The Falls

7

Tuesday at eleven a.m., Siobhan Clarke and Grant Hood started working Victoria Street. They drove up George IV Bridge, forgetting that Victoria Street was one-way. Grant cursed the No Entry sign and rejoined the crawl of traffic heading for the lights at the junction with Lawnmarket.

‘Just park kerbside,’ Siobhan said. He shook his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Traffic’s hopeless as it is. No use making things worse.’

She laughed. ‘Do you always play by the rules, Grant?’

He glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’

He didn’t say anything, just flipped on the left-turn signal as they stopped three cars back from the lights. Siobhan couldn’t help but smile. He had the boy-racer car, but it was all a front, behind which sat a polite wee laddie.

‘Going out with anyone just now?’ she asked as the lights changed.

He considered his answer. ‘Not just at the moment,’ he said at last.

‘For a while there, I thought maybe you and Ellen Wylie...’

‘We worked one bloody case together!’ he objected.

‘Okay, okay. It’s just that the pair of you seemed to hit it off.’

‘We got along.’

‘That’s what I mean. So where was the problem?’

His face had reddened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I just wondered if the difference in rank was maybe a factor. Some men can’t handle it.’

‘Because she’s a DS and I’m a DC?’

‘Yes.’

‘The answer’s no. Never even thought of it.’

They’d reached the roundabout outside The Hub. The right fork led to the Castle, but they took the left.

‘Where are we going?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I’ll take a left along West Port. With any luck we’ll find a space in the Grassmarket.’

‘And I bet you’ll put money in the meter, too.’

‘Unless you want the honour.’

She snorted. ‘I walk on the wild side, kid,’ she said.

They found a parking bay, and Grant dropped a couple of coins into the machine, peeling back the ticket and sticking it to the inside of his windscreen.

‘Half an hour long enough?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Depends what we find.’

They walked past the Last Drop pub, named for the fact that criminals had swung from Grassmarket’s scaffold at one time in the city’s history. Victoria Street was a steep curve back up to George IV Bridge, lined with bars and gift shops. On the far side of the street, pubs and clubs seemed to predominate. One place doubled as a Cuban bar and restaurant.

‘What do you reckon?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Not too many statues, I wouldn’t have thought, unless there’s one of Castro.’

They walked the length of the street, then doubled back. Three restaurants this side, along with a cheesemonger and a shop selling nothing but brushes and string. Pierre Victoire was the first stop. Peering through the window, Siobhan could see that it was a fairly empty space with little in the way of decoration. They went in anyway, not bothering to introduce themselves. Ten seconds later they were back on the pavement.

‘One down, two to go,’ Grant said. He didn’t sound hopeful.

Next was a place called the Grain Store, through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. The place was being readied for lunchtime trade. There were no statues.

As they descended to the street, Siobhan repeated the clue. ‘“This queen dines well before the bust.”’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Maybe we’ve got it wrong.’

‘Then the only thing we can do is send another e-mail, appeal to Quizmaster for help.’

‘I don’t think he’s the type.’

Grant shrugged. ‘Next stop, can we at least have a coffee? I skipped breakfast this morning.’

Siobhan tutted. ‘What would your mum say?’

‘She’d say I slept in. Then I’d tell her it’s because I was up half the night trying to solve this bloody puzzle.’ He paused. ‘And that someone had promised me breakfast would be on them...’

Restaurant Bleu was their final call. It promised ‘world cuisine’ but had a traditional feel as they walked through the door: old varnished wood, the small window doing little to illuminate the cramped interior. Siobhan looked around, but there wasn’t so much as a vase of flowers.

She turned to Grant, who pointed towards a winding staircase. ‘There’s an upstairs.’

‘Can I help?’ the assistant said.

‘In a minute,’ Grant assured her. He followed Siobhan up the stairs. One small room led to another. As Siobhan entered this second chamber, she gave a sigh. Grant, following her, thought the worst. Then he heard her say, ‘Bingo,’ in the same instant as he saw the bust. It was Queen Victoria, two and a half feet high, in black marble.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, grinning. ‘We cracked it!’

He looked ready to hug her, but she moved away towards the bust. It sat on a low plinth, pillars either side and sandwiched by tables. Siobhan looked all around, but couldn’t see anything.

‘I’ll tip it,’ Grant said. He took hold of Victoria by her head-dress and eased her from the plinth.

‘Excuse me,’ a voice said behind them. ‘Is something the matter?’

Siobhan slid her hand under the bust and drew out a folded sheet of paper. She beamed at Grant, who turned towards the waitress.

‘Two teas, please,’ he instructed her.

‘And two sugars in his,’ Siobhan added.

They sat down at the nearest table. Siobhan held the note by one corner. ‘Think we’d get any prints?’ she asked.

‘Worth a try.’

She got up and walked over to a cutlery tray in the corner, came back with a knife and fork. The waitress nearly dropped their crockery when she saw the customer attempting, as she thought, to dine on a sheet of paper.

Grant took the cups from the waitress and thanked her. Then he turned back to Siobhan. ‘What does it say?’

But Siobhan looked up at the waitress. ‘We found this under there,’ she said, pointing to the bust. The waitress nodded. ‘Any idea how it could have got there?’ The waitress shook her head. She had the look of a small, frightened animal. Grant sought to reassure her.

‘We’re the police,’ he said.

‘Any chance of talking to the manager?’ Siobhan added.

When the waitress had retreated, Grant repeated his earlier question.

‘See for yourself,’ Siobhan said, using the knife and fork to turn the sheet of paper in his direction.

B4 Scots Law sounds dear.

‘Is that it?’ he said.

‘Your eyes are as good as mine.’

He reached up to scratch his head. ‘Not much to go on, is it?’

‘We didn’t have much to go on last time.’

‘We had more than this.’

She watched him stir sugar into his tea. ‘If Quizmaster placed this clue here...’

‘He’s a local?’ Grant guessed

‘Either that or someone local is helping him.’

‘He knows this restaurant,’ Grant said, looking around. ‘Not everyone who ventures in would bother coming upstairs.’

‘You think he might be a regular?’

Grant shrugged. ‘Look at what’s nearby, on George IV Bridge. The Central Library and the National Library. Academics and bookworms are great ones for puzzles.’

‘That’s a good point. The Museum’s not far away either.’

‘And the law courts... and the parliament...’ He smiled. ‘Just for a second there I thought we might be narrowing things down.’

‘Maybe we are,’ she said, lifting her cup as though to make a toast. ‘Here’s to us anyway for solving the first clue.’

‘How many more till we get to Hellbank?’

Siobhan grew thoughtful. ‘That’s up to Quizmaster, I suppose. He told me it was the fourth stage. I’ll send an e-mail when we get back, just to let him know.’ She placed the sheet of paper in an evidence bag. Grant was studying the clue again. ‘First thoughts?’ she asked.

‘I was remembering a bit of graffiti from primary school. It was in the boys’ toilets.’ He wrote it down on the paper serviette.

Siobhan read it aloud and smiled. ‘Be-fore I pee,’ she repeated. ‘You think maybe that’s what B4 means?’

He shrugged. ‘Could be part of an address.’

‘Or a coordinate...?’

He looked at her. ‘From a map?’

‘But which one?’

‘Maybe that’s what the rest of the clue tells us. How’s your Scots Law?’

‘The exams were a while back.’

‘Ditto. Is there some Latin word for “dear”, maybe something to do with the law?’

‘There’s always the library,’ she suggested. ‘With a big bookshop just past it.’

He checked his watch. ‘I’ll go put more money in the meter,’ he said.

Rebus was at his desk, five sheets of paper spread out in front of him. He’d shifted everything else on to the floor: files, memos, the lot. The office was quiet: most of the shift had headed to Gayfield Square for a briefing. They wouldn’t thank him for the obstacle course he’d constructed in their absence. His computer monitor and keyboard now sat in the centre aisle between the rows of desks, just next to his multi-tiered in-tray.

And on his desk, five lives. Five victims, possibly. Caroline Farmer the youngest. Just sixteen when she’d disappeared. He’d finally got through to her mother this morning. Not an easy call to make.

‘Oh my God, don’t tell me there’s news?’ That sudden blooming of hope, wizened by his response. But he’d found out what he had to. Caroline had never come back. There had been unconfirmed sightings in the early days, when her photo was in all the papers. But nothing since.

‘We moved last year,’ her mother said. ‘It meant emptying her bedroom...’

But for the quarter-century before that, Rebus surmised, Caroline’s room had been waiting for her: same posters on the walls, same early-seventies teenage girl’s clothes neatly folded in the chest of drawers.

‘Back at the time, they seemed to think we’d done something to her,’ the mother continued. ‘I mean, her own family.’

Rebus didn’t like to say: all too often it’s a father or uncle or cousin.

‘Then they started picking on Ronnie.’

‘Caroline’s boyfriend?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Yes. Just a laddie.’

‘They’d split up, hadn’t they?’

‘You know what teenagers are like.’ It was as though she were talking about events from a week or two back. Rebus didn’t doubt that the memories stayed fresh, always ready to torment her waking hours, maybe even the sleeping ones too.

‘But he was ruled out?’

‘They gave up on him, yes. But he wasn’t the same after that, family moved from the area. He wrote to me for a few years...’

‘Mrs Farmer—’

‘It’s Ms Colquhoun now. Joe left me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Did it have...?’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’

‘He never talked much about it,’ was all she said. Rebus wondered if Caroline’s father had been able to let her go, in a way her mother hadn’t.

‘This may seem a strange question, Ms Colquhoun, but did Dunfermline Glen have any significance for Caroline?’

‘I... I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Me neither. It’s just that something’s come to our attention, and we’re wondering if it might tie in with your daughter’s disappearance.’

‘What is it?’

He didn’t suppose she’d take the coffin in the Glen as good news; resorted instead to the old cliché: ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that at present.’

There was silence on the line for a few seconds. ‘She liked to walk in the Glen.’

‘By herself?’

‘When she felt like it.’ Her voice caught. ‘Is it something you’ve found?’

‘Not the way you think, Ms Colquhoun.’

‘You’ve dug her up, haven’t you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What then?’ she shrieked.

‘I’m not at lib—’

She’d put the phone down. He stared at the mouthpiece, then did the same.

In the men’s toilets he splashed water on his face. His eyes were grey and puffy. Last night, he’d left Surgeons’ Hall and driven to Portobello, parking outside Jean’s house. Her lights had been off. He’d got as far as opening the car door, but had stopped. What was he planning to say to her? What was it he wanted? He’d closed the door again as quietly as he could, and just sat there, engine and headlamps off, Hendrix playing quietly: ‘The Burning of the Midnight Lamp’.

Back at his desk, one of the station’s civvy staff had just arrived with a large cardboard document-box. Rebus lifted the top off and peered inside. The box was actually not quite half full. He pulled out the topmost folder and examined the typed label: Paula Jennifer Gearing (née Mathieson); d.o.b. — 10.4.50; d.o.d. — 6.7.77. The Nairn drowning. Rebus sat down, pulled in his chair and started to read. About twenty minutes in, as he was scribbling another note on a lined A4 pad, Ellen Wylie arrived.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, shedding her coat.

‘We must have different ideas of a start-time,’ he said. Remembering what she’d said yesterday, she reddened, but when she glanced in his direction he was smiling.

‘What have you got?’ she asked.

‘Our friends in the north came good.’

‘Paula Gearing?’

Rebus nodded. ‘She was twenty-seven. Married four years to a husband who worked on a North Sea oil platform. Nice bungalow on the outskirts of town. No kids. She had a part-time job in a newsagent’s... probably for company more than financial necessity.’

Wylie came over to his desk. ‘Was foul play ruled out?’

Rebus tapped his notes. ‘Nobody could ever explain it, according to what I’ve read so far. She didn’t seem suicidal. Doesn’t help that they’ve no idea whereabouts on the coast she actually entered the water.’

‘Pathology report?’

‘It’s in here. Can you get on to Donald Devlin, see if he can spare us some time?’

‘Professor Devlin?’

‘He’s the person I bumped into yesterday. He’s agreed to study the autopsies for us.’ He didn’t say anything about the actual circumstances of Devlin’s involvement, how Gates and Curt had turned him down. ‘His number will be on file,’ Rebus said. ‘He’s one of Philippa Balfour’s neighbours.’

‘I know. Have you seen this morning’s paper?’

‘No.’

She fetched it from her bag, opened it to one of the inside pages. A photofit: the man Devlin had seen outside the tenement on the days preceding Philippa’s disappearance.

‘Could be anybody,’ Rebus said.

Wylie nodded agreement. Short dark hair, straight nose, narrowed eyes and a thin line of a mouth. ‘We’re getting desperate, aren’t we?’ she said.

It was Rebus’s turn to nod. Releasing the photofit to the media, especially one as clearly generalised as this, was an act of desperation. ‘Get on to Devlin,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

She took the newspaper with her, sat down at a spare desk and gave her head a little shake, as if clearing the cobwebs. Then she picked up the telephone, preparing to make the first call of another long day.

Rebus went back to his reading, but not for long. A name leaped out at him, the name of one of the police officers involved in the Nairn inquiry.

A detective inspector with the surname Watson.

The Farmer.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir.’

The Farmer smiled, slapped a hand on Rebus’s back. ‘You don’t have to call me “sir” any more, John.’

He gestured for Rebus to precede him down the hall. It was a farmhouse conversion just south of the bypass. The interior walls were painted a pale green and the furniture was fifties and sixties vintage. A wall had been knocked through so that the kitchen was separated from the living room only by a breakfast bar and dining area. The dining table gleamed. The kitchen’s work surfaces were similarly clean, and the hob was spotless, not a dish or dirty pot in sight.

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ the Farmer asked.

‘Some tea would go down.’

The Farmer chuckled. ‘My coffee always scared you off, didn’t it?’

‘You got better at it towards the end.’

‘Sit yourself down. I’ll not be long.’

But Rebus made a circuit of the living room. Glass-fronted cabinets with china and ornaments behind. Framed photos of family. Rebus recognised a couple which until recently had graced the Farmer’s office. The carpet had been vacuumed, the mirror and TV showed no signs of dust. Rebus walked over to the french doors and gazed out at a short expanse of garden which ended with a steep grassy bank.

‘Maid been in today, has she?’ he called.

The Farmer chuckled again, setting a tea-tray out on the worktop. ‘I enjoy a bit of housework,’ he called. ‘Ever since Arlene passed away.’

Rebus turned, looked back at the framed photos. The Farmer and his wife at someone’s wedding, and on some foreign beach, and with a gathering of grandchildren. The Farmer beaming, mouth always slightly open. His wife a little more reserved, maybe a foot shorter than him and half his weight. She’d died a few years back.

‘Maybe it’s my way of remembering her,’ the Farmer said.

Rebus nodded: not letting go. He wondered if her clothes were still in the wardrobe, her jewellery in a box on the dressing table...

‘How’s Gill settling in?’

Rebus moved towards the kitchen. ‘She’s off to a flyer,’ he said. ‘Ordered me to take a medical, and got on the wrong side of Ellen Wylie.’

‘I saw that news conference,’ the Farmer admitted, studying the tray to make sure he’d not forgotten anything. ‘Gill didn’t give Ellen time to find her feet.’

‘Purposely so,’ Rebus added.

‘Perhaps.’

‘It’s funny, not having you around, sir.’ Rebus laid stress on the last word. The Farmer smiled.

‘Thanks for that, John.’ He walked over to the kettle, which was beginning to boil. ‘All the same, I’m assuming this isn’t a purely sentimental visit.’

‘No. It’s about a case you worked on in Nairn.’

‘Nairn?’ The Farmer raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s twenty-odd years ago. I went up there from West Lothian. I was based in Inverness.’

‘Yes, but you went to Nairn to look into a drowning.’

The Farmer was thoughtful. ‘Oh yes,’ he said at last. ‘What was her name?’

‘Paula Gearing.’

‘Gearing, that’s right.’ He snapped his fingers, keen not to seem forgetful. ‘But it was cut and dried, wasn’t it... if you’ll pardon the expression.’

‘I’m not so sure, sir.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pour water into the teapot.

‘Well, let’s take this lot through to the lounge, and you can tell me all about it.’

So Rebus told the story again: the doll in Falls, then the Arthur’s Seat mystery, and the cluster of drownings and disappearances from 1972 to ’95. He’d brought the cuttings with him, and the Farmer studied them intently.

‘I didn’t even know about the doll on Nairn beach,’ he admitted. ‘I was back in Inverness by then. As far as I was concerned, the Gearing death was as closed as it was ever likely to get.’

‘Nobody made the connection at the time. Paula’s body had been washed ashore four miles out of town. If anyone thought anything of it, they probably took it as some kind of memorial to her.’ He paused. ‘Gill’s not convinced there’s a connection.’

The Farmer nodded. ‘She’s thinking of how it would play in a court of law. Everything you’ve got here is circumstantial.’

‘I know.’

‘All the same...’ The Farmer leaned back. ‘It’s quite a set of circumstances.’

Rebus’s shoulders relaxed. The Farmer seemed to notice, and smiled. ‘Bad timing, isn’t it, John? I manage to go into retirement just before you convince me that you may have stumbled upon something.’

‘Maybe you could have a word with Gill, convince her likewise.’

The Farmer shook his head. ‘I don’t think she’d listen. She’s in charge now... she knows fine well my usefulness is over.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

The Farmer looked at him. ‘But you know it’s true all the same. She’s the one you have to convince, not an old man sitting in his slippers.’

‘You’re barely ten years older than me.’

‘As I hope you’ll live to find, John, your sixties are very different from your fifties. Maybe that medical wouldn’t be such a bad idea, eh?’

‘Even if I already know what he’ll say?’ Rebus lifted his cup and finished the tea.

The Farmer had picked up the Nairn clipping again. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You said the case was cut and dried. Maybe you could think about that, see if anything at the time jarred — anything at all, no matter how small or seemingly incidental.’ He paused. ‘I was also going to ask if you knew what had happened to the doll.’

‘But now you know the doll’s come as news to me.’

Rebus nodded.

‘You want all five dolls, don’t you?’ the Farmer asked.

Rebus admitted as much. ‘It might be the only way to prove they’re connected.’

‘Meaning whoever left that first one, back in nineteen seventy-two, also left one for Philippa Balfour?’

Rebus nodded again.

‘If anyone can do it, John, you can. I’ve always had confidence in your sheer pig-headedness and inability to listen to your senior officers.’

Rebus placed his cup back on its saucer. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said. Looking around the room again, preparing to rise and make his farewells, he was struck by something. This house was the only thing the Farmer controlled now. He brought order to it the way he’d controlled St Leonard’s. And if he ever lost the will power or the ability to keep it in shape, he’d curl up his toes and die.

‘This is hopeless,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

They’d spent the best part of three hours in the Central Library, followed by nearly fifty quid at a bookshop, buying maps and touring guides of Scotland. Now they were in the Elephant House coffee-shop, having commandeered a table meant for six. It was right below the window at the back of the café, and Grant Hood was staring out at the view of Greyfriars Churchyard and the Castle.

Siobhan looked at him. ‘Have you switched off?’

He kept his eyes on the view. ‘You have to sometimes.’

‘Well, thanks for your support.’ It came out more huffily than she’d expected.

‘Best thing you can do,’ he went on, ignoring her tone. ‘There are days when I get stuck with the crossword. I don’t go knocking my brains out. I just put it to one side and pick it up again later. And often I find that one or two answers come to me straight away. Thing is,’ now he turned towards her, ‘you fix your mind on a certain track, until eventually you can’t see all the alternatives.’ He got up, walked over to where the café kept its newspapers, and came back with that day’s Scotsman. ‘Peter Bee,’ he said, folding it so the crossword on the back page was uppermost. ‘He’s cryptic, but doesn’t depend on anagrams the way some of the others do.’

He handed her the paper and she saw that Peter Bee was the name of the crossword’s compiler.

‘Twelve across,’ Grant said, ‘he had me looking for the name of an old Roman weapon. But all it was in the end was an anagram.’

‘Very interesting,’ Siobhan said, tossing the paper on to the table, where it covered the half-dozen map-books.

‘I’m just trying to explain that sometimes you have to clear your mind for a while, start again from scratch.’

She glared at him. ‘Are you saying we’ve just wasted half the day?’

He shrugged.

‘Well, thanks very much!’ She pulled herself out of her chair and stomped off to the toilets. Inside, she stood leaning against the wash-bowl, staring down at its bright white surface. The sod was, she knew Grant was right. But she couldn’t let go the way he could. She’d wanted to play the game, and now it had drawn her in. She wondered if Flip Balfour had become obsessed in much the same way. If she’d got stuck, would she have asked for help? Siobhan reminded herself that she had yet to ask any of Flip’s friends or family about the game. No one had mentioned it in the dozens of interviews, but then why would they? Maybe to them it had just been a bit of fun, a computer game. Nothing to get worked up about...

Gill Templer had offered her the Press Liaison job, but only after engineering the ritual humiliation of Ellen Wylie. It would be nice to feel she’d rejected the offer out of a sense of solidarity with Wylie, but that had had nothing to do with it. Siobhan herself feared that it was more the influence of John Rebus. She’d worked beside him for several years now, coming to understand his strengths as well as his faults. And when it came down to it, like a lot of other officers she preferred the maverick approach, and wished she could be like that. But the force itself had other ideas. There could be room for only one Rebus, and meantime advancement was hers for the taking. Okay, so it would land her squarely in Gill Templer’s camp: she’d follow orders, back her boss up, never take risks. And she would be safe, would continue to rise through the ranks... Detective Inspector, then maybe DCI by the time she was forty. She saw now that Gill had invited her to drinks and dinner that evening to show her how it was done. You cultivated the right friends, you treated them well. You were patient, and the rewards came. One lesson for Ellen Wylie, and a very different one for her.

Back out in the café, she watched as Grant Hood completed the crossword and threw the paper back down, leaning back in his seat and nonchalantly slipping his pen into his pocket. He was trying hard not to look at the table next to him, where a lone female coffee-drinker had been appraising his performance over the top of her paperback book.

Siobhan started forwards. ‘Thought you’d already done that one?’ she said, nodding towards the Scotsman.

‘Easier the second time,’ he answered in a voice which, had it been any more of an undertone, would have leapt up and broken into the chorus of ‘Teenage Kicks’. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

The woman had gone back to her book. It was something by Muriel Spark. ‘I was just remembering an old song,’ Siobhan said.

Grant looked at her, but she wasn’t about to enlighten him, so he reached a hand out and touched the crossword. ‘Know what a homonym is?’

‘No, but it sounds rude.’

‘It’s when a word sounds like another word. Crosswords use them all the time. There’s even one in today’s, and second time around it got me thinking.’

‘Thinking what?’

‘About our latest clue. “Sounds dear”: we were thinking of “dear” meaning expensive or cherished, right?’

Siobhan nodded.

‘But it could be a homonym, signalled by “sounds”.’

‘I’m not following.’ But she’d tucked one leg beneath her and leaned forward, interested.

‘It could be telling us that the word we want isn’t d-e-a-r but d-e-e-r.’

She frowned. ‘So we end up with “B4 Scots Law deer”? Is it just me, or does that actually make less sense than before?’

He shrugged, turned his attention to the window again. ‘If you say so.’

She slapped at his leg. ‘Don’t be like that.’

‘You think you’re the only one who can take a moody?’

‘I’m sorry.’

He looked at her. She was smiling again. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now... wasn’t there some story about how Holyrood got its name? One of the ancient kings shooting arrows at a deer?’

‘Search me.’

‘Excuse me.’ The voice came from the table next to them. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’ The woman put her book down on the table. ‘It was David the First, back in the twelfth century.’

‘Was it now?’ Siobhan said.

The woman ignored her tone. ‘He was out hunting when a stag pinned him to the ground. He reached for its antlers only to find that it had vanished and in its place he was holding a cross. Holy rood means holy cross. David saw it as a sign and built the abbey of Holyrood.’

‘Thank you,’ Grant Hood said. The woman bowed her head and went back to her book. ‘Nice to see an educated person,’ he added, for Siobhan’s benefit. She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘So it might have something to do with the Palace of Holyrood.’

‘One of the rooms could be called B4,’ Siobhan said. ‘Like a school classroom.’

He saw that she wasn’t being serious. ‘There could be part of Scots Law relating to Holyrood — it would make another royal connection, like Victoria.’

Siobhan unfolded her arms. ‘Could be,’ she conceded.

‘So all we have to do is find ourselves a friendly lawyer.’

‘Would someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s office do?’ Siobhan asked. ‘If so, I might know just the person...’

The Sheriff Court was in a new building on Chambers Street, just across from the museum complex. Grant dashed back down to Grassmarket to feed coins to the meter, despite Siobhan’s protestation that it’d have been cheaper getting a fine slapped on him. She went on ahead and asked around the court until she’d located Harriet Brough. The lawyer was wearing yet another tweed two-piece with grey stockings and flat black shoes. Shapely ankles though, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing.

‘My dear girl, this is splendid,’ Brough said, taking Siobhan’s hand and working her arm as if it were a water-pump. ‘Simply splendid.’ Siobhan noted that the elder woman’s make-up served merely to heighten her wrinkles and the folds of skin, and gave her face a garish pall.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Siobhan began.

‘Not in the slightest.’ They were in the court’s main entrance hall, busy with ushers and lawyers, security staff and worried-looking families. Elsewhere in the building, guilt and innocence were being judged, sentences handed down. ‘Are you here for a trial?’

‘No, I just had a question and I wondered if you might be able to help.’

‘I’d be delighted to.’

‘It’s a note I’ve found. It might relate to a case, but it seems to be in some sort of code.’

The lawyer’s eyes widened. ‘How exciting,’ she gasped. ‘Let’s just grab somewhere to sit and then you can tell me all about it.’

They found a free bench and sat down. Brough read the note through its polythene jacket. Siobhan watched as she mouthed the words silently, her brow creasing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe the context would help.’

‘It’s a missing person inquiry,’ Siobhan explained. ‘We think she may have been taking part in a game.’

‘And you need to solve this to reach the next stage? How very curious.’

Grant Hood arrived, breathing heavily. Siobhan introduced him to Harriet Brough.

‘Anything?’ he asked. Siobhan just shook her head. He looked towards the lawyer. ‘B4 doesn’t mean anything in Scots Law? Some paragraph or sub-section?’

‘My dear boy,’ Brough laughed, ‘there could be several hundred examples, though they’d more likely be 4B rather than B4. We use numerals first, as a general rule.’

Hood nodded. ‘So it would be “paragraph 4, sub-section b”?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The first clue,’ Siobhan added, ‘had a royal connection. The answer was Victoria. We’re wondering if this one might have something to do with Holyrood.’ She explained her reasoning, and Brough took another look at the note.

‘Well, the pair of you are cleverer than I am,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe my lawyer’s mind is too literal.’ She made to hand the note to Siobhan, but then snatched it back again. ‘I wonder if the phrase “Scots Law” is there to put you off the scent.’

‘How do you mean?’ Siobhan asked.

‘It’s just that if the clue is meant to be wilfully obscure, then whoever wrote it might have been thinking laterally.’

Siobhan looked to Hood, who merely shrugged. Brough was pointing to the note.

‘Something I learned from my hill-walking days,’ she said, ‘is that “law” is the Scots word for a hill...’

Rebus was on the phone to the manager of the Huntingtower Hotel.

‘So it might be in storage?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ the manager said.

‘Could you take a look? Maybe ask around, see if anyone knows?’

‘It could have been thrown out during a refit.’

‘That’s the sort of positive attitude I thrive on, Mr Ballantine.’

‘Maybe the person who found it...’

‘He says he handed it in.’ Rebus had already called the Courier and spoken with the reporter who’d covered the case. The reporter had been curious, and Rebus had admitted that another coffin had turned up in Edinburgh, while stressing that any connection was ‘the longest shot in history’. Last thing he wanted was the media sniffing around. The reporter had given him the name of the man whose dog had found the coffin. A couple of calls later, Rebus had traced the man, only to be told that he’d left the coffin at Huntingtower and had thought no more about it.

‘Well,’ the manager was saying now, ‘I won’t make any promises...’

‘Let me know as soon as you find it,’ Rebus said, repeating his name and phone number. ‘It’s a matter of urgency, Mr Ballantine.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ the manager said with a sigh.

Rebus broke the connection and looked across to the other desk, where Ellen Wylie was seated with Donald Devlin. Devlin was dressed in another old cardigan, this time with most of its buttons intact. Between the pair of them, they were trying to track down the autopsy notes from the Glasgow drowning. By the look on Wylie’s face they were having little luck. Devlin, whose chair was side by side with hers, kept leaning in towards her as she spoke on the phone. He might just have been trying to catch what was being said, but Rebus could see Wylie didn’t like it. She kept trying to move her chair surreptitiously, angling her body so she presented a lot of shoulder and back to the pathologist. So far, she’d avoided eye contact with Rebus.

He made a note to himself about Huntingtower, then got back on the phone. The Glasgow coffin was more awkward. The reporter who’d covered the story had moved on. Nobody at the news desk could remember anything about it. Rebus eventually got a number for the church manse and spoke to a Reverend Martine.

‘Have you any idea what happened to the coffin?’ Rebus asked.

‘I think the journalist took it,’ Reverend Martine said.

So Rebus thanked him and got back to the newspaper, where he was able eventually to speak to the editor, who wanted to hear Rebus’s own story. So he explained about the ‘Edinburgh coffin’ and how he was working for the Department of Long Shots.

‘This Edinburgh coffin, where was it found exactly?’

‘Near the Castle,’ Rebus said blithely. He could almost see the editor writing a note to himself, maybe thinking of following the story up.

After another minute or so, Rebus was transferred to personnel, where he was given a forwarding address for the journalist, whose name was Jenny Gabriel. It was a London address.

‘She went to work for one of the broadsheets,’ the personnel manager stated. ‘It was what Jenny always wanted.’

So Rebus went out and bought coffee, cakes and four newspapers: The Times, Telegraph, Guardian and Independent. He went through each, studying the by-lines, but didn’t find Jenny Gabriel’s name. Undaunted, he called each paper and asked for her by name. At the third attempt, the switchboard asked him to hold. He glanced across to where Devlin was dropping cake crumbs on to Wylie’s desk.

‘Transferring you now.’

The sweetest words Rebus had heard all day. Then the call was picked up.

‘News desk.’

‘Jenny Gabriel, please,’ Rebus said.

‘Speaking.’

And it was time for the spiel again.

‘My God,’ the reporter said at last, ‘that was twenty years ago!’

‘Just about,’ Rebus agreed. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the doll?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Rebus felt his heart sink a little. ‘When I moved south, I gave it to a friend. He’d always been fascinated by it.’

‘Any chance you could put me in touch with him?’

‘Hang on, I’ll get his number...’ There was a pause. Rebus spent the time working loose the mechanism of his ballpoint pen. He realised he had only the vaguest idea how such a pen worked. Spring, casing, refill... he could take it to pieces, put it back together again, and be none the wiser.

‘He’s in Edinburgh actually,’ Jenny Gabriel said. Then she gave him a number. The friend’s name was Dominic Mann.

‘Many thanks,’ Rebus said, cutting the call. Dominic Mann wasn’t home, but his answering machine gave Rebus a mobile number to try. The call was picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Dominic Mann...?’ And Rebus was off again. This time getting the result he wanted. Mann still owned the coffin, and could drop it into St Leonard’s later on in the day.

‘I’d really appreciate that,’ Rebus said. ‘Funny thing to hold on to all these years...?’

‘I was planning to use it in one of my installations.’

‘Installations?’

‘I’m an artist. At least, I was. These days I run a gallery.’

‘You still paint?’

‘Infrequently. Just as well I didn’t end up using it. It might have been wrapped in paint and bandages and sold to some collector.’

Rebus thanked the artist and put down the phone. Devlin had finished his cake. Wylie had put hers to one side, and the old man was eyeing it now. The Nairn coffin was easier: two calls got Rebus the result he wanted. He was told by a reporter that he’d do some digging, and was called back with the number of someone in Nairn, who then did some digging of their own and found the coffin stored in a neighbour’s shed.

‘You want me to post it to you?’

‘Yes, please,’ Rebus said. ‘Next-day delivery.’ He’d thought of sending a car, but didn’t think the budget would stretch. There’d been memos flying on the subject.

‘What about the postage?’

‘Enclose your details and I’ll see you get a refund.’

The caller thought about this. ‘Seems all right, I suppose. Just have to trust you, won’t I?’

‘If you can’t trust the police, who can you trust?’

He put down the phone and looked across to Wylie’s desk again. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Getting there,’ she said, her voice tired and irritated. Devlin got up, crumbs tumbling from his lap, and asked where the ‘facilities’ were. Rebus pointed him in the right direction. Devlin started to leave, but paused in front of Rebus.

‘I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this.’

‘Glad someone’s happy, Professor.’

Devlin prodded Rebus’s jacket lapel with a finger. ‘I think you’re in your element.’ He beamed, and shuffled out of the room. Rebus walked across to Wylie’s desk.

‘Better eat that cake, if you don’t want him drooling.’

She considered this, then broke the cake in two and stuffed half into her mouth.

‘I got a result on the dolls,’ he told her. ‘Two traced, with another possible.’

She took a gulp of coffee, washing down the sugary sponge. ‘Doing better than us then.’ She studied the remaining half of the cake, then dropped it into the bin. ‘No offence,’ she said.

‘Professor Devlin will be gutted.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

‘He’s here to help, remember?’

She stared at him. ‘He smells.’

‘Does he?’

‘You’ve not noticed?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

She looked at him as though this comment said much about him. Then her shoulders fell. ‘Why did you ask for me? I’m useless. All those reporters and TV viewers saw it. Everybody knows it. Have you got a thing about cripples or what?’

‘My daughter’s a cripple,’ he said quietly.

Her face reddened. ‘Christ, I didn’t mean...’

‘But to answer your question, the only person around here who seems to have a problem with Ellen Wylie is Ellen Wylie herself.’

Her hand had gone to her face, as if trying to force the blood back down. ‘Tell that to Gill Templer,’ she said at last.

‘Gill ballsed things up. It’s not the end of the world.’ His phone was ringing. He started backing towards his desk. ‘Okay?’ he said. When she nodded, he turned away and answered the call. It was Huntingtower. They’d found the coffin in a cellar used for lost property. A couple of decades’ worth of umbrellas and pairs of spectacles, hats and coats and cameras.

‘Amazing, the stuff down there,’ Mr Ballantine said. But all Rebus was interested in was the coffin.

‘Can you post it next-day delivery? I’ll see you get a refund...’

By the time Devlin came back in, Rebus was on the trail of the Dunfermline coffin, but this time he hit a wall. Nobody — local press, police — seemed to know what had happened to it. Rebus got a couple of promises that questions would be asked, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Nearly thirty years had passed; unlikely it would turn up. At the other desk, Devlin was clapping his hands silently as Wylie finished another call. She looked across to Rebus.

‘Post-mortem report on Hazel Gibbs is on its way,’ she said. Rebus held her gaze for a few moments, then nodded slowly and smiled. His phone went again. This time it was Siobhan.

‘I’m going to talk to David Costello,’ she said. ‘If you’re not doing anything.’

‘I thought you’d paired up with Grant?’

‘DCS Templer has snared him for a couple of hours.’

‘Has she now? Maybe she’s offering him your liaison job.’

‘I refuse to let you wind me up. Now, are you coming or not...?’

Costello was in his flat. When he opened the door to them, he looked startled. Siobhan assured him that it wasn’t bad news. He didn’t seem to believe her.

‘Can we come in, David?’ Rebus asked. Costello looked at him for the first time, then nodded slowly. To Rebus’s eyes, he was wearing the same clothes as on his last visit, and the living room didn’t seem to have been tidied in the interim. The young man was growing a beard, too, but seemed self-conscious, rubbing his fingertips against its grain.

‘Is there any news at all?’ he asked, slumping on to the futon, while Rebus and Siobhan stayed standing.

‘Bits and pieces,’ Rebus said.

‘But you can’t go into details?’ Costello kept shifting, trying to get comfortable.

‘Actually, David,’ Siobhan said, ‘the details — some of them at least — are the reason we’re here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s the first clue from a game. A game we think Flip was playing.’

Costello sat forward, looked at the message again. ‘What sort of game?’

‘Something she found on the Internet. It’s run by someone called Quizmaster. Solving each clue takes the player to a new level. Flip was working on a level called Hellbank. Maybe she’d solved it, we don’t know.’

‘Flip?’ Costello sounded sceptical.

‘You’ve never heard of it?’

He shook his head. ‘She didn’t say a word.’ He looked across towards Rebus, but Rebus had picked up a poetry book.

‘Was she interested in games at all?’ Siobhan asked.

Costello shrugged. ‘Dinner-party stuff. You know: charades and the like. Maybe Trivial Pursuit or Taboo.’

‘But not fantasy games? Role-playing?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘Nothing on the Internet?’

He rubbed at his bristles again. ‘This is news to me.’ He looked from Siobhan to Rebus and back again. ‘You’re sure this was Flip?’

‘We’re pretty sure,’ Siobhan stated.

‘And you think it has something to do with her disappearance?’

Siobhan just shrugged, and glanced in Rebus’s direction, wondering if he had anything to add. But Rebus was busy with his own thoughts. He was remembering what Flip Balfour’s mother had said about Costello, about how he’d turned Flip against her family. And when Rebus had asked why, she’d said: Because of who he is.

‘Interesting poem, this,’ he said, waving the book. It was more of a pamphlet really, pink cover with a line-drawing illustration. Then he recited a couple of lines:

Rebus closed the book, put it down. ‘I’d never thought of it like that before,’ he said, ‘but it’s true.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘Do you remember when we talked, David?’ He inhaled, then thought to offer the packet to Costello, who shook his head. The half-bottle of whisky was empty, as were half a dozen cans of lager. Rebus could see them on the floor near the kitchen, along with mugs, plates and forks, the wrappings from takeaway food. He hadn’t taken Costello for a drinker; maybe he’d have to revise that opinion. ‘I asked you if Flip might have met someone, and you said something about how she’d have told you. You said she couldn’t keep things to herself.’

Costello was nodding.

‘And yet here’s this game she was playing. Not an easy game either, lots of puzzles and word-play. She might have needed help.’

‘She didn’t get it from me.’

‘And she never mentioned the Internet, or anyone called Quizmaster?’

He shook his head. ‘Who is he anyway, this Quizmaster?’

‘We don’t know,’ Siobhan admitted. She’d walked over to the bookshelf.

‘But he should come forward, surely?’

‘We’d like him to.’ Siobhan lifted the toy soldier from the shelf. ‘This is a gaming piece, isn’t it?’

Costello turned his head to look. ‘Is it?’

‘You don’t play?’

‘I’m not even sure where it came from.’

‘Been in the wars though,’ Siobhan said, studying the broken musket.

Rebus looked over to where Costello’s own computer — a laptop — sat ready and waiting. There were textbooks on the worktop next to it, and on the floor underneath a printer. ‘I take it you’re on the Internet yourself, David?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t everybody?’

Siobhan forced a smile, put the toy soldier back. ‘DI Rebus here is still wrestling with electric typewriters.’

Rebus saw what she was doing: trying to soften Costello up, using Rebus as the comedy prop.

‘To me,’ he said, ‘the Internet is what the Milan goalie tries to defend.’

This got a smile from Costello. Because of who he is... But who was David Costello really? Rebus was beginning to wonder.

‘If Flip kept this from you, David,’ Siobhan was saying now, ‘might there be other things she kept secret?’

Costello nodded again. He was still shifting on the futon, as if he’d never again be at rest. ‘Maybe I didn’t know her at all,’ he conceded. He studied the clue again. ‘What does it mean, do you know?’

‘Siobhan worked it out,’ Rebus admitted. ‘But all it did was lead her to a second clue.’

Siobhan handed over the copy of the second note. ‘It makes less sense than the first,’ Costello said. ‘I really can’t believe it of Flip. It’s not her sort of thing at all.’ He made to hand the note back.

‘What about her other friends?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Do any of them like games, puzzles?’

Costello’s eyes fixed on her. ‘You think one of them could...?’

‘All I’m wondering is whether Flip might have gone to anyone else for help.’

Costello was thoughtful. ‘No one,’ he said at last. ‘No one I can think of.’ Siobhan took the second note from him. ‘What about this one?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what it means?’

She looked at the clue for maybe the fortieth time. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet.’

Afterwards, Siobhan drove Rebus back to St Leonard’s. They were silent for the first few minutes. Traffic was bad. The evening rush hour seemed to start earlier with each passing week.

‘What do you think?’ Siobhan asked.

‘I think we’d have been quicker walking.’

It was pretty much the response she’d expected. ‘Your dolls in boxes, there’s a playful quality to them, isn’t there?’

‘Bloody queer game, if you ask me.’

‘Every bit as queer as running a quiz over the Internet.’

Rebus nodded, but didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t want to be the one seeing a connection here,’ Siobhan added.

‘My department?’ Rebus guessed. ‘The potential’s there though, isn’t it?’

It was Siobhan’s turn to nod. ‘If all the dolls link up.’

‘Give us time,’ Rebus said. ‘Meanwhile, a bit of background on Mr Costello might be in order.’

‘He seemed genuine enough to me. That look on his face when he answered the door, he was terrified something had happened. Besides, background check’s already been done, hasn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t mean we didn’t miss anything. If I remember rightly, Hi-Ho Silvers was given the job, and that bugger’s so lazy he thinks sloth’s an Olympic sport.’ He half turned towards her. ‘What about you?’

‘I try to at least look like I’m doing something.’

‘I mean what are you going to do now?’

‘I think I’m going to head home. Call it a day.’

‘Better be careful, DCS Templer likes her officers to put in a full eight hours.’

‘In that case she owes me... and you too, I shouldn’t wonder. When was the last time you only worked an eight-hour shift?’

‘September, nineteen eighty-six,’ Rebus said, raising a smile.

‘How’s the flat coming on?’

‘Rewiring’s all but finished. The painters are moving in now.’

‘Found somewhere to buy?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s bugging you, isn’t it?’

‘If you want to sell up, that’s your decision.’

He gave her a sour look. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Quizmaster?’ She considered her answer. ‘I could almost enjoy it...’

‘If?’

‘If I didn’t get the sense that he’s enjoying it too.’

‘By manipulating you?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘And if he’s doing it to me, he did it to Philippa Balfour too.’

‘You keep assuming it’s a “he”,’ Rebus said.

‘For convenience only.’ There was the sound of a mobile. ‘Mine,’ Siobhan said, as Rebus reached into his own pocket. Her phone was attached to its own little charger beside the car stereo. Siobhan pressed a button, and an inbuilt microphone and speaker did the rest.

‘Hands-free,’ Rebus said, impressed.

‘Hello?’ Siobhan called out.

‘Is that DC Clarke?’

She recognised the voice. ‘Mr Costello? What can I do for you?’

‘I was just thinking... what you were saying about games and stuff?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I do know someone who’s into all that. Rather, Flip knows someone.’

‘What’s their name?’

Siobhan glanced towards Rebus, but he already had his notepad and pen ready.

David Costello said the name, but his voice broke up halfway through. ‘Sorry,’ Siobhan said. ‘Could you give me that again?’

This time they both caught the name loud and clear: ‘Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan frowned, mouthing the name silently. Rebus nodded. He knew exactly who Ranald Marr was: John Balfour’s business partner, the man who ran Balfour’s Bank in Edinburgh.

The office was quiet. Officers had either clocked off, or were in meetings at Gayfield Square. There’d be shoe-leather patrols out there too, but scaled down now. There was almost no one left to interview. Another day without any sighting of Philippa, and no word from her, no sign that she was still alive. Credit cards and bank balance untouched, friends and family uncontacted. Nothing. Word around the station was, Bill Pryde had thrown a wobbly, sent his clipboard sailing across the open-plan office so that staff had to duck to avoid it. John Balfour had been putting the pressure on, giving media interviews critical of the lack of progress. The Chief Constable had asked for a status report from the ACC, which meant the ACC was on everyone’s back. In the absence of any new leads, they were interviewing people for the second or third time. Everyone was jittery, frayed. Rebus tried calling Bill Pryde at Gayfield, but couldn’t get through. He then placed a call to the Big House and asked to speak to Claverhouse or Ormiston in Crime Squad, Number 2 Branch. Claverhouse picked up.

‘It’s Rebus here. I need a favour.’

‘And what makes you think I’d be daft enough to oblige?’

‘Are your questions always this tough?’

‘Bugger off back under your rock, Rebus.’

‘Nothing I’d like better, but your mum’s adopted it, says it loves her more than you ever did.’ It was the only way to deal with Claverhouse: sarcasm at twelve paces.

‘She’s right, I’m a mean bastard at heart, which brings me back to my first question.’

‘The tough one? Let’s put it this way then: sooner you help me, sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious.’

‘Christ, man, why didn’t you say? Fire away.’

Rebus smiled into the receiver. ‘I need an in.’

‘Who with?’

‘The gardai in Dublin.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Philippa Balfour’s boyfriend. I want a background check.’

‘I put a tenner on him at two-to-one.’

‘Best reason I can think of for helping me out.’

Claverhouse was thoughtful. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Don’t move from that number.’

‘I’ll be here.’

Rebus put the phone down and sat back in his chair. Then he noticed something across the room. It was the Farmer’s old chair. Gill must have turfed it out only for someone to claim it. Rebus wheeled it over to his own desk, made himself comfortable. He thought about what he’d said to Claverhouse: sooner I can hit the pub and drink myself unconscious. It had been part of the routine, but a large chunk of him wanted it anyway, wanted that hazy oblivion that only drink could provide. Oblivion: the name of one of Brian Auger’s bands, Oblivion Express. He had their first album somewhere, A Better Land. A bit too jazzy for his taste. When the phone rang, he picked it up, but it was still ringing: his mobile. He fished it from his pocket, put it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘John?’

‘Hello, Jean. I was meaning to call you.’

‘Is this an all right time?’

‘Sure. Has that journo been hassling you?’ His desk phone started ringing: Claverhouse probably. Rebus got up from the Farmer’s chair, walked across the office and out of the door.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Jean was saying. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging, as you asked. I’m afraid I haven’t found very much.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Well, it’s taken me all day...’

‘I’ll have a look at it tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Tomorrow would be fine.’

‘Unless you’re free tonight...?’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘I promised a friend I’d go see her. She’s just had a baby.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. We’ll meet tomorrow. Are you okay to come to the station?’

‘Yes.’

They agreed a time and Rebus went back into the CID room, ending the call. He got the feeling she was pleased with him, pleased that he’d asked to meet this evening. It was what she’d been hoping for, some hint that he was still interested, that it wasn’t just work for him.

Or he could be reading too much into it.

Back at his desk, he called Claverhouse.

‘I’m a disappointed man,’ Claverhouse said.

‘I told you I wouldn’t leave my desk, and I stuck to my word.’

‘Then how come you didn’t pick up the phone?’

‘Someone caught me on my mobile.’

‘Someone who means more to you than I do? Now I really am hurt.’

‘It was my bookie. I owe him two hundred notes.’

Claverhouse was silent for a moment. ‘This cheers me immensely,’ he said. ‘Right, the person you want to speak to is Declan Macmanus.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Wasn’t that Elvis Costello’s real name?’

‘Well, he obviously passed it on to someone in need.’ Claverhouse gave Rebus the number in Dublin, including the international code. ‘Not that I suppose the cheap bastards at St Leonard’s will let you make an international call.’

‘Forms will have to be filled in,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Thanks for your help, Claverhouse.’

‘Are you going for that drink now?’

‘I think I better had. Don’t want to be conscious when my bookie finds me.’

‘You have a point. Here’s to bad horses and good whisky.’

‘And vice versa,’ Rebus rejoined, ending the call. Claverhouse was right: the main phones at St Leonard’s were blocked for international calls, but Rebus had the feeling the Chief Super’s phone would be okay. Only problem was, Gill had locked her door. Rebus thought for a second, then remembered that the Farmer had kept a spare key for emergencies. He crouched down at Gill’s office door and peeled back the corner of carpet next to the jamb. Bingo: the Yale was still there. He inserted it into the lock and was inside her office, door closed after him.

He looked at her new chair but decided to stay standing, resting against the edge of her desk. He couldn’t help thinking of the Three Bears: who’s been sitting in my chair? And who’s been making calls from my phone?

His call was answered after half a dozen rings. ‘Can I speak to...’ he suddenly realised that he didn’t have a rank for Macmanus... ‘to Declan Macmanus, please.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’ The woman’s voice had that seductive Irish lilt. Rebus imagined raven hair and a full body.

‘Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police in Scotland.’

‘Hold, please.’

While he held, the full body had become a pint of slow-poured Guinness, the beer seemingly shaped to fit its glass.

‘DI Rebus?’ The voice was crisp, no-nonsense.

‘DI Claverhouse at the Scottish Crime Squad gave me your number.’

‘That was generous of him.’

‘Sometimes he just can’t help himself.’

‘And what can I do for you?’

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about this case we’ve got, a MisPer called Philippa Balfour.’

‘The banker’s daughter? It’s been all over the papers here.’

‘Because of the connection with David Costello?’

‘The Costellos are well known, Inspector, part of the Dublin social fabric, you might say.’

‘You’d know better than me, which is the reason I’m calling.’

‘Ah, is it now?’

‘I want to know a bit more about the family.’ Rebus started doodling on a sheet of paper. ‘I’m sure they’re blemish-free, but it would put my mind at rest if I had some evidence of that.’

‘As to “blemish-free”, I’m not sure I can give that guarantee.’

‘Oh?’

‘Every family has its dirty laundry, does it not?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Maybe I could send you the Costellos’ laundry list. How would that be?’

‘That would be fine.’

‘Do you happen to have a fax number there?’

Rebus recited it. ‘You’ll need the international code,’ he warned.

‘I think I can manage that. How confidential would this information remain?’

‘As confidential as I can make it.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word then. Are you a rugby man, Inspector?’

Rebus got the feeling he should answer yes. ‘Only as a spectator.’

‘I like to come to Edinburgh for the Six Nations. Maybe we’ll meet for a drink next time.’

‘I’d like that. Let me give you a couple of numbers.’ This time he recited his office number and his mobile.

‘I’ll be sure to look you up.’

‘You do that. I owe you a large malt.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not really a rugby man at all, are you?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted. There was laughter on the line.

‘But you’re honest, and that’s a start. Goodbye, Inspector.’

Rebus put the phone down. It struck him that he still didn’t know Macmanus’s rank, or anything much about him at all. When he looked down at the doodles covering the sheet of paper in front of him, he found he’d drawn half a dozen coffins. He waited twenty minutes for Macmanus to get back to him, but the fax machine was playing dead.

He hit the Maltings first, and followed it up with the Royal Oak, before making for Swany’s. Just the one drink in each pub, starting with a pint of Guinness. It had been a while since he’d tried the stuff; it was good but filling. He knew he couldn’t do too many, so switched to IPA and finally a Laphroaig with the merest drizzle of water. Then it was a taxi to the Oxford Bar, where he demolished the last corned beef and beetroot roll on the shelf and followed it with a main course of a Scotch egg. He was back on the IPA, needed something to wash down the food. A few of the regulars were in. The back room had been taken over by a party of students, and no one in the front bar was saying much, as if the sounds of enjoyment from upstairs were somehow blasphemous. Harry was behind the bar, and clearly relishing the prospect of the revellers’ departure. When someone was dispatched to fetch another round, Harry kept up a steady stream of comments along the lines of ‘you’ll be heading off soon... going to a club... the night’s young...’ The young man, his face so shiny it might have been polished, just grinned inanely, taking none of it in. Harry shook his head in disgust. When the drinker headed off, tray laden with slopping pints, one of the regulars informed Harry that he was losing his touch. The stream of profanities which followed seemed, to everyone present, evidence to the contrary.

Rebus had come here in a vain attempt to flush all those little coffins out of his mind. He kept imagining them, seeing them as the work of one man, one killer... and wondering if there were any more of them, lying rotting on barren hillsides perhaps, or tucked away in crevasses, or turned into macabre ornaments in their finders’ garden sheds... Arthur’s Seat and Falls and Jean’s four coffins. He saw a continuity there, and it filled him with dread. I want to be cremated, he thought, or maybe strung up in a tree the way Aborigines do it. Anything but the strict confines of a box... anything but that.

When the door opened, everyone turned to examine the new arrival. Rebus straightened his back, trying not to show surprise. It was Gill Templer. She saw him immediately and smiled, unbuttoning her coat and taking off her scarf.

‘Thought I might find you here,’ she said. ‘I tried phoning, but got your machine.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

Harry had heard the order and was already reaching for a glass. ‘Ice and lemon?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

Rebus noticed that the other drinkers had shifted a little, giving Rebus and Gill as much privacy as the cramped front bar would allow. He paid for the drink and watched Gill gulp at it.

‘I needed that,’ she said.

Rebus lifted his own glass and toasted her. ‘Slainte.’ Then he took a sip. Gill was smiling.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘rude of me to just hammer it like that.’

‘Rough day?’

‘I’ve had better.’

‘So what brings you here?’

‘A couple of things. As usual, you haven’t been bothering to keep me up to date with any progress.’

‘There’s not much to report.’

‘It’s a dead end then?’

‘I didn’t say that. I just need a few more days.’ He lifted his glass again.

‘Then there’s the small matter of your doctor’s appointment.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll get round to it, promise.’ He nodded towards the pint. ‘This is my first tonight, by the way.’

‘Aye, that’ll be right,’ Harry muttered, busying himself drying glasses.

Gill smiled, but her eyes were on Rebus. ‘How are things with Jean?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Fine. She’s concentrating on the historical side.’

‘Do you like her?’

Now Rebus looked at Gill. ‘Does the matchmaker service come free?’

‘I was just wondering.’

‘And you came all this way to ask?’

‘Jean’s been hurt before by an alcoholic, it’s how her husband went.’

‘She told me. Don’t worry on that score.’

She looked down at her drink. ‘How’s it working out with Ellen Wylie?’

‘I’ve no complaints.’

‘Has she said anything about me?’

‘Not really.’ Rebus had finished his drink, waved his glass to signal as much. Harry put down the tea-cloth and started pouring. Rebus felt awkward. He didn’t like Gill being here like this, dropping in and catching him off-guard. He didn’t like that the regulars were listening to every word. Gill seemed to sense his discomfort.

‘Would you rather we did this at the office?’

He shrugged again. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Enjoying the new job?’

‘I think I’ll manage.’

‘I’d put money on it.’ He pointed to her glass, offered a refill. Gill shook her head. ‘I should be going. This was just a quick one before home.’

‘Same here.’ Rebus made a show of checking his watch.

‘I’ve got the car outside...?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I like to walk, keeps me fit.’

Behind the bar, Harry snorted. Gill wrapped the scarf back around her neck.

‘Maybe see you tomorrow then,’ she said.

‘You know where my office is.’

She studied her surroundings — walls the colour of a used cigarette-filter, dusty prints of Robert Burns — and began to nod. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ Then she gave a little wave which seemed to take in the whole bar, and was gone.

‘Your boss?’ Harry guessed. Rebus nodded. ‘Swap you,’ the barman said. The regulars started laughing. Another student appeared from the back room, the list of required drinks scribbled on the back of an envelope.

‘Three IPA,’ Harry began to recite, ‘two lager tops, a gin, lime and soda, two Becks and a dry white wine.’

The student looked at the note, then nodded in amazement. Harry winked at his audience.

‘Might be students, but they’re not the only smart bastards round here.’

Siobhan sat in her living room, staring at the message on the laptop’s screen. It was in response to an e-mail she’d sent to Quizmaster, informing him that she was now working on the second clue.

I forgot to tell you, from now on you’re against the clock. In twenty-four hours’ time, the next clue becomes void.

Siobhan got to work on the keyboard: I think we should meet. I have some questions. She hit ‘send’, then waited. His reply was prompt.

The game will answer your questions.

She hit more keys: Did Flip have anyone helping her? Is anyone else playing the game?

She waited for several minutes. Nothing. She was in the kitchen, pouring another half-glass of Chilean red, when she heard the laptop telling her she had a message. Wine splashed on to the back of her hand as she dashed back through.

Hello, Siobhan.

She stared at the screen. The sender’s address was a series of numbers. Before she could reply, the computer told her she had another message.

Are you there? Your light’s on.

She froze, the screen seeming to shimmer. He was here! Right outside! She walked quickly to the window. Down below, a car was parked, headlights still on.

Grant Hood’s Alfa.

He waved up at her. Cursing, she ran to the front door, down the stairs and out of the tenement.

‘Is that your idea of a joke?’ she hissed.

Hood, easing himself from the driver’s seat, seemed stunned by her reaction.

‘I just had Quizmaster online,’ she explained. ‘I thought you were him.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Just exactly how did you do that?’

Hood held up his mobile phone. ‘It’s a WAP,’ he explained sheepishly. ‘Just got it today. Sends e-mails, the lot.’

She snatched it from him and studied it. ‘Jesus, Grant.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to...’

She handed back the phone, knowing damned well what he’d wanted: to show off his latest gadget.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked.

‘I think I’ve cracked it.’

She stared at him. ‘Again?’ He shrugged. ‘How come you always wait till late at night?’

‘Maybe that’s when I do my best thinking.’ He glanced up at the tenement. ‘So are you going to invite me in, or do we go on giving the neighbours a free show?’

She looked around. It was true that heads were silhouetted at a couple of windows. ‘Come on then,’ she said.

Upstairs, the first thing she did was check the laptop, but Quizmaster hadn’t replied.

‘I think you scared him off,’ Hood said, reading the onscreen dialogue.

Siobhan fell on to the sofa and picked up her glass. ‘So what have you got for us tonight, Einstein?’

‘Ah, that famous Edinburgh hospitality,’ Hood said, eyeing the glass.

‘You’re driving.’

‘One glass can’t hurt.’

Siobhan got up again, uttering a slight groan of protest, and headed for the kitchen. Hood reached into the bag he’d brought with him and started pulling out maps and guidebooks.

‘What have you got there?’ Siobhan asked, handing him a tumbler and starting to pour. She sat down, drained her own glass, refilled it, and placed what was left of the bottle on the floor.

‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’ He was teasing her — or trying to. But she wasn’t in the mood.

‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’

‘Well... if you’re absolutely sure I’m not...’ Her glare brought him up short. He stared down at the maps. ‘I got thinking about what that lawyer said.’

‘Harriet?’ Siobhan frowned. ‘She said hills are sometimes called laws.’

Hood nodded. ‘“Scots Law”,’ he recited. ‘Meaning maybe we’re looking for a word that means the same thing law does in Scots.’

‘Which would be...?’

Hood unfolded a sheet of paper and started to read aloud. ‘Hill, heights, bank, brae, ben, fell, tor...’ He turned the sheet towards her. ‘The thesaurus is full of them.’

She took the paper from him and started reading the list for herself. ‘We went through all the maps,’ she complained.

‘But we didn’t know what we were looking for. Some of the guides have hills and mountains indexed at the back. For the rest, we check grid reference B4 on each page.’

‘Looking for what exactly?’

‘Deer Hill, Stag’s Brae, Doe Bank...’

Siobhan nodded. ‘You’re assuming “sounds dear” means “d-e-e-r”?’

Hood took a sip of wine. ‘I’m assuming a lot. But it’s better than nothing.’

‘And it couldn’t wait till morning?’

‘Not when Quizmaster suddenly decides we’re against the clock.’ Hood picked up the first map-book and flicked to the index.

Siobhan studied him over the top of her glass. Yes, she was thinking, but you didn’t know there was a time element until you got here. She was also still shaken by the way he’d e-mailed her by phone. She wondered just how mobile Quizmaster was. She’d given him her name, and the city where she worked. These days, how hard would it be for him to get an address? Five minutes on the Net would probably do it.

Hood didn’t seem to notice that she was still staring at him. Maybe he’s closer than you think, girl, Siobhan thought to herself.

After half an hour, she put on some music, a Mogwai EP, about as laid-back as the band ever got. She asked Hood if he wanted coffee. He was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. He had spread an Ordnance Survey map across his thighs and was studying one of the squares. He looked up at her and blinked, as though the lighting in the room was new to him.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

When she came back with the mugs, she told him about Ranald Marr. The look on his face changed to a scowl.

‘Keeping it a secret, were you?’

‘I thought it could wait till morning.’ Her answer didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he took his coffee from her with only a grunt of thanks. Siobhan could feel her anger rising again. This was her place, her home. What was he doing here anyway? Work was for the office, not her living room. How come he didn’t phone and tell her to go to his place? The more she thought about it, the more she realised that she really didn’t know Grant at all. She’d worked with him before; they’d been to parties, gone out drinking and for that one meal. She didn’t think he’d ever had a girlfriend. At St Leonard’s a few of the CID called him Go-Go Gadget, a reference to some TV cartoon. He was both a useful officer and a figure of amusement at the same time.

He wasn’t like her. He was nothing like her at all. And yet here she was sharing her free time with him. Here she was letting him turn that free time into yet more work.

She picked up another of the map books, Handy Road Atlas Scotland. The first page, square B4 was the Isle of Man. This really annoyed her for some reason: the Isle of Man wasn’t even in Scotland! The next page, B4 was in the Yorkshire Dales.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said out loud.

‘What is it?’

‘This map, it’s like Bonnie Prince Charlie won the war.’ She flipped to the next page, where B4 was the Mull of Kintyre, but the page after that her eyes fixed on the words ‘Loch Fell’. She studied the square more closely: the M74 motorway and the town of Moffat. She knew Moffat: a picture-postcard place with at least one good hotel, where she’d stopped once for lunch. At the top of square B4 she saw a small triangle, indicating a peak. The peak was called Hart Fell. It was eight hundred and eight metres high. She looked at Hood.

‘A hart’s a kind of deer, isn’t it?’

He got up off the floor, came and sat next to her. ‘Harts and hinds,’ he said. ‘The hart is the male.’

‘Why not a stag?’

‘Harts are older, I think.’ He studied the map, his shoulder touching Siobhan’s arm. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard work. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s the middle of nowhere.’

‘Maybe it’s coincidence,’ she suggested.

He nodded, but she could see he was convinced. ‘Square B4,’ he said. ‘A fell is another name for a law. A hart is a kind of deer...’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘No coincidence.’

Siobhan switched her TV on and pressed for Teletext.

‘What are you doing?’ Hood asked.

‘Checking the weather for tomorrow. No way I’m climbing Hart Fell in a gale.’

Rebus had dropped into St Leonard’s, gathered together the notes on the four cases: Glasgow, Dunfermline, Perth and Nairn.

‘All right, sir?’ one of the uniforms had asked.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

He’d had a few drinks, so what? Didn’t make him incapable. The taxi was waiting for him outside. Five minutes later, he was climbing the stairs to his flat. Another five after that, he was smoking a cigarette, drinking tea, and opening the first file. He sat in his chair by the window, his little oasis in the midst of chaos. He could hear a siren in the distance; sounded like an ambulance, hurtling along Melville Drive. He had photos of the four victims, culled from newspapers. They smiled at him in black and white. The snatch of poetry came back to him, and he knew all four shared the same characteristic.

They’d died because they’d been available.

He started pinning the photos to a large corkboard. He had a postcard, too, bought from the museum shop: three of the Arthur’s Seat coffins in close-up, surrounded by darkness. He turned the postcard over and read: ‘Carved wooden figures, with fabric clothing, in miniature coffins of pine, from a group found in a rocky niche on the north-eastern slopes of Arthur’s Seat, in June 1836.’ It struck him that the police of the time had probably been involved, which meant there might be paperwork somewhere. Then again, just how organised had the force been back then? He doubted there’d been anything like the modern CID. Probably they’d resorted to examining victims’ eyeballs, looking for images of the murderer. Not too far removed from the witchcraft which was one theory behind the dolls. Had witches ever plied their trade on Arthur’s Seat? These days, he suspected they’d get some sort of Enterprise Initiative.

He got up and put some music on. Dr John, The Night Tripper. Then back to the table, a fresh cigarette lit from the stub of the old. The smoke stung his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. When he opened them again, his vision was slow to focus. It was as if the photos of the four women were lying behind a layer of muslin. He blinked a couple of times, shook his head, trying to stave off weariness.

When he awoke a couple of hours later, he was still seated at the table, head resting on his arms. The photos were still there, too, restless faces which had invaded his dreams.

‘I wish I could help,’ he told them, getting up to go to the kitchen. He returned with a mug of tea, which he took over to the chair by the window. Here he was, getting through another night. So how come he didn’t feel like celebrating?