tipped the balance. He made his first note of the interview: ‘check Balfour’s’.

He’d had a notion himself: to bring up the matter of father and son’s wild days in Dublin. But David seemed calmer now, his teenage years in the past. And as for his father, well, Rebus had seen intimations of a short temper. He didn’t think he needed a further lesson.

There was silence in the room again.

‘Will that do you for now, Inspector?’ Costello said, making show of reaching into his trousers and drawing out a pocket watch, flipping it open and snapping it closed.

‘Just about,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’

‘Wednesday,’ Costello said.

It was sometimes the case, in a murder inquiry, that the victim was left unburied as long as possible, just in case some new piece of evidence came to light. Rebus reckoned strings had been pulled: John Balfour again, getting his own way.

‘Is it a burial?’

Costello nodded. A burial was good. With a cremation, it wasn’t quite so easy to disinter the body should the need arise...

‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless there’s anything either of you would like to add...?’

There wasn’t. Rebus got to his feet. ‘All right, DS Wylie?’ he said. It was as if she’d been roused from sleep.

Costello insisted on seeing them to the door, shook both their hands. David didn’t get up from his chair. He was lifting the apple to his mouth as Rebus said goodbye.

Outside, the door clicked shut. Rebus stood there for a moment, but couldn’t make out any voices from within. He noticed the next door along was open a couple of inches, Theresa Costello peering out.

‘Everything okay?’ she was asking Wylie.

‘Everything’s fine, madam,’ Wylie told her.

Before Rebus could get there, the door had closed again. He was left wondering whether Theresa Costello felt as trapped as she looked...

In the lift, he told Wylie he’d drop her off.

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m walking.’

‘Sure?’ She nodded, and he checked his watch. ‘Your half-eleven?’ he guessed.

‘That’s right.’ Her voice died away.

‘Well, thanks for all your help.’

She blinked, as though having difficulty taking the words in. He stood in the main lobby and watched her make for the revolving door. A moment later, he followed her out on to the street. She was crossing Princes Street, holding her bag in front of her, almost jogging. She made her way up the side of Fraser’s store, towards Charlotte Square, where Balfour’s had its headquarters. He wondered where she was headed: George Street, or maybe Queen Street? Down into the New Town? The only way to find out was to follow her, but he doubted she would appreciate his curiosity.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered to himself, making for the crossing. He had to wait for the traffic to stop, and only caught sight of her when he reached Charlotte Square: she was over the other side, walking briskly. By the time he was on George Street, he’d lost her. He smiled to himself: some detective. Walked along as far as Castle Street, then doubled back. She could be in one of the shops or cafés. To hell with it. He unlocked the Saab and drove out of the hotel car park.

Some people had their demons. He got the feeling Ellen Wylie was among them. He was a good judge of character that way. Experience always told.

Back in St Leonard’s, he phoned a contact on a Sunday newspaper’s business pages.

‘How sound is Balfour’s?’ he asked, no preamble.

‘I’m assuming you mean the bank?’

‘Yes.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘There are rumours in Dublin.’

The journalist chuckled. ‘Ah, rumours, where would the world be without them?’

‘Then there’s no problem?’

‘I didn’t say that. On paper, Balfour’s is ticking along as ever. But there are always margins where figures can be buried.’

‘And?’

‘And their half-year forecast has been revised downwards; not quite enough to give big investors the jitters, but Balfour’s is a loose affiliation of smaller investors. They have a tendency towards hypochondria.’

‘Bottom line, Terry?’

‘Balfour’s should survive, a hostile takeover notwithstanding. But if the balance sheet looks murky at year’s end, there may have to be one or two ritual beheadings.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Who would go?’

‘Ranald Marr, I should think, if only to show that Balfour himself has the ruthlessness necessary for this day and age.’

‘No place for old friendships?’

‘Truth be told, there never was.’

‘Thanks, Terry. A large G and T will be waiting for you behind the bar of the Ox.’

‘It may wait a while.’

‘You on the wagon?’

‘Doctor’s orders. We’re being picked off one by one, John.’

Rebus commiserated for a couple of minutes, thinking of his own doctor’s appointment, the one he was missing yet again by making this call. When he put the phone down, he scribbled the name Marr on to his pad and circled it. Ranald Marr, with his Maserati and toy soldiers. You’d almost have thought he’d lost a daughter... Rebus was beginning to revise that opinion. He wondered if Marr knew how precarious his job was, knew that the mere thought of their savings catching a cold might spur the small investors on, demanding a sacrifice...

He switched to a picture of Thomas Costello, who’d never had to work in his life. What must that be like? Rebus couldn’t begin to answer the question. His parents had been poor all their lives: never owned their own house. When his father had died, he’d left four hundred quid for Rebus to split with his brother. A policy had taken care of the funeral. Even back then, pocketing his share of the notes in the bank manager’s office, he’d wondered... half his parents’ life savings represented one of his week’s wages.

He had money in the bank himself now: did very little with his monthly salary. The flat was paid off; neither Rhona nor Samantha ever seemed to want anything from him. Food and drink, and garage bills for the Saab. He never went on holiday, probably bought a couple of LPs or CDs a week. A couple of months back, he’d thought of buying a Linn hi-fi system, but the shop had knocked him back, told him they’d nothing in stock and would phone him when they had. They’d never phoned. The Lou Reed tickets hadn’t exactly stretched him: Jean had insisted on paying for hers... and cooked him breakfast next morning to boot.

‘It’s the Laughing Policeman!’ Siobhan called across the office. She was seated at her desk next to Brains from Fettes. Rebus realised he had a big grin on his face. He got up and crossed the room.

‘I withdraw that remark,’ Siobhan said quickly, holding up her hands in surrender.

‘Hello, Brains,’ Rebus said.

‘His name’s Bain,’ Siobhan corrected him. ‘He likes to be called Eric.’

Rebus ignored this. ‘It’s like the deck of the Starship Enterprise in here.’ He was looking at the array of computers and connections: two laptops, two PCs. He knew one of the PCs was Siobhan’s, the other Flip Balfour’s. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what do we know about Philippa’s early life in London?’

She wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Not much. Why?’

‘Because the boyfriend says she was having these nightmares, running up and down the London house being chased by something.’

‘Sure it was the London house?’

‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Just that Junipers gave me the heebies: suits of armour and dusty old billiard rooms... imagine growing up with that.’

‘David Costello said the London house.’

‘Transference?’ Bain suggested. They both looked at him. ‘Just a thought,’ he said.

‘So really it was Junipers she was scared of?’ Rebus asked.

‘Let’s get out the ouija board and ask her.’ Siobhan realised what she’d said and winced. ‘Worst possible taste, sorry.’

‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rebus said. He had, too. At the murder scene, one of the woolly-suits helping with the cordon had been overheard telling a mate: ‘I bet she hadn’t banked on that. Get it?’

‘It’s kind of sub-Hitchcock, isn’t it?’ Bain said now. ‘You know, Marnie, that sort of thing...’

Rebus thought of the book of poems in David Costello’s flat: I Dream of Alfred Hitchcock.

You do not die for being bad, you die

For being available...

‘You’re probably right,’ he said.

Siobhan read his tone. ‘All the same, you still want the low-down on Flip’s London years?’

He began to nod, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right... it’s too far-fetched.’

As he moved away, Siobhan turned to Bain. ‘That’s usually right up his street,’ she murmured. ‘The more far-fetched it is, the better he likes it.’

Bain smiled. He had the briefcase with him again; still hadn’t opened it. After the meal on Friday night they’d said their goodbyes. Siobhan had got into her car Saturday morning and headed north for the football. Didn’t bother offering anyone a lift: she’d packed an overnight bag. Found herself a guest house. Good win for Hibs in the afternoon, then a bit of exploring and a spot of dinner. She’d taken her Walkman, half a dozen tapes and a couple of paperbacks with her, leaving the laptop back in her flat. A weekend without Quizmaster: just what the doctor ordered. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if there was a message for her. She’d made sure she was late getting back Sunday night, then busied herself with laundry.

Now the laptop sat on her desk. She was almost afraid to touch it, afraid to give in to the craving...

‘Good weekend?’ Bain asked.

‘Not bad. How about you?’

‘Quiet. That dinner on Friday was just about the highlight.’

She smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘So what do we do now? Get on the blower to Special Branch?’

‘We talk to the Crime Squad. They route our request.’

‘We can’t cut out the middle-man?’

‘The middle-man wouldn’t like that.’

Siobhan thought of Claverhouse: Bain was probably right. ‘Go ahead then,’ she said.

So Bain picked up the phone and had a long conversation with DI Claverhouse at the Big House. Siobhan ran her fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. It was already connected to her mobile. A phone message had been waiting for her at home on Friday night: her mobile account, wondering if she knew that her usage had suddenly gone up. Yes, she knew all right. With Bain still busy explaining things to Claverhouse, she decided to connect to the Net, just to give her something to do...

There were three messages from Quizmaster. The first was from Friday evening, around the time she got home:

Seeker — My patience wears thin. The quest is about to close on you. Immediate response requested.

The second was from Saturday afternoon:

Siobhan? I’m disappointed in you. Your times so far have been excellent. Game is now closed.

Closed or not, he’d come back on Sunday at the stroke of midnight:

Are you busy tracing me, is that it? Do you still want to meet?

Bain ended his conversation and put down the phone. He was staring at the screen.

‘You’ve got him rattled,’ he said.

‘New ISP?’ Siobhan asked. Bain checked the headers and nodded.

‘New name, new everything. Still, he’s getting the inkling that he’s not untraceable.’

‘Then why doesn’t he just shut down?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You really think the game’s closed?’

‘Only one way to find out...’

So Siobhan got busy on the keyboard:

I was away all weekend, that’s all. Inquiries progress. Meantime, yes, I’d still like to meet.

She sent the message. They went and grabbed coffee, but when they came back there was no reply.

‘Is he sulking?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Or away from his machine.’

She looked at him. ‘Your bedroom, is it full of computer stuff?’

‘You’re angling an invite to my bedroom?’

She smiled. ‘No, I was just wondering. Some of these people, they can spend all day and night at a monitor, can’t they?’

‘Absolutely. But I’m not one of them. Three chat rooms where I’m a regular, maybe an hour or two of surfing when I get bored.’

‘What are the chat rooms?’

‘Tekky stuff.’ He shifted his chair towards the desk. ‘Now, while we’re waiting, maybe we should take a look at Ms Balfour’s deleted files.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘You know you can undelete files?’

‘Sure. We already looked at her correspondence.’

‘But did you look at her e-mails?’

Siobhan was forced to admit she hadn’t. Or rather, Grant hadn’t known it could be done.

Bain sighed and got to work on Flip’s PC. It didn’t take long. Soon they were staring at a list of deleted messages, both from Flip and to her.

‘How far back do they go?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Just over two years. When did she buy the computer?’

‘It was an eighteenth birthday present,’ Siobhan said.

‘Not bad for some.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘She got a flat, too.’

Now Bain looked at her, shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘I got a watch and a camera for mine,’ he said.

‘Is that the watch?’ Siobhan pointed to his wrist.

Bain’s mind, however, was elsewhere. ‘So we’ve got e-mails stretching right back to when she first got started. He clicked on the one with the earliest date, but the computer told him he couldn’t open it.

‘Need to convert it,’ he said. ‘The hard disk has probably compressed it.’

Siobhan was trying to study what he was doing, but he was going too fast. In no time, they were reading the first e-mail Flip had sent on her machine. It was to her father at his office:

Just testing. Hope you get this. The PC’s super! See you tonight. Flip.

‘I suppose we need to read them all?’ Bain guessed.

‘I suppose,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Which means converting them one at a time?’

‘Not necessarily. If you can fetch me a tea — white, no sugar — I’ll see what I can do.’

By the time she got back with the drinks, he was printing out sheets of messages. ‘This way,’ he said, ‘you can be reading them while I’m preparing the next batch.’

Siobhan started chronologically, and it didn’t take her long to find something more interesting than gossipy exchanges between Flip and her friends.

‘Look at this,’ she told Bain.

He read the e-mail. ‘It’s from Balfour’s Bank,’ he said. ‘Someone called RAM.’

‘I’m willing to bet it’s Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan took the note back.

Flip, Great news that at last you are part of the virtual world! I hope you have a lot of fun with it. You’ll also find the Internet a great research tool, so I’m hoping it helps you with your studies... Yes, you’re right that you can delete messages — it makes space in the memory, and allows your computer to work more quickly. But remember that deleted messages are still recoverable unless you take certain steps. Here’s how to delete something completely.

The writer went on to explain the process. At the end he signed himself R. Bain ran a finger down one edge of the screen.

‘Explains why there are big gaps,’ he said. ‘Once he’d told her how to fully delete, she started doing it.’

‘Also explains why there are none of the messages to or from Quizmaster.’ Siobhan was sifting through the sheets of paper. ‘Not even her original message to RAM.’

‘And none afterwards either.’

Siobhan rubbed at her temples. ‘Why would she want everything deleted anyway?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not something most users would think to do.’

‘Shift over,’ Siobhan said, sliding her chair across. She started composing a new e-mail, to RAM at Balfour’s Bank.

DC Clarke here. Urgent that you get in touch.

She added the St Leonard’s phone number and sent the message, then picked up a telephone and called the bank.

‘Mr Marr’s office, please.’ She was put through to Marr’s secretary. ‘Is Mr Marr there?’ she asked, her eyes on Bain as he sipped his tea. ‘Maybe you can help me. It’s Detective Constable Clarke here, CID at St Leonard’s. I just sent Mr Marr an e-mail and I was wondering if he’d received it. Apparently we’re having some sort of problem at our end...’ She paused while the secretary checked.

‘Oh? He’s not? Could you tell me where he is then?’ She paused again, listening to the secretary. ‘It really is quite important.’ Now her eyebrows went up. ‘Prestonfield House? That’s not far from here. Is there any chance you could get a message to him, asking him to drop into St Leonard’s after his meeting? It’ll only take five minutes. Probably more convenient than having us visit him at work...’ She listened again. ‘Thanks. And the e-mail did get through? Great, thanks.’

She put the phone down, and Bain, cup drained and binned, applauded silently.

Forty minutes later, Marr arrived at the station. Siobhan got one of the uniforms to escort him upstairs to CID. Rebus was no longer around, but the suite was busy. The uniform brought Marr to Siobhan’s desk. She nodded and asked the banker to take a seat. Marr looked around: there were no spare chairs. Eyes were studying him, the other officers wondering who he was. Dressed in a crisp pinstripe suit, white shirt and pale lemon tie, he looked more like an expensive lawyer than the usual visitors to the station.

Bain got up, dragging his own chair round the desk for Marr to sit in.

‘My driver’s parked on a single yellow,’ Marr said, making a show of looking at his watch.

‘This won’t take long, sir,’ Siobhan said. ‘Do you recognise the machine.’ She tapped the computer.

‘What?’

‘It belonged to Philippa.’

‘Did it? I wouldn’t know.’

‘I suppose not. But you sent e-mails to one another.’

‘What?’

‘RAM: that is you, isn’t it?’

‘What if it is?’

Bain stepped forward and handed Marr a sheet of paper. ‘Then you sent her this,’ he said. ‘And it looks like Ms Balfour acted on it.’

Marr looked up from the message, his eyes on Siobhan rather than Bain. She’d winced at Bain’s words, and Marr had noticed.

Big mistake, Eric! she felt like screaming. Because now Marr knew that this was the only e-mail they had between himself and Flip. Otherwise, Siobhan could have strung him along, letting him think they had others, seeing whether that bothered him or not.

‘Well?’ was all Marr said, having read the message.

‘It’s just curious,’ Siobhan said, ‘that your first ever e-mail to her should be all about how to delete e-mails.’

‘Philippa was very private in many ways,’ Marr explained. ‘She liked her privacy. The first thing she asked me was about deleting material. This was my response. She didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to read what she’d written.’

‘Why not?’

Marr shrugged both elegant shoulders. ‘We all have different personae, don’t we? The “you” who writes to an aged relative isn’t the same “you” who writes to a close friend. I know that when I’m e-mailing a war-gamer, I don’t necessarily want my secretary to read it. She would see a very different “me” from the person she works for.’

Siobhan was nodding. ‘I think I understand.’

‘It’s also the case that in my own profession, confidentiality — secrecy, if you like — is absolutely vital. Commercial subterfuge is always an issue. We shred unwanted documents, delete e-mails and so on, to protect our clients and ourselves. So when Flip mentioned the delete button, that sort of consideration was uppermost in my mind.’ He paused, looked from Siobhan to Bain and back again. ‘Is that all you wanted to know?’

‘What else did you talk about in your e-mails?’

‘We didn’t correspond for long. Flip was dipping a toe in the water. She had my e-mail address and knew I was an old hand. At first she had lots of questions to ask, but she was a fast learner.’

‘We’re still checking the machine for deleted messages,’ Siobhan led blithely. ‘Any idea when your last message to or from her would have been?’

‘Maybe as much as a year back.’ Marr started getting to his feet. ‘Now, if we’re quite finished, I really must...’

‘If you hadn’t told her about deleting, we might have him by now.’

‘Who?’

‘Quizmaster.’

‘The person she was playing this game against? You still think that had something to do with her death?’

‘I’d like to know.’

Marr was standing now, smoothing his jacket. ‘Is that possible, without the help of this... Quizmaster?’

Siobhan looked to Bain, who knew a cue when he saw one.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said confidently. ‘It’ll take a bit longer, but we’ll trace him. He’s left enough bits and pieces for us along the way.’

Marr looked from one detective to the other. ‘Splendid,’ he said with a smile. ‘Well, if I can be of further assistance...’

‘You’ve helped us enormously already, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, fixing her eyes on him. ‘I’ll have one of the uniformed officers show you out...’

After he’d gone, Bain pulled his chair back around to Siobhan’s side of the desk and sat down next to her.

‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

She nodded, staring at the doorway through which Marr had just left. Then her shoulders slumped. She squeezed shut her eyes, rubbed at them. ‘Truth is, I haven’t a clue.’

‘You also don’t have any evidence.’

She nodded, eyes still closed.

‘Gut feeling?’ he guessed.

She opened her eyes. ‘I know better than to trust it.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiled at her. ‘Some proof would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

When the phone rang, Siobhan seemed in a dream, so Bain answered. It was a Special Branch officer called Black. He wanted to know if he was speaking to the right person. When Bain assured him he was, Black asked how much he knew about computers.

‘I know a bit.’

‘Good. Is the PC in front of you?’ When Bain said that it was, Black told him what he wanted. When Bain came off the phone five minutes later, he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily.

‘I don’t know what it is about Special Branch,’ he said, ‘but they always make me feel about five years old and starting my first day at school.’

‘You sounded okay,’ Siobhan assured him. ‘What do they need?’

‘Copies of all the e-mails between you and Quizmaster, plus details of Philippa Balfour’s ISP account and user names, plus the same for you.’

‘Except it’s Grant Hood’s machine,’ Siobhan said, touching the laptop.

‘Well, his account details then.’ He paused. ‘Black asked if we had any suspects.’

‘You didn’t tell him?’

He shook his head. ‘But we could always send him Marr’s name. We could even provide his e-mail address.’

‘Would that help?’

‘It might. You know the Americans can read e-mails using satellites? Any e-mails in the world...’ She just stared at him, and he laughed. ‘I’m not saying Special Branch have that sort of technology, but you never know, do you?’

Siobhan was thoughtful. ‘Then give them what we’ve got. Give them Ranald Marr.’

The laptop told them they had a message. Siobhan clicked it open. Quizmaster.

Seeker — We meet on completion of Stricture. Acceptable?

‘Ooh,’ Bain said, ‘he’s actually asking you.’

So game isn’t closed? Siobhan typed back.

Special dispensation.

She typed another message: There are questions need answering right now.

An immediate reply: Ask, Seeker.

So she asked: Was anyone playing the game apart from Flip?

They waited a minute for the response.

Yes.

She looked at Bain. ‘He said before that there wasn’t.’

‘He was either lying then, or he’s lying now. Fact that you asked the question again makes me think you didn’t believe him first time round.’

How many? Siobhan typed.

Three.

Pitted against each other? Did they know?

They knew.

They knew who they were playing against?

A thirty-second pause. Absolutely not.

‘Truth or lie?’ Siobhan asked Bain.

‘I’m busy wondering if Mr Marr’s had enough time to get back to his office.’

‘Someone in his profession, wouldn’t surprise me if he kept a laptop and mobile in the car, just to stay ahead of the game.’ She smiled at the unmeant pun.

‘I could call his office...’ Bain was already reaching for the phone. Siobhan recited the bank’s number.

‘Mr Marr’s office, please,’ Bain said into the receiver. Then: ‘Is that Mr Marr’s assistant? It’s DS Bain here, Lothian Police. Could I have a word with Mr Marr?’ He looked at Siobhan. ‘Due back any minute? Thank you.’ Then an afterthought. ‘Oh, is there any way I could contact him in his car? He doesn’t have access to e-mails there, does he?’ A pause. ‘No, it’s okay, thank you. I’ll call again later.’ He put the phone down. ‘No in-car e-mails.’

‘As far as his assistant knows,’ Siobhan said quietly.

Bain nodded.

‘These days,’ she went on, ‘all you need is a phone.’ A WAP phone, she was thinking, just like Grant’s. For some reason her mind flashed to that morning in the Elephant House... Grant busy on a crossword he’d already completed, trying to impress the woman at the next table... She got to work on her next message:

Can you tell me who they were? Do you know who they are? The reply was immediate.

No.

No you can’t or no you don’t?

No to both. Stricture awaits.

One final thing, Master. How did you come to choose Flip?

She came to me, as you did.

But how did she find you?

Stricture clue will follow shortly.

‘I think he’s had enough,’ Bain said. ‘Probably not used to his slaves talking back.’

Siobhan thought about trying to keep the dialogue going, then nodded her agreement.

‘I don’t think I’m quite Grant Hood’s standard,’ Bain added. She frowned, not understanding. ‘In the puzzle-solving department,’ he explained.

‘Let’s wait and see about that.’

‘Meantime, I can get that stuff PDQ’d to SB.’

‘AOK,’ Siobhan said with a smile. She was thinking of Grant again. She wouldn’t have got this far without him. Yet since his transfer he hadn’t shown the least curiosity, hadn’t so much as called to find out if there were some new clue to be solved... She wondered at his ability to switch focus so completely. The Grant she saw on TV was almost unrecognisable from the one who’d paced her flat at midnight, the one who’d lost heart on Hart Fell. She knew which model she preferred; didn’t think it was just professional jealousy. She thought she’d learned something about Gill Templer now. Gill was running scared, terror of her new seniority causing her to dish it out to the juniors. She was targeting the keen and the confident, maybe because she lacked confidence in herself. Siobhan hoped it was just a phase. She prayed it was.

She hoped that when Stricture came through, the busy Grant might spare a minute for his old sparring partner, whether his new sponsor liked it or not.

Grant Hood had spent the morning dealing with the press, reworking the daily news release for later in the day — hopefully this time to the satisfaction of both DCS Templer and ACC Carswell — and fielding calls from the victim’s father, angry that more broadcast time wasn’t being given to appeals for information.

‘What about Crimewatch?’ he’d asked several times. Secretly, Grant thought Crimewatch was a bloody good idea, so he’d called the BBC in Edinburgh and been given a number in Glasgow. Glasgow had then given him a number in London, and the switchboard there had put him through to a researcher who’d informed him — in a tone which said any liaison officer worth their salt would already know — that Crimewatch had ended its run and wouldn’t be back on air for several months.

‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ Grant had said, putting down the phone.

He hadn’t had time for lunch, and breakfast had been a bacon roll from the canteen, almost six hours ago. He was aware of politics all around him — the politics of Police HQ. Carswell and Templer might agree on some things, but never on everything, and he was poised somewhere between them, trying not to fall too fatally into either camp. Carswell was the real power, but Templer was Grant’s boss, she had the means to kick him back into the wilderness. His job was to deprive her of motive and opportunity.

He knew he was coping so far, but only by dint of forgoing food, sleep and free time. On the plus side, the case was now garnering interest from further afield, not just the London media, but New York, Sydney, Singapore and Toronto. International press agencies wanted clarification of the details they had. There was talk of bringing correspondents to Edinburgh, and would DC Hood be available for a short broadcast interview?

In each case, Grant felt able to answer in the affirmative. He made sure he jotted down the details of each journalist, with contact numbers and even a note of the time difference.

‘No point me sending you faxes in the middle of the night,’ he’d told one news editor in New Zealand.

‘I’d prefer an e-mail, mate.’

So Grant had taken those details down, too. It struck him that he needed to get his laptop back from Siobhan. Either that or invest in something more up-to-date. The case could use its own website. He’d send a memo to Carswell, copy to Templer: stating his case.

If he ever got the time...

Siobhan and his laptop: he hadn’t thought of her in a couple of days. His ‘crush’ on her hadn’t lasted long. Just as well they hadn’t taken things any further really: his new job would have driven a wedge between them. He knew they could play down that kiss, until it would seem as if it had never happened. Rebus was the only witness, but if the pair of them denied it, called him a liar, he’d start forgetting, too.

Only two things Grant felt sure of now: that he wanted Liaison permanently, and that he was good at it.

He celebrated with the day’s sixth cup of coffee, nodding to strangers in the corridors and on the stairwell. They seemed to know who he was, wanting both to know him and be known by him. His phone was ringing again when he pushed open his door — the office was small, no bigger than the cupboards in some stations, and there was no natural light. Still, it was his fiefdom. He leaned back in his chair, taking the receiver with him.

‘DC Hood.’

‘You sound happy.’

‘Who is this, please?’

‘It’s Steve Holly. Remember me?’

‘Sure, Steve, what can I do for you?’ But the tone was immediately more professional.

‘Well... Grant.’ Holly managed to get a sneer into the word. ‘I was just after a quote to go with a piece I’m running.’

‘Yes?’ Grant leaned forward a little in his chair, not quite so comfortable now.

‘Women going missing all over Scotland... dolls found at the scene... games on the Internet... students dead on hillsides. Any of it ring a bell?’

Grant thought he’d squeeze the life out of the receiver. The desk, the walls... they’d all gone hazy. He closed his eyes, tried to shake his head clear.

‘Case like this, Steve,’ he said, attempting levity, ‘a reporter will hear all kinds of stuff.’

‘Believe you solved some of the Internet clues yourself, Grant. What do you reckon? Got to be connected to the murder, haven’t they?’

‘I’ve no comment to make on that, Mr Holly. Look, whatever you think you may know, you’ve got to understand that stories — true or false — can do irreparable damage to an investigation, especially one at a crucial stage.’

‘Is the Balfour inquiry at a crucial stage? I hadn’t heard...’

‘All I’m trying to say is...’

‘Look, Grant, admit it: you’re fucked on this one, pardon my French. Best thing you can do is fill me in on the small print.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Sure about that? Tasty new posting you’ve got there... I’d hate to see you go down in flames.’

‘Something tells me you’d like nothing better, Holly.’

The telephone receiver laughed into Grant’s ear. ‘Steve to Mr Holly to Holly... you’ll be calling me names next, Grant.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Something this big, you can never keep it watertight.’

‘So who punched the hole through the hull?’

‘A whisper here, a whisper there... you know how it is.’ Holly paused. ‘Oh no, that’s right — you don’t know how it is. I keep forgetting, you’ve only been in the job five fucking minutes, and already you think you can lord it over the likes of me.’

‘I don’t know what—’

‘Those little individual briefings, just you and your favoured poodles. Stuff all that, Grant. It’s the likes of me you should be looking out for. And you can take that any way you like.’

‘Thanks, I will. How soon are you going to press?’

‘Going to try slapping us with a two-eye?’ When Grant didn’t say anything. Holly laughed again. ‘You don’t even know the lingo!’ he crowed. But Grant was a fast learner.

‘It’s an interim interdict,’ he guessed, knowing he was right. Two i’s: a court injunction, halting publication. ‘Look,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘on the record, we don’t know that any of the stuff you’ve mentioned is pertinent to the current case.’

‘It’s still news.’

‘And possibly prejudicial.’

‘So sue me.’

‘People play dirty like this, I never forget it.’

‘Get in the fucking queue.’

Grant was about to put down the phone, but Holly beat him to it. He got up and kicked the desk, then kicked it again, followed by the waste-bin, his briefcase (bought at the weekend), and the corner where two walls met. He rested his head against the wall.

I have to go to Carswell with this. I have to tell Gill Templer!!

Templer first... chain of command. Then she’d have to break the news to the ACC, who in turn would probably have to disturb the Chief Constable’s daily routine. Mid-afternoon... Grant wondered how late he could leave it. Maybe Holly would call Templer or Carswell himself. If Grant sat on it till day’s end, he’d be in bigger trouble. It could even be that there was still time for that two-eye.

He picked up the phone, squeezed shut his eyes once more in what, this time round, was a short and silent prayer.

Made the call.

It was late afternoon, and Rebus had been staring at the coffins for a good five minutes. Occasionally he would pick one up, examine the workmanship, comparing and contrasting with the others. His latest thought: bring in a forensic anthropologist. The tools used to make the coffins would have left tiny grooves and incisions, marks an expert could identify and explore. If the exact same chisel had been used on each joint, maybe it could be proven. Perhaps there were fibres, fingerprints... The scraps of cloth: could they be traced? He slid the list of victims so that it sat in front of him on the desk: 1972 ...’77 ...’82 and ’95. The first victim, Caroline Farmer, was the youngest by far; the others were in their twenties and thirties, women in the prime of life. Drownings and disappearances. Where there was no body, it was all but impossible to prove a crime had been committed. And death by drowning... pathologists could tell if someone were alive or dead when they entered the water, but other than that... Say you knocked someone unconscious and pushed them in: even if it came to court, there’d be room for haggling, the murder charge reduced to culpable homicide. Rebus remembered a fireman once telling him the perfect way to commit murder: get the victim drunk in their kitchen, then turn the heat up under the chip-pan.

Simple and clever.

Rebus still didn’t know how clever his adversary had been. Fife, Nairn, Glasgow and Perth — certainly he’d ranged far and wide. Someone who travelled. He thought of Quizmaster and the jaunts Siobhan had taken so far. Was it possible to connect Quizmaster to whoever had left the coffins? Having scribbled the words ‘forensic pathologist’ on to his notepad, Rebus added two more: ‘offender profiling’. There were university psychologists who specialised in this, deducing aspects of a culprit’s character from their MO. Rebus had never been convinced, but he felt he was banging his fists against a locked and bolted door, one he was never going to break down without help.

When Gill Templer stormed down the corridor, past the CID suite’s doorway, Rebus didn’t think she’d seen him. But now she was heading straight for him, her face furious.

‘I thought,’ she said, ‘you’d been told.’

‘Told what?’ he asked innocently.

She pointed to the coffins. ‘Told that these were a waste of time.’ Her voice vibrated with anger. Her whole body was taut.

‘Jesus, Gill, what’s happened?’

She didn’t say anything, just swung her arm across the desk, sending the coffins flying. Rebus scrambled from his chair, started picking them up, checking for damage. When he looked round, Gill was on her way to the door again, but she stopped, half turned.

‘You’ll find out tomorrow,’ she said, making her exit.

Rebus looked around the room. Hi-Ho Silvers and one of the civilian staff had stopped the conversation they’d been having.

‘She’s losing it,’ Silvers commented.

‘What did she mean about tomorrow?’ Rebus asked, but Silvers just shrugged.

‘Losing it,’ he said again.

Maybe he was right.

Rebus sat back down at his desk and pondered the phrase: there were lots of ways of ‘losing it’. He knew he was in danger of losing it too... whatever it was.

Jean Burchill had spent much of her day trying to trace the correspondence between Kennet Lovell and the Reverend Kirkpatrick. She’d spoken to people in Alloway and Ayr — the parish minister; a local historian; one of Kirkpatrick’s descendants. She’d spent over an hour on the phone to the Mitchell Library in Glasgow. She’d taken the short walk from the Museum to the National Library, and from there to the Faculty of Advocates. Finally, she’d walked back along Chambers Street and headed for Surgeons’ Hall. In the museum there she’d stared long and hard at the portrait of Kennet Lovell by J. Scott Jauncey. Lovell had been a handsome young man. Often in portraits, the artist left little clues as to the character he was painting: profession, family, hobbies... But this was a simple execution: head and upper body. The background was plain and black, contrasting with the bright yellows and pinks of Lovell’s face. The other portraits in Surgeons’ Hall, they usually showed their subjects with a textbook in front of them, or some paper and a pen. Maybe standing in their library or posed with a few telling props — a skull or femur, an anatomical drawing. The sheer plainness of the Lovell portrait bothered her. Either the painter had had little enthusiasm for the commission, or else the subject had insisted on giving little enough away. She thought of Reverend Kirkpatrick, imagined him paying the artist’s fee and then receiving this bland decoration. She wondered if it perhaps showed some ideal of its subject, or if it was the equivalent of a picture postcard, a mere advertisement for Lovell. This young man, hardly out of his teens, had assisted in the Burke autopsy. According to one report of the time, ‘the quantity of blood that gushed out was enormous, and by the time the lecture was finished the area of the classroom had the appearance of a butcher’s slaughter-house, from its flowing down and being trodden upon’. The description had made her queasy, first time she’d read it. How much more preferable to have died as one of Burke’s victims, made insensible with drink and then smothered. Jean stared into Kennet Lovell’s eyes again. The black pupils seemed luminous, despite the horrors they’d witnessed.

Or, she couldn’t help wondering, because of them?

The curator wasn’t able to help answer her questions, so she’d asked if she might see the bursar. But Major Bruce Cawdor, while affable and willing, wasn’t able to add much to what Jean already knew.

‘We don’t seem to have any record,’ he told her as they sat in his office, ‘of how the Lovell portrait came into the College’s possession. I’d presume it was a gift, perhaps to defer death duties.’ He was short but distinguished-looking, well dressed and with a face shining with good health. He’d offered her tea, which she’d accepted. It was Darjeeling, each cup coming with its own silver tea-strainer.

‘I’m also interested in Lovell’s correspondence.’

‘Yes, well, we would be, too.’

‘You don’t have anything?’ She was surprised.

The bursar shook his head. ‘Either Dr Lovell wasn’t a great man for the pen, or else they’ve perished or ended up in some obscure collection.’ He sighed. ‘A great pity. We know so little about his time in Africa...’

‘Or in Edinburgh, come to that.’

‘He’s buried here. Don’t suppose his grave’s of much interest to you...?’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Calton cemetery. His plot’s not far from David Hume’s.’

‘I might as well take a look.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’ He thought for a moment, and his face brightened. ‘Donald Devlin’s supposed to have some table made by Lovell.’

‘Yes, I know, though there’s nothing in the literature about an interest in carpentry.’

‘I’m sure it’s mentioned somewhere; I seem to recall reading something...’ But try as he might, Major Cawdor couldn’t remember what or where.

That evening, she sat with John Rebus in her Portobello home. They ate Chinese takeaway, washed down with cold Chardonnay for her, bottled beer for him. Music on the hi-fi: Nick Drake, Janis Ian, Pink Floyd’s Meddle. He seemed wrapped up in his thoughts, but she could hardly complain. After the food, they walked down to the promenade. Kids on skateboards, looking American but sounding pure Porty, swearing like troopers. One chip shop open, that childhood smell of hot fat and vinegar. They still didn’t say much, which didn’t make them so very different from the other couples they passed. Reticence was an Edinburgh tradition. You kept your feelings hidden and your business your own. Some people put it down to the influence of the Church and figures like John Knox — she’d heard the city called ‘Fort Knox’ by outsiders. But to Jean, it was more to do with Edinburgh’s geography, its louring rock-faces and dark skies, the wind whipping in from the North Sea, hurtling through the canyon-like streets. At every turn you felt overwhelmed and pummelled by your surroundings. Just travelling into town from Portobello, she felt it: the bruising and bruised nature of the place.

John Rebus, too, was thinking of Edinburgh. When he moved from his flat, where would he make his next home? Was there any district he liked better than any other? Portobello itself was fine, pretty relaxed. But he could always move south or west, into the country. Some of his colleagues travelled in from as far as Falkirk and Linlithgow. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of commute. Portobello would be okay though. The only problem was, when they walked along the promenade, he kept looking towards the beach, as if expecting to see a little wooden coffin there, like the one they’d found in Nairn. It wouldn’t matter where he went, his head would go with him, colouring his surroundings. The Falls coffin was working away at him now. He only had the carpenter’s word for it that it had been made by someone else, someone who hadn’t made the other four. But if the killer was being really clever, wouldn’t he have anticipated just that, changing his work habits and tools, trying to dupe them into...

Oh Christ, here he went again... the same old dance, reeling around his skull. He sat down on the sea wall, and Jean asked if something was wrong.

‘Bit of a headache,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s prerogative?’ She was smiling, but he could see she wasn’t happy.

‘I should be heading back,’ he told her. ‘Not great company tonight.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He raised his eyes so they met hers, and she snorted with laughter. ‘Sorry, stupid question. You’re a Scottish male, of course you don’t want to talk about it.’

‘It’s not that, Jean. It’s just...’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe therapy wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’

He was trying to make a joke of it, so she didn’t push him.

‘Let’s head back,’ she said. ‘Bloody freezing out here anyway.’

She slid her arm through his as they walked.