The Falls

8

Rebus and Jean Burchill were walking on Arthur’s Seat. It was a bright morning, but there was a cold breeze blowing. Some people said Arthur’s Seat looked like a lion about to spring. But to Rebus’s mind it more resembled an elephant or mammoth, with a great bulbous head, a dip towards the neck, and an expanse of torso.

‘It started life as a volcano,’ Jean was explaining, ‘same as Castle Rock. Later on there were farms and quarries, plus chapels.’

‘People used to come here for sanctuary, didn’t they?’ Rebus said, keen to show off what knowledge he had.

She nodded. ‘Debtors were banished here until they’d got their affairs in order. A lot of people think it’s named after King Arthur.’

‘You mean it isn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘More likely it’s Gaelic: Ard-na-Said, “Height of the Sorrows”.’

‘That’s a cheery name.’

She smiled. ‘The park’s full of them: Pulpit Rock, Powderhouse Corner.’ She looked at him. ‘Or how about Murder Acre and Hangman’s Crag?’

‘Where are they?’

‘Near Duddingston Loch and the Innocent Railway.’

‘Now that was named because they used horses instead of trains, right?’

She smiled again. ‘Could be. There are other theories.’ She pointed towards the loch. ‘Samson’s Ribs,’ she said. ‘The Romans had a fort there.’ She gave him a sly glance. ‘Maybe you didn’t think they got this far north?’

He shrugged. ‘History’s never been my strong point. Do we know where the coffins were found?’

‘The records from the time are vague. “The north-east range of Arthur’s Seat” is how the Scotsman put it. A small opening in a secluded outcrop.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve wandered all over and never found the spot. The other thing the Scotsman said was that the coffins were in two tiers, eight in each, and with a third tier just begun.’

‘Like whoever did it had more to add?’

She held her jacket around her; Rebus got the feeling it wasn’t just the wind making her shiver. He was thinking of the Innocent Railway. These days it was a walkway and cycle path. About a month back, someone had been mugged there. He didn’t suppose the story would do much to cheer up his companion. He could tell her about suicides, too, and syringes left by the side of the road. Although they were walking the same path, he knew they were in different places.

‘I’m afraid history’s about all I have to offer,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve asked around, but no one seems to remember anyone showing particular interest in the coffins, except for the occasional student or tourist. They were kept in a private collection for a time, then handed over to the Society of Antiquaries, who gave them to the Museum.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve not been very helpful, have I?’

‘A case like this, Jean, everything’s useful. If it doesn’t rule something in, it can help rule other things out.’

‘I get the feeling you’ve made that speech before.’

It was his turn to smile. ‘Maybe I have; doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. Are you free later on today?’

‘Why?’ She was playing with her new bracelet, the one she’d bought from Bev Dodds.

‘I’m taking our twentieth-century coffins to an expert. A bit of history might come in useful.’ He paused, looked out over Edinburgh. ‘Jesus, it’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?’

She studied him. ‘Are you saying that because you think I want to hear it?’

‘What?’

‘The other night, when I stopped on North Bridge, I got the feeling you weren’t impressed by the view.’

‘I look, but I don’t always see. I’m seeing now.’ They were on the hill’s west face, so not even half the city was spread below them. Climbing higher, Rebus knew he’d have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. But this was enough to be going on with: the spires and chimney-pots, crow-foot gables, with the Pentland Hills to the south and the Firth of Forth to the north, the Fife coastline visible beyond.

‘Maybe you are at that,’ she said. And, smiling, she leaned forward, going up on her toes so she could peck his cheek. ‘Best just to get that out of the way,’ she said quietly. Rebus nodded, couldn’t think of anything to say, until she shivered again and said she was getting cold.

‘There’s a café behind St Leonard’s,’ Rebus told her. ‘And I’m buying. Not out of altruism, you understand, but because I’ve a huge favour to ask.’

She burst out laughing, slapped her hand to her mouth and started apologising.

‘What did I say?’ he asked.

‘It’s just that Gill told me this would happen. She said if I stuck close to you, I’d have to be prepared for “the big favour”.’

‘Did she now?’

‘And she was right, wasn’t she?’

‘Not entirely. It’s a huge favour I’m asking for, not just a big one...’

Siobhan was wearing a vest, polo neck and pure wool V-neck jumper. She had an old pair of thick cords on, tucked at the ankles into two pairs of socks. She’d given her old hiking boots a bit of a polish, and they seemed fine. She hadn’t worn the Barbour in years, but couldn’t think of a better chance to use it. Additionally, she was wearing a bobble-hat, and carrying a pack containing an umbrella, her mobile, a bottle of water and a flask of sweetened tea.

‘Sure you’ve got enough gear?’ Hood laughed. He was wearing jeans and trainers. His yellow cagoule looked brand new. He angled his face to the sun, so that the rays reflected off his sunglasses. They’d parked the car in a lay-by. There was a fence to climb, and after that a gently sloping field which then angled abruptly. The steep gradient was barren, except for occasional whin-bushes and rocks.

‘What do you reckon?’ Hood asked. ‘An hour to the top?’

Siobhan slipped the backpack over her shoulders. ‘With a bit of luck.’

Sheep watched them as they climbed the fence. There was a strand of barbed wire running along it, marked with tufts of grey wool. Hood gave Siobhan a foot up, then leaped over, using his hand on the fence-post for purchase.

‘Not a bad day for it,’ he said, as they started to climb. ‘Reckon Flip would have done this on her ownio?’

‘I don’t know,’ Siobhan conceded.

‘I wouldn’t have said she was the type. She’d have taken one look at this climb and got back into her Golf GTi.’

‘Except she didn’t have a car.’

‘Good point. So how would she have got out here in the first place?’

Which was another good point: they really were in the middle of nowhere, with towns few and far between and only the odd cottage or farm giving signs of habitation. They were only forty miles from Edinburgh, but the city seemed already a distant memory. Siobhan guessed that few buses came this route. If Flip had come here, she’d have needed help.

‘Maybe a taxi,’ she said.

‘Not the sort of fare you’d forget.’

‘No.’ Yet despite a public appeal, and plenty of photos of Flip in the papers, no taxi driver had come forward. ‘Maybe a friend then, someone we haven’t traced yet.’

‘Could be.’ But Hood sounded sceptical. She noticed that he was already breathing hard. A couple of minutes later, he’d shed the cagoule and folded it, tucking it beneath his arm.

‘Don’t know how you can wear that lot,’ he complained. She pulled the bobble-hat from her head and unzipped the Barbour.

‘Is that better?’ she said.

He just shrugged.

Eventually, on the steeper climb, they were reduced to scrabbling with their hands while their feet sought purchase, the stony soil crumbling and sliding away beneath them. Siobhan stopped to rest, sitting down with her knees up, heels digging in. She took a swig of water.

‘Is that you wabbit already?’ Hood said, ten or so feet above her. She offered him the bottle, but he shook his head and started climbing again. She could see sweat shining in his hair.

‘It’s not a race, Grant,’ she called out. He didn’t reply. After another half-minute, she turned round and followed him. He was moving away from her. So much for team work, she thought. He was like a lot of men she’d known: driven, and yet probably unable to put the reasons into words. It was more in the way of an instinct, a basic need, going beyond the rational.

The climb was levelling off a little. Hood stood up, hands on his hips, admiring the view as he rested. Siobhan watched as he bent his head and tried to spit, but his saliva was too viscous. It hung in a strand from his mouth, refusing to drop. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away. Catching up with him, she handed him the bottle.

‘Here,’ she said. He looked like he might refuse, but eventually took a mouthful. ‘It’s clouding over.’ Siobhan was interested in the sky rather than the view. The clouds were thick and blackening. Funny how the weather could change so suddenly in Scotland. The temperature must have dropped three or four degrees, perhaps more. ‘Maybe a shower,’ she said. Hood just nodded, handing back the bottle.

She looked at her watch and saw that they’d been climbing for twenty minutes. That meant they were maybe fifteen from the car, reckoning the descent quicker than the climb. Peering upwards, she guessed they had another fifteen or twenty minutes to go. Hood expelled breath noisily.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Good exercise,’ he said hoarsely. Then he began climbing again. There were damp patches on the back of his dark blue sweatshirt. Any minute now he’d probably take it off, and be clad only in a T-shirt as the weather turned. Sure enough, he paused to pull the sweatshirt over his head.

‘It’s getting cold,’ she warned him.

‘But I’m not.’ He tied the arms of the sweatshirt around his waist.

‘At least put your cagoule back on.’

‘I’ll bake.’

‘No you won’t.’

He seemed ready to argue, then changed his mind. Siobhan had already zipped up her Barbour again. The countryside around them was growing less visible, either low cloud or mist. Or maybe showers blowing in.

Five minutes on, the rain began. Drizzle at first, and then a smattering of big drops. Siobhan put her hat back on, and watched Grant pull his hood up. It was getting windy, too, gusts cutting across them. Grant lost his footing and went down on one knee, cursing. For the next few dozen steps he was limping, clutching at his leg with one hand.

‘Do you want to wait?’ she asked, knowing what his answer would be: silence.

The rain grew heavier, but in the distance the sky was already clearing. It wouldn’t last long. All the same, Siobhan’s legs were soaked, her trousers sticking to her. Grant’s trainers were making squelching sounds. He had switched to auto-pilot, his eyes staring, nothing at all on his mind except reaching the summit, whatever it took.

As they clambered up the last steep incline, the land levelled off. They’d reached the summit. The rain was easing. Twenty feet away stood a cairn. Siobhan knew that sometimes hill-walkers added a rock or stone each time they ended a climb. Maybe that was how this cairn had come into being.

‘What, no restaurant?’ Grant said, crouching down to get his breath back. The rain had stopped, a shaft of sunshine splitting the clouds and bathing the hills around in an eerie yellow glow. He was shivering, but the rain had been pouring off his cagoule and on to his sweatshirt, soaking it. No use putting it on now. His denims had changed colour to a darker, dampened blue.

‘Hot tea, if you want it,’ Siobhan said. He nodded and she poured him a cup. He sipped at it, studying the cairn.

‘Are we scared what we’ll find?’ he said.

‘Maybe we won’t find anything.’

He conceded as much with a nod. ‘Go look,’ he told her. So she screwed the top back on the flask and approached the cairn, walked round it. Just a pile of stones and pebbles. ‘There’s nothing here,’ she said. She got down on her haunches to take a closer look.

‘There must be.’ Grant rose to his feet, walked towards her. ‘There’s got to be.’

‘Well, whatever it is, it’s well hidden.’

He touched a foot to the cairn, then gave a push, toppling it. Dropped to his knees, running his hands through the debris. His face was screwed up, teeth bared. Soon the pile of stones was completely flattened. Siobhan had lost interest in it, was looking around for other possibilities, seeing none. Grant thrust a hand into his cagoule pocket, pulling out the two plastic evidence bags he’d brought. She watched him stuff them under the largest rock, then begin building the cairn again. It didn’t get very high before it started to fall down.

‘Leave it, Grant,’ Siobhan said.

‘Useless piece of shit!’ he cried out. She couldn’t be sure who or what his words were aimed at.

‘Grant,’ she said quietly. ‘Weather’s closing in again. Let’s head back.’

He seemed reluctant to go. He sat on the ground, legs stretched out, arms behind him to support himself.

‘We got it wrong,’ he said, almost in tears. Siobhan was looking at him, knowing she needed to coax him back down the hill. He was wet and cold and losing it. She crouched in front of him.

‘I need you to be strong, Grant,’ she said, her hands on his knees. ‘You go to pieces on me, and that’s it finished. We’re a team, remember?’

‘A team,’ he echoed. Siobhan was nodding.

‘So let’s act like a team and get our arses off this hill.’

He was staring at her hands. He reached out with his own, wrapping them around hers. She started to rise, pulling him with her. ‘Come on, Grant.’ They were both up on their feet now, and his eyes weren’t moving from her.

‘Remember what you said?’ he asked. ‘When we were trying to get parked near Victoria Street?’

‘What?’

‘You asked why I always had to play by the rules...’

‘Grant...’ She tried for a look that was sympathetic rather than pitying. ‘Let’s not spoil it,’ she said quietly, trying to slide her hands out from his grip.

‘Spoil what?’ he asked hollowly.

‘We’re a team,’ she repeated.

‘That’s it?’

He was staring at her as she nodded. She kept nodding and he slowly released her hands. Siobhan turned to move away, start the descent. She hadn’t gone five paces when Grant flew past her, bounding down the slope like a man possessed. He lost his footing once or twice but bounced straight back up again.

‘Tell me those aren’t hailstones!’ he called out at one point. But they were: stinging Siobhan’s face as she tried to catch up. Then Grant caught his cagoule on the barbed wire as he hurdled the fence, ripping its seam. He was swearing and red-faced as he helped Siobhan over. They got into the car and just sat there for a full minute, getting their breath back. The windscreen started steaming up, so Siobhan slid her window down. The hail had stopped. The sun was coming out again.

‘Bloody Scottish weather,’ Grant spat. ‘Is it any wonder we’ve a chip on our shoulder?’

‘Have we? I hadn’t noticed.’

He snorted, but smiled too. Siobhan looked at him, hoping it was going to be all right between them. The way he was acting, it was as if nothing had happened up there on the summit. She took off her Barbour and tossed it into the back. Grant slipped the cagoule over his head. There was steam rising from his T-shirt. From beneath the seat, Siobhan retrieved the laptop and plugged her mobile into it, booting the machine up. The mobile’s signal was weak, but it would do.

‘Tell him he’s a bastard,’ Grant said.

‘I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear it.’ Siobhan started typing a message, Grant leaning over to watch.

Just been up Hart Fell. No sign of next clue. Did I get it wrong?

She pressed ‘send’ and waited, pouring herself a cup of tea. Grant was trying to prise his denims away from his skin. ‘Soon as we get moving, I’ll put the heater on.’ She nodded, offered him some more tea, which he took. ‘What time’s the meeting with the banker?’

She checked her watch. ‘We’ve a couple of hours. Time enough to go home and get changed.’

Grant looked at the screen. ‘He’s not there, is he?’

Siobhan shrugged, and Grant turned the Alfa’s ignition. They drove in silence, the weather clearing ahead of them. It soon became clear that the rain had been localised. By Innerleithen, the road was bone dry.

‘I wonder if we should have taken the A701,’ Grant mused. ‘Might have made for a shorter climb, the west side of the hill.’

‘Doesn’t matter now,’ Siobhan said. She could see that in his mind he was still on Hart Fell. The laptop suddenly announced that there was post. She clicked, but it was an invitation to visit a porn site. ‘That’s not the first of those I’ve had,’ she informed Grant. ‘Makes me wonder what you got up to with your computer.’

‘They pick names at random,’ he said, his neck reddening. ‘I think they have some kind of system that tells them when you’re online.’

‘I’ll believe you,’ she said.

‘It’s true!’ His voice was rising.

‘Okay, okay. I really do believe you.’

‘I’d never do that, Siobhan.’

She nodded, but kept quiet. They had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh when the next message was announced. This time it was Quizmaster. Grant pulled up on to the verge and stopped the car.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Take a look.’ Siobhan angled the laptop towards him. They were a team, after all...

Hart Fell is all I needed. You didn’t need to climb it.

‘Bastard,’ Grant hissed.

Siobhan typed her response. Did Flip know that? There was nothing for a couple of minutes, then: You’re two moves away from Hellbank. Clue follows in approximately ten minutes. You have twenty-four hours to solve it. Do you wish to continue the game?

Siobhan looked at Grant. ‘Tell him yes,’ he said.

‘Not yet.’ When he looked at her, she held his gaze. ‘I think maybe he needs us as much as we need him.’

‘Can we risk that?’

But she was already typing: Need to know — did Flip have help? Who else was playing?

His response was immediate: Last time of asking. Do you wish to continue?

‘We don’t want to lose him,’ Grant warned.

‘He knew I’d climb that hill. Probably the way he knew Flip wouldn’t.’ Siobhan chewed her bottom lip. ‘I think we can push him a bit further.’

‘We’re two clues away from Hellbank. That’s as far as Flip got.’

Siobhan nodded slowly, then began to type: Continue to next level, but please, just tell me if Flip had anyone helping her.

Grant sat back and sucked in his breath. Nothing came back. Siobhan checked her watch. ‘He said ten minutes.’

‘You like to gamble, don’t you?’

‘What’s life without a bit of risk?’

‘A much pleasanter, less stressful experience.’

She looked at him. ‘This from the boy racer.’

He wiped the windscreen clear of condensation. ‘If Flip didn’t need to climb Hart Fell, I wonder if she needed to do any travelling at all. I mean, could she have solved the puzzle from her bedroom?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning she wouldn’t have gone anywhere that would have got her into trouble.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Maybe the next clue will tell us.’

‘If there is a next clue.’

‘You gotta have faith,’ she sang.

‘That’s just what faith is to me: a song by George Michael.’

The laptop told them there was a message. Grant leaned over again to read it.

A corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended.

While they were still taking it in, another message arrived: I don’t think Flipside had any help. Is anyone helping you, Siobhan?

She typed ‘No’ and pressed ‘send’.

‘Why don’t you want him to know?’ Grant asked.

‘Because he might change the rules, or even take the huff. He says Flip was on her own, I want him to think the same about me.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that a problem?’

Grant thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘So what does the latest clue mean?’

‘I haven’t the faintest. I don’t suppose you’re a Mason?’

He shook his head again. ‘Never quite got round to joining. Any idea where we might find one?’

Siobhan smiled. ‘In the Lothian and Borders Police? I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble...’

The coffins had turned up at St Leonard’s, as had the autopsy notes. There was just the one small problem: the Falls coffin was now in the possession of Steve Holly. Bev Dodds had given it to him so it could be photographed. Rebus decided he’d have to visit Holly’s office. He grabbed his jacket and walked across to the desk opposite, where Ellen Wylie was looking bored as Donald Devlin pored over the contents of a slim manila file.

‘I have to go out,’ he explained.

‘Lucky you. Need any company?’

‘Look after Professor Devlin. I won’t be long.’

Devlin looked up. ‘And where are your peregrinations taking you?’

‘There’s a reporter I need to talk to.’

‘Ah, our much-derided fourth estate.’

The way Devlin talked, it was getting on Rebus’s nerves. And he wasn’t alone, if Wylie’s look was anything to go by. She always sat with her chair as far from the Professor as possible, on opposite sides of the desk if she could manage it.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he tried to reassure her, but as he walked away he knew her eyes were following him all the way to the door.

Another thing about Devlin: he was almost too keen. Being useful again had taken years off him. He relished the autopsy reports, reciting passages aloud, and whenever Rebus was busy or trying to concentrate, you could be sure Devlin had some question to ask. Not for the first time, Rebus cursed Gates and Curt. Wylie herself had summed it up by way of a question to Rebus: ‘Remind me,’ she’d asked, ‘is he helping us or are we helping him? I mean, if I’d wanted to be a care assistant, I’d have applied to an old folk’s home...’

In his car, Rebus tried not to count the number of pubs he passed on his route into town.

The Glasgow tabloid had its office on the top floor of a Queen Street conversion a few doors along from the BBC. Rebus chanced his luck, parked on a single yellow line outside. The main door was wedged open, so he climbed the three flights and pulled open a glass-panelled door leading to a cramped reception area where a woman working a switchboard smiled at him as she answered the latest call.

‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day. Do you have his mobile number?’ Her short blonde hair was tucked behind both ears. She wore a black headset consisting of earpiece and microphone. ‘Thank you,’ she said, terminating the call, only to press a button to take another. She didn’t look at Rebus, but held up a finger telling him he hadn’t been forgotten. He looked around for somewhere to sit, but there were no chairs, just an exhausted-looking cheese plant in a pot it was fast outgrowing.

‘I’m afraid he’s out for the day,’ she told the new caller. ‘Do you have his mobile number?’ She gave this number, then terminated the call.

‘Sorry about that,’ she told Rebus.

‘That’s okay. I’m here to see Steve Holly, but I have the feeling I know what you’re going to say.’

‘He’s out for the day, I’m afraid.’

Rebus nodded.

‘Do you have his—’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Was he expecting you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m here to pick up the doll, if he’s finished with it.’

‘Ooh, that thing.’ She made a show of shivering. ‘He left it on my chair this morning. Steve’s idea of a laugh.’

‘The hours must fly.’

She smiled again, enjoying this little conspiracy against her colleague. ‘I think it’s in his cubicle.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Photos all done?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then maybe I could...?’ He pointed a thumb towards where he guessed Holly’s cubicle might be.

‘Don’t see why not.’ The switchboard was sounding again.

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Rebus said, turning round as if he knew exactly where he was going.

It was easy enough. There were only four ‘cubicles’: desks separated by free-standing partition walls. No one was working in any of them. The small coffin was sitting next to Holly’s keyboard, a couple of test Polaroids lying on top. Rebus congratulated himself: this was best-case-scenario stuff. If Holly had been here, there’d have been questions to parry, maybe a bit of grief. He took the opportunity to give the work-space a once-over. Phone numbers and news clippings pinned to the walls, a two-inch-high Scooby Doo stuck to the top of the monitor. A Simpsons desk calendar, covered with doodles, on a page three weeks out of date. A memo recorder, its battery compartment open and empty. There was a newspaper headline taped to the side of the monitor: ‘Super Cally Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious’. Rebus had a little smile: it was a modern classic, referred to a football match. Maybe Holly was a Rangers fan, maybe he just appreciated a joke. As he was about to leave, he noticed Jean’s name and phone number on the wall near the desk. He tore it down and pocketed it, then saw other numbers beneath... his own, plus Gill Templer’s. Beneath these were other names: Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Ellen Wylie. The reporter had home numbers for Templer and Clarke. Rebus couldn’t know if Holly had copies, but he decided to take the lot with him.

Outside, he tried Siobhan’s mobile, but got a recording saying his call couldn’t be connected. There was a ticket on his car, no sign of the warden. They were known around town as ‘Blue Meanies’ because of their uniform. Rebus, probably the only person who’d seen Yellow Submarine in the cinema without benefit of drugs, appreciated the name, but cursed the ticket anyway, stuffing it in his glove compartment. He smoked a cigarette on the crawl back to St Leonard’s. So many of the streets now, you couldn’t go the way you wanted. Unable to take a left on to Princes Street, and with traffic stalled at Waverley Bridge due to roadworks, he ended up taking The Mound, turning off down Market Street. He had Janis Joplin on the stereo, ‘Buried Alive in the Blues’. Had to be better than a living death on Edinburgh’s roads.

Back at the office, Ellen Wylie looked like she could sing some blues of her own.

‘Fancy a little trip?’ Rebus asked.

She perked up. ‘Where?’

‘Professor Devlin, you’re invited too.’

‘Sounds most intriguing.’ He wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, but a V-neck jumper, sagging beneath the arms but too short at the back. ‘Would this be some sort of mystery tour?’

‘Not exactly. We’re visiting a funeral parlour.’

Wylie stared at him. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

But Rebus shook his head, pointing towards the coffins arranged on his desk. ‘If you want an expert opinion,’ he said, ‘you need to ask an expert.’

‘Self-evidently,’ Devlin agreed.

The undertaker’s was a short walk from St Leonard’s. Last time Rebus had been in a funeral parlour was when his father had died. He’d walked forward, touched the old man’s forehead, the way his father had taught him when his mother had died: if you touch them, Johnny, you’ll never need fear the dead. Somewhere in the city, Conor Leary was settling into his own box. Death and taxes: shared by everyone. But Rebus had known some criminals who’d never paid a bawbee’s tax in their life. It didn’t matter: when the time was right, their box was still waiting.

Jean Burchill was already there. She rose from the chair in the reception area, as if glad of some company. The mood was sombre, despite the sprays of fresh-cut flowers. Idly, Rebus wondered if they got a discount from whoever did their wreaths. The walls were wood-panelled, and there was a faint smell of furniture polish. The brass doorhandles gleamed. Underfoot, the floor was tiled with marble, black and white squares like a chessboard. Rebus made the introductions. While shaking Jean’s hand, Devlin asked, ‘And what is it exactly that you curate?’

‘Nineteenth-century,’ she explained. ‘Belief systems, social concerns...’

‘Ms Burchill is helping us form a historical perspective,’ Rebus said.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Devlin looked to her for help.

‘I put together the display of the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

Devlin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, but how fascinating! And there may be some correlation with the current spate?’

‘I’m not sure you could call it a “spate”,’ Ellen Wylie argued. ‘Five coffins over a thirty-year period.’

Devlin seemed taken aback. Perhaps he wasn’t often pulled up for his vocabulary. He gave Wylie a look, then turned to Rebus. ‘But is there some historical connection?’

‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.’

The inner door opened and a man appeared. He was in his fifties, dressed in dark suit, crisp white shirt, and grey shimmering tie. His hair was short and silver, his face long and pale.

‘Mr Hodges?’ Rebus asked. The man acknowledged as much with a bow. Rebus shook his hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ Rebus introduced the others.

‘It was,’ Mr Hodges said in a near-whisper, ‘one of the more remarkable requests I’ve received. However, Mr Patullo is waiting for you in my office. Would you care for any tea?’

Rebus assured him they’d be fine, and asked if Hodges would lead the way.

‘As I explained on the phone, Inspector, these days the majority of coffins are made along what could be described as an assembly-line process. Mr Patullo is that rare woodworker who will still produce a casket to order. We’ve been using his services for years, certainly for as long as I’ve been with the firm.’ The hall they trooped along was wood-panelled like the reception area, but with no exterior lighting. Hodges opened a door and ushered them inside. The office was spacious, completely lacking in clutter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected: displays of bereavement cards, brochures for coffins maybe. But the only clue that this office belonged to an undertaker was the very lack of any outward clues. It went beyond discretion. The clients who came in here didn’t want reminding of the visit’s purpose, and Rebus didn’t suppose it made the undertaker’s job any easier if people were bursting into tears every two minutes.

‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Hodges said, closing the door. He’d arranged enough seats for them, but Patullo was standing beside the opaque window. He carried a flat tweed cap, the brim of which he worried between the fingers of both hands. The fingers themselves were gnarled, the skin like parchment. Rebus reckoned Patullo had to be in his mid-seventies. He still had a good head of thick silver hair, and his eyes were clear, if wary. But he held himself with a stoop, and his hand trembled when Rebus made to shake it.

‘Mr Patullo,’ he said, ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to meet us.’

Patullo shrugged, and Rebus made one more round of introductions before telling everyone to sit down. He had the coffins in a carrier bag, and brought them out now, laying them on the unblemished surface of Mr Hodges’s desk. There were four of them — Perth, Nairn, Glasgow, plus the more recent one from Falls.

‘I’d like you to take a look, please,’ Rebus said, ‘and tell us what you see.’

‘I see some wee coffins.’ Patullo’s voice was hoarse.

‘I meant in terms of craftsmanship.’

Patullo reached into his pocket for his glasses, then got up and stood in front of the display.

‘Pick them up if you like,’ Rebus said. Patullo did so, examining the lids and the dolls, peering closely at the nails.

‘Carpet tacks and small wood nails,’ he commented. ‘The joints are a bit rough, but working to this scale...’

‘What?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t expect to see anything as detailed as a dovetail.’ He went back to his examination. ‘You want to know if a coffin-maker made these?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t think so. There’s a bit of skill here, but not that much. The proportions are wrong, the shape’s too much of a diamond.’ He turned each coffin over to examine its underside. ‘See the pencil marks here where he made his outline?’ Rebus nodded. ‘He measured up, then he cut with a saw. Didn’t do any planing, just some sandpaper.’ He looked at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘You want to know if they’re all by the same hand?’

Again, Rebus nodded.

‘This one’s a bit cruder,’ Patullo said, holding up the Glasgow coffin. ‘Different wood, too. The rest are pine, this is balsa. But the joints are the same, as are the measurements.’

‘So you think it’s the same person?’

‘As long as my life didn’t depend on it.’ Patullo picked up another coffin. ‘Now this one, the proportions are different. Joints aren’t so tidy. Either a rushed job, or my guess would be it’s by someone else.’

Rebus looked at the coffin. It was the one from Falls.

‘So we’ve got two different people responsible?’ Wylie said. When Patullo nodded, she blew air from her mouth and rolled her eyes. Two culprits made for twice the work, and halved the chance of getting a result.

‘A copycat?’ Rebus guessed.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Patullo admitted.

‘Which brings us to...’ Jean Burchill dipped a hand into her shoulder-bag, produced a box, which she opened. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was one of the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Rebus had asked her to bring it, and she made eye contact with him now, letting him know what she’d already told him in the café: that she was putting her job on the line. If it was discovered that she’d sneaked an artefact out of the Museum, or if anything happened to it... she’d be dismissed on the spot. Rebus nodded his head, letting her know he understood. She got up and placed the coffin on the desk.

‘It’s rather delicate,’ she told Patullo. Devlin, too, had risen to his feet, and Wylie wanted a better look also.

‘My goodness,’ Devlin gasped, ‘is that what I think it is?’

Jean just nodded. Patullo didn’t pick the coffin up, but bent down so his eyes were close to the level of the desk.

‘What we’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘is whether you think the coffins you’ve just looked at could be modelled on this.’

Patullo rubbed his cheek. ‘This is a much more basic design. Still well made, but the sides are a lot straighter. It’s not the casket shape we’d recognise today. The lid has been decorated with iron studs.’ He rubbed his cheek again, then straightened up, gripping the edge of the desk for support. ‘They’re not copies of it. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’

‘I’ve never seen one outside the Museum,’ Devlin said, shuffling forward so he could take Patullo’s place. He beamed at Jean Burchill. ‘You know, I have a theory as to who made them.’

Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

Devlin turned his attention to Rebus. ‘You remember that portrait I showed you? Dr Kennet Lovell?’ When Rebus nodded, Devlin turned back to Jean. ‘He was the anatomist who carried out Burke’s autopsy. Afterwards, I think he carried a weight of guilt over the whole affair.’

Jean was interested. ‘Had he been buying corpses from Burke?’

Devlin shook his head. ‘There’s no historical indication that such was the case. But like many an anatomist of the day, he probably bought his share of bodies without asking too many questions as to provenance. The thing is,’ Devlin licked his lips, ‘our Dr Lovell was also interested in carpentry.’

‘Professor Devlin,’ Rebus told Jean, ‘owns a table he made.’

‘Lovell was a good man,’ Devlin was saying, ‘and a good Christian.’

‘He left them to commemorate the dead?’ Jean asked.

Devlin shrugged, glanced around. ‘I’ve no evidence, of course...’ His voice tailed off, as though he realised his animation maybe looked foolish.

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Jean conceded, but Devlin only shrugged again, as though realising he was being patronised.

‘Like I say, it’s well enough made,’ Patullo commented.

‘There are other theories,’ Jean said. ‘Maybe witches or sailors made the Arthur’s Seat coffins.’

Patullo nodded. ‘Sailors used to be good woodworkers. In some cases it was a necessity, for others it passed a long voyage.’

‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘thanks again for your time, Mr Patullo. Can we get someone to drive you home?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

They said their goodbyes, and Rebus directed his party to the Metropole café, where they ordered coffees and squeezed into one of the booths.

‘One step forward, two steps back,’ Wylie said.

‘How do you reckon?’ Rebus asked.

‘If there’s no connection between the other coffins and the one at Falls, we’re chasing a wild goose.’

‘I don’t see that,’ Jean Burchill interrupted. ‘I mean, maybe I’m speaking out of turn here, but it seems to me whoever left that coffin at Falls had to get the idea from somewhere.’

‘Agreed,’ Wylie said, ‘but it’s far more likely they got it from a trip to the Museum, wouldn’t you say?’

Rebus was looking at Wylie. ‘You’re saying we should ditch the four previous cases?’

‘I’m saying their only relevance here is if they connect to the Falls coffin, always supposing it has anything to do with the Balfour disappearance. And we can’t even be sure of that.’ Rebus started to say something, but she hadn’t finished. ‘If we go to DCS Templer with this — as we should — she’ll say the same thing I’m saying now. We’re getting further and further away from the Balfour case.’ She raised her cup to her lips and sipped.

Rebus turned to Devlin, who was sitting next to him. ‘What do you think, Professor?’

‘I’m forced to agree, reluctant though I am to be cast back into the darkness of an old man’s retirement.’

‘There was nothing in the autopsy notes?’

‘Nothing as yet. It looks very much as if both women were alive when they went into the water. Both bodies sustained some injuries, but that’s not so unusual. The river would have rocks in it, so that the victim may have hit her head when falling. As to the victim in Nairn, the tides and sealife can do terrible things to a body, especially one that’s been in the water for some time. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

‘Everything’s useful,’ Jean Burchill said. ‘If it doesn’t rule something in, it can help rule other things out.’

She looked to Rebus, hoping he might smile at hearing his own words paraphrased, but his mind was elsewhere. He was worried Wylie was right. Four coffins left by the same person, one by someone completely different, no connection between the two. The problem was, he felt there was a connection. But it wasn’t something he could make someone like Wylie comprehend. There were times when instinct had to take over, no matter what the protocol. Rebus felt this was one of those times, but doubted Wylie would go along with it.

And he couldn’t blame her for that.

‘Maybe if you could give the notes a final look,’ he asked Devlin.

‘Gladly,’ the old man said, bowing his head.

‘And talk to the pathologists from either case. Sometimes they remember things...’

‘Absolutely.’

Rebus turned his attention to Ellen Wylie. ‘Maybe you should make your report to DCS Templer. Tell her what we’ve done. I’m sure there’s work for you on the main investigation.’

She straightened her back. ‘Meaning you’re not giving up?’

Rebus gave a tired smile. ‘I’m close to. Just a couple more days.’

‘To do what exactly?’

‘Convince myself it’s a dead end.’

The way Jean looked at him across the table, he knew she wanted to offer him something, some form of comfort: a squeeze of the hand maybe, or a few well-intentioned words. He was glad there were other people present, making the gesture impossible. Otherwise he might have blurted something out, something about comfort being the last thing he needed.

Unless comfort and oblivion were the same thing.

Daytime drinking was special. In a bar, time ceased to exist, and with it the outside world. For as long as you stayed in the pub, you felt immortal and ageless. And when you stumbled back out from twilight into raging daylight, people all around you going about their afternoon’s business, the world had a new shine to it. After all, people had been doing the same damned thing for centuries: plugging the holes in their consciousness with alcohol. But today... today Rebus was just having the two drinks. He knew he could walk out after two. To stay for three or four would mean staying either until closing time or until he keeled over. But two... two was a manageable number. He smiled at that word: number, with its possible other meaning — that which made you numb. Comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd would say.

Vodka and fresh orange: not his first choice, but it didn’t leave a smell. He could walk back into St Leonard’s and no one would know. It was just that the world would seem a little softer to him. When his mobile sounded, he thought of ignoring it, but its trilling was disturbing the other drinkers, so he pushed the button.

‘Hello?’

‘Let me guess,’ the voice said. It was Siobhan.

‘In case you’re wondering, I’m not in a pub.’ Which was the cue for the young guy at the bandit to hit a big win, the coins disgorging noisily.

‘You were saying?’

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Do these excuses get any better?’

‘What do you want anyway?’

‘I need to pick a Mason’s brain.’

He misheard. ‘You need to pick “Amazing Grace”?’

‘A Mason. You know, funny handshakes, trousers rolled up.’

‘Can’t help. I failed the audition.’

‘But you must know a few?’

He thought about it. ‘What’s all this about anyway?’

So she told him the latest clue.

‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘How about the Farmer?’

‘Is he one?’

‘Going by his handshake.’

‘Do you think he’d mind me calling him?’

‘Quite the opposite.’ There was a pause. ‘Now you’re going to ask if I know his home number, and as it happens you’re in luck.’ He took out his notebook, recited the number.

‘Thanks, John.’

‘How’s it going anyway?’

‘Okay.’

Rebus detected a slight reticence. ‘Everything all right with Grant?’

‘Fine, yes.’

Rebus raised his eyes to the gantry. ‘He’s there with you, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Message received. We’ll talk later. Oh, hang on.’

‘What?’

‘You ever had anything to do with someone called Steve Holly?’

‘Who is he?’

‘A local hack.’

‘Oh, him. I think we might have talked once or twice.’

‘He ever call you at home?’

‘Don’t be daft. That’s one number I keep close to my chest.’

‘Funny, he has it pinned to the wall in his office.’ She didn’t say anything. ‘No idea how he could have come by it?’

‘I suppose there are ways. I’m not giving him tip-offs or anything, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘The only thing I’m implying, Siobhan, is that he needs watching. He’s as smooth as a fresh-laid turd and gives off the same smell.’

‘Charming. I’ve got to go.’

‘Yes, me too.’ Rebus cut the call and drained his second drink. Right, that was that then, time to call it a day. Except there was another race coming up on TV, and he had his eye on the chestnut, Long Day’s Journey. Maybe one more wouldn’t do any harm... Then his phone rang again, and, cursing, he pushed his way outdoors, squinting into the sudden light.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

‘That was a bit naughty.’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Steve Holly. We met at Bev’s house.’

‘Funny, I was just talking about you.’

‘Only, I’m glad we met that day, or I might not have been able to place you from Margot’s description.’ Margot: the blonde receptionist with the earpiece. Not enough of a conspirator to resist grassing Rebus up...

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Rebus. The coffin.’

‘I heard you’d finished with it.’

‘Is it evidence then?’

‘No, I was just returning it to Ms Dodds.’

‘I’ll bet. Something’s going on here.’

‘Bright boy. That “something” is a police investigation. In fact, I’m up to my eyes in it right now, so if you wouldn’t mind...’

‘Bev said something about all these other coffins...’

‘Did she? Maybe she misheard.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Holly waited, but Rebus wasn’t saying anything. ‘Fine,’ the journalist said into the silence. ‘We’ll talk later.’ We’ll talk later, the very words Rebus had used to Siobhan. For a split second, he wondered if Holly had been listening in. But it wasn’t possible. As the phone went dead, two things struck Rebus. One was that Holly hadn’t mentioned the phone numbers missing from his wall, so probably hadn’t noticed them yet. The other was that he’d just called Rebus on his mobile, meaning he knew the number. Normally, Rebus gave out his pager rather than his mobile. He wondered which he had given to Bev Dodds...

Balfour’s Bank wasn’t much like a bank at all. For a start, it was sited on Charlotte Square, one of the most elegant parts of the New Town. Shoppers queued grimly for non-existent buses outside, but inside was very different: thick carpets, an imposing staircase, and a huge chandelier, walls recently given a coat of startling white. There were no cashiers, no queues. Transactions were dealt with by three members of staff seated at their own desks, far apart so that discretion was assured. The staff were young and well dressed. Other customers sat in comfortable chairs, selecting newspapers and magazines from the coffee table as they waited to be ushered into one of the private rooms. The atmosphere was rarefied: this was a place where money wasn’t so much respected as worshipped. It reminded Siobhan of a temple.

‘What did he say?’ Grant Hood asked.

She slipped her mobile back into her pocket. ‘He thinks we should talk to the Farmer.’

‘Is that his number?’ Grant nodded towards Siobhan’s notebook.

‘Yes.’ She’d placed the letter F beside the number: F for Farmer. It made the various addresses and phone numbers in her notebook harder to identify, should the book fall into the wrong hands. She was annoyed that a journalist she barely knew should have access to her home number. Not that he’d called her there, but all the same...

‘Reckon anyone here has an overdraft?’ Grant asked.

‘The staff might. Not so sure about their clients.’

A middle-aged woman had come from behind one of the doors, closing it softly behind her. She made no noise at all as she walked towards them.

‘Mr Marr will see you now.’

They’d expected to be led back to the door, but instead the woman headed for the staircase. Her brisk pace kept her four or five steps ahead of them: no chance for conversation. At the end of the first-floor hall she knocked on a double set of doors and waited.

‘Enter!’ At which command she pushed open both the doors, gesturing for the two detectives to walk past her and into the room.

It was huge, with three floor-to-ceiling windows, covered by pale linen roller-blinds. There was a polished oak committee-table, laid with pens, notepads and water-jugs. It took up only a third of the available space. There was a seating area — sofa and chair, with a TV nearby showing stock-market fluctuations. Ranald Marr himself was standing behind his desk, a huge antique expanse of walnut. Marr, too, was burnished, his tan looking as though it had its roots in the Caribbean rather than a Nicolson Street sun-bed. He was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately barbered. His suit was a double-breasted pinstripe, almost certainly bespoke. He deigned to come forward to greet them.

‘Ranald Marr,’ he said unnecessarily. Then, to the woman: ‘Thank you, Camille.’

She closed the doors after her, and Marr gestured towards the sofa. The two detectives made themselves comfortable while Marr settled into the matching leather chair. He crossed one leg over the other.

‘Any news?’ he asked, his face turning solicitous.

‘Inquiries are progressing, sir,’ Grant Hood informed him. Siobhan tried not to look askance at her colleague: inquiries are progressing... she wondered which TV show Grant had picked that up from.

‘The reason we’re here, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, ‘is because it looks like Philippa was involved in some sort of role-playing game.’

‘Really?’ Marr looked puzzled. ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’

‘Well, sir,’ Grant said, ‘it’s just that we’ve heard you like to play those sorts of games, too.’

‘“Those sorts of...”?’ Marr clapped his hands together. ‘Oh, I know what you mean now. My soldiers.’ He frowned. ‘Is that what Flip was involved in? She never showed any interest...’

‘This is a game where clues are given and the player has to solve each one to reach a different level.’

‘Not the same thing at all.’ Marr slapped his knees and rose to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you.’ He went to his desk and took a key from a drawer. ‘This way,’ he said brusquely, opening the door to the hallway. He led them back to the top of the staircase, but climbed a narrower stairwell to the second storey. ‘Along here.’ As he walked, Siobhan noticed a slight limp. He disguised it well, but it was there. Probably he should have been using a stick, but she doubted his vanity would allow it. She caught wafts of eau-de-Cologne. No wedding ring on show. When he made to slip the key into a lock, she saw that his wristwatch was a complicated affair with a leather strap to match his tan.

He opened the door and preceded them inside. The window had been covered with a black sheet, and he switched on the overhead lights. The room was half the size of his office, much of the space taken up with something at table height. It was a model, maybe eighteen feet long by ten wide: green rolling hills, a blue strip of river. There were trees and ruined dwellings, and, covering much of the board, two armies. Several hundred soldiers, divided into regiments. The pieces themselves were less than an inch high, but the detail on each was painstaking.

‘I painted most of them myself. Tried to keep them all that little bit different, give them a personality.’

‘You re-enact battles?’ Grant said, picking up a cannon. Marr didn’t look happy at this transgression. He nodded, lifting the piece delicately from Grant with forefinger and thumb.

‘That’s what I do. War-gaming, you could call it.’ He placed the piece back on the board.

‘I went paintballing once,’ Grant told him. ‘Ever done that?’

Marr allowed the officer a thin smile. ‘We took the bank staff once. I can’t say I was keen: too much mess. But John enjoyed himself. He’s always threatening a return fixture.’

‘John being Mr Balfour?’ Siobhan guessed.

There was a shelf stacked with books: some on modelling, some about the battles themselves. Other shelves contained clear plastic boxes within which rested armies, waiting for their chance at victory.

‘Do you ever change the outcome?’ Siobhan asked.

‘That’s part of the strategy,’ Marr explained. ‘You figure out where the defeated side went wrong, and you try to alter history.’ There was a new passion in his voice. Siobhan walked over to where a seamstress’s dummy had been kitted out in uniform. There were other uniforms — some better preserved than others — mounted behind glass on the walls. No weapons of any kind, just the clothes the soldiers would have worn.

‘The Crimea,’ Marr said, pointing to one of the framed jackets.

Grant Hood interrupted with a question. ‘Do you play against other people?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘They come here?’

‘Never here, no. I have a much larger layout in the garage at my house.’

‘Then why do you need a set-up here?’

Marr smiled. ‘I find that it relaxes me, helps me think. And I do get the occasional break from the desk.’ He broke off. ‘You think it a childish hobby?’

‘Not at all,’ Siobhan said, only half truthfully. There was a certain ‘toys for the boys’ feel to it, and she could see the years dropping from Grant as he studied the little model armies. ‘Ever play any other way?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean?’

She shrugged, as if the question had been a casual inquiry merely, keeping the conversation going. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe moves sent by post. I’ve heard of chess players doing that. Or how about the Internet?’

Grant glanced at her, seeing her gist immediately.

‘I know of some Internet sites,’ Marr said. ‘You get one of those camera thingies.’

‘Web cams?’ Grant offered.

‘That’s it. Then you can play across continents.’

‘But you’ve never done that?’

‘I’m not the most technically gifted of people.’

Siobhan turned her attention back to the bookcase. ‘Ever heard of a character called Gandalf?’

‘Which one?’ She just looked at him. ‘I mean, I know at least two. The wizard in Lord of the Rings, and the rather odd chap who runs the games shop on Leith Walk.’

‘You’ve been to his shop then?’

‘I’ve bought a few pieces from him down the years. But I mostly buy mail order.’

‘And over the Internet?’

Marr nodded. ‘Once or twice, yes. Look, who was it exactly who told you about this?’

‘About you liking to play games?’ Grant asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s taken you a while to ask,’ Siobhan commented.

He glowered at her. ‘Well, I’m asking now.’

‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say.’

Marr didn’t like that, but refrained from making a comment. ‘Am I right in thinking,’ he said instead, ‘that whatever game it was Flip was playing, it was nothing like this?’

Siobhan shook her head. ‘Nothing at all like it, sir.’

Marr looked relieved. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ Grant asked.

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just... it’s proving such a terrible strain on all of us.’

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Siobhan said. Then, with a last expansive look around: ‘Well, thank you for letting us see your toys, Mr Marr. We’d better let you get back to work now...’ But having half turned away, she stopped again. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen soldiers like these somewhere before,’ she said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Maybe in David Costello’s flat?’

‘I think I did give David one piece,’ Marr said. ‘Was it him who...?’ He broke off, smiled and shook his head. ‘I forgot: you won’t be at liberty to say.’

‘Quite so, sir,’ Hood told him.

As they left the building, Grant started to chuckle. ‘He didn’t like it when you called them “toys”.’

‘I know, that’s why I said it.’

‘Don’t bother trying to open an account, I can see you being blackballed.’

She smiled. ‘He knows about the Internet, Grant. And playing those sorts of games, he’s probably got an analytical mind.’

‘Quizmaster?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, why would he do it? What’s in it for him?’

Grant shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing much... apart from control of Balfour’s Bank.’

‘Yes, there’s always that,’ Siobhan said. She was thinking about the playing piece in David Costello’s flat. A little gift from Ranald Marr... only Costello had said he’d no idea where it had come from, with its broken musket and the soldier’s head twisted round. Then he’d called her and told her about Marr’s little hobby...

‘Meantime,’ Grant was saying, ‘we’re no closer to solving the clue.’

He broke her train of thought. She turned towards him. ‘Just promise me one thing, Grant.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Promise you’re not going to turn up outside my flat at midnight.’

‘No can do,’ Grant said, smiling. ‘We’re against the clock, remember.’

She looked at him again, remembering the way he’d been on top of Hart Fell, the way he’d gripped her hands. Right now, he looked like he was enjoying himself — the chase, the challenge — just a little too much.

‘Promise,’ she said again.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Then he turned and gave her a wink.

Back at the station, Siobhan sat in a toilet cubicle and studied the hand which she’d brought up level with her eyes. The hand carried a slight tremble. It was curious how you could be quivering inside, yet manage not to show it. But she knew her body had other ways of manifesting outward signs: the rashes she sometimes got; the outbreaks of acne on her chin and neck; the eczema she sometimes suffered from on the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

She was trembling now because she was having trouble focusing on what was important. It was important to do the job well; important, too, not to piss off Gill Templer. She didn’t think her own hide was toughened the way Rebus’s was. The case was important, and maybe Quizmaster was too. It rankled that she couldn’t know for sure. She knew one thing: that the game was in danger of becoming an obsession. She kept trying to put herself in Flip Balfour’s shoes, to think along the same lines. She couldn’t be sure how well she was doing. Then there was Grant, who was looking more and more of a liability. Yet she couldn’t have come this far without him, so maybe it was important that she stay close to him. She couldn’t even be sure that Quizmaster was male. She had a gut feeling, but it was dangerous to depend on those: she’d seen Rebus screw up more than once on the strength of a gut feeling for someone’s guilt or innocence.

She still wondered about the liaison job, and whether she’d burned her bridges there. Gill had succeeded only by becoming more like the male officers around her, people like ACC Carswell. She probably thought she’d played the system, but Siobhan suspected that it was the system which had played her, moulding her, changing her, making sure she would fit in. It meant putting up barriers, keeping your distance. It meant teaching people lessons, people like Ellen Wylie.

She heard the door to the Ladies’ creak open. A moment later, there was a soft tapping on her cubicle door.

‘Siobhan? That you in there?’

She recognised the voice: Dilys Gemmill, one of the WPCs. ‘What’s up, Dilys?’ she called.

‘That drink tonight, wondered if you were still on.’

It was a regular thing: four or five WPCs, plus Siobhan. A bar with loud music, plenty of gossip to go with the Moscow Mules. Siobhan an honorary member: the only non-uniform ever invited.

‘I don’t think I can manage it, Dilys.’

‘Come on, girl...’

‘Next time for definite, okay?’

‘It’s your funeral,’ Gemmill said, moving away.

‘I hope not,’ Siobhan muttered to herself, getting up to unlock the door.

Rebus stood across the road from the church. He’d been home to change, but now that he was here he couldn’t make himself go in. A taxi drew up and Dr Curt stepped out. As he stopped to button his jacket, he saw Rebus. It was a small, local church, just as Leary had wanted. He’d said as much to Rebus several times during the course of their conversations.

‘Quick, clean and simple,’ he’d stated. ‘It’s the only way I’ll have it.’

The church might have been small, but the congregation looked large. The Archbishop, who’d attended the Scots College in Rome with Leary, would be leading the service, and what looked like dozens of priests and officiates had filed into the church already. ‘Clean’ it might be, but Rebus doubted the event would turn out either ‘quick’ or ‘simple’...

Curt was crossing the street. Rebus flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the roadway and slid his hands into his pockets. He noticed some ash clinging to his sleeve, but didn’t bother brushing it away.

‘Nice day for it,’ Curt commented, studying a sky which thick cloud had turned a bruised-looking grey. It felt claustrophobic, even outdoors. When Rebus brushed a hand across the back of his head he could feel the follicles coated with sweat. On afternoons like this, Edinburgh felt like imprisonment, a city of walls.

Curt was tugging at one of his shirt sleeves, making sure it came an inch below the jacket, exposing a hallmarked silver cuff-link. His suit was dark blue, the shirt white, his tie plain black. His black brogues had been given a polish. Always immaculately dressed. Rebus knew his own suit, though the best, the most formal he possessed, was shabby by comparison. He’d had it six, seven years, had sucked his gut in to get the trousers fastened. Hadn’t even bothered trying to button the jacket. Austin Reed he’d got it from; maybe it was time for another visit. He got few invites these days to weddings and christenings, but funerals were another matter. Colleagues, drinkers he knew... they were falling off the perch. Only three weeks back, he’d been to the crematorium, a woolly-suit from St Leonard’s who’d died less than a year after retiring. The white shirt and black tie had gone back on to the hanger afterwards. He’d checked the shirt collar this afternoon, before putting the shirt back on.

‘Shall we go in then?’ Curt said.

Rebus nodded. ‘You go ahead.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m just not sure...’ He took his hands from his pockets, busied himself with another cigarette. Offered one to Curt, who nodded and took it.

‘Not sure of what?’ the pathologist asked, as Rebus lit the cigarette for him. Rebus waited until he had his own one lit. A couple of puffs and then a loud exhaling of smoke.

‘I want to remember him the way he was to me,’ he said. ‘If I go in there, it’ll be speeches and other people’s memories. It won’t be the Conor I knew.’

‘The pair of you were pretty close at one time,’ Curt agreed. ‘I didn’t really know him that well.’

‘Is Gates coming?’ Rebus asked.

Curt shook his head. ‘Prior commitment.’

‘Did the pair of you do the autopsy?’

‘It was a brain haemorrhage.’

More mourners were arriving, some on foot, others by car. Another taxi drew up, and Donald Devlin got out. Rebus thought he spotted a grey cardigan beneath the suit jacket. Devlin took the church steps at a brisk pace and disappeared inside.

‘Was he able to help you?’ Curt asked.

‘Who?’

Curt nodded towards the departing taxi. ‘The old-timer.’

‘Not really. He gave it his best shot though.’

‘Then he did as much as Gates or I could have.’

‘I suppose so.’ Rebus was thinking of Devlin, picturing him at the desk, poring over details, Ellen Wylie keeping her distance. ‘He was married, wasn’t he?’ he asked.

Curt nodded again. ‘Widower. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, really.’

Curt looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stamped the cigarette out on the pavement. ‘Are you coming?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What about the cemetery?’

‘I think I’ll give that a miss too.’ Rebus looked up at the clouds. ‘What the Americans would call a rain-check.’

Curt nodded. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘Next time there’s a homicide,’ Rebus confirmed. Then he turned and walked away. His head was filling with images of the mortuary, the post-mortem examination. The wooden blocks they laid the deceased’s head on. The little channels on the table which drained away the body fluids. The instruments and specimen jars... He thought of the jars he’d seen in the Black Museum, the way horror had mixed with fascination. One day, maybe not too far away, he knew it would be him on that table, maybe Curt and Gates preparing their day’s routine. That was what he would be to them: part of the routine, just as another routine was being played out in the church behind him. He hoped some of it would be in Latin: Leary had been a great fan of the Latin mass, would recite whole passages to Rebus, knowing he couldn’t understand.

‘Surely in your day they taught Latin?’ he’d asked one time.

‘Maybe at the posh school,’ Rebus had replied. ‘Where I went, it was woodwork and metalwork.’

‘Turning out workers for the religion of heavy industry?’ And Leary had chuckled, the sound booming from deep within his chest. Those sounds were what Rebus would remember: the clucking of his tongue whenever he felt Rebus had said anything wantonly idiotic; the exaggerated groan whenever he rose to fetch more Guinness from the fridge.

‘Ah, Conor,’ Rebus said now, bowing his head so no passers-by would see the tears forming.

Siobhan was on the phone to the Farmer.

‘It’s good to hear from you, Siobhan.’

‘Actually, I’m after a favour, sir. Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet.’

‘There’s such a thing as too much peace and quiet, you know.’ The Farmer laughed, so she would assume he was joking, but she detected something behind his words.

‘It’s important to stay active.’ She almost winced: it sounded like something from an agony column.

‘That’s what they say all right.’ He laughed again: it sounded even more forced this time. ‘Which new hobby are you suggesting?’

‘I don’t know.’ Siobhan squirmed in her chair. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d expected. Grant Hood was sitting the other side of the desk. He’d borrowed John Rebus’s chair, which looked like the one from the Farmer’s old office. ‘Maybe golf?’

Now Grant frowned, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

‘I’ve always said golf spoils a good walk,’ the Farmer said.

‘Well, walking’s good for you.’

‘Is it? Thanks for reminding me.’ The Farmer definitely sounded tetchy; she didn’t know quite why or how she’d hit a nerve.

‘About this favour...?’ she began.

‘Yes, better ask it quick, before I get my jogging shoes on.’

‘It’s sort of a clue to a puzzle.’

‘You mean a crossword?’

‘No, sir. It’s something we’re working on. Philippa Balfour was trying to solve all these clues, so we’re doing the same.’

‘And how can I help?’ He’d calmed a little; sounded interested.

‘Well, sir, the clue goes: “a corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended”. We’re wondering if it might be “mason” as in “Masonic Lodge”.’

‘And someone told you I’m a Mason?’

‘Yes.’

The Farmer was quiet for a moment. ‘Let me get a pen,’ he said at last. Then he had her repeat the clue while he wrote it down. ‘Capital M on Mason?’

‘No, sir. Does that make a difference?’

‘I’m not sure. Usually I’d expect a capital.’

‘So it could be a stonemason or something instead?’

‘Hang on, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just need to think about it. Can you give me half an hour or so?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you at St Leonard’s?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Siobhan, you don’t need to call me “sir” any more.’

‘Understood... sir.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, can’t help it.’

The Farmer seemed to brighten a little. ‘Well, I’ll call you back after I’ve given this some thought. No nearer to finding out what happened to her?’

‘We’re all working flat out, sir.’

‘I’m sure you are. How’s Gill coping?’

‘In her element, I think.’

‘She could go all the way, Siobhan, mark my words. There’s a lot you could learn from Gill Templer.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll speak to you later.’

‘Bye, Siobhan.’

She put the phone down. ‘He’s going to mull it over,’ she told Grant.

‘Great, and meantime the clock’s ticking.’

‘Okay then, clever-clogs, let’s hear your great idea.’

He looked at her as if measuring the challenge, then held up a finger. ‘One, it reads to me almost like a story-line. Maybe from Shakespeare or somewhere.’ A second finger. ‘Two, does it mean “corny” as in old-fashioned, or is it maybe to do with where corn comes from?’

‘You mean where corn was first grown?’

He shrugged. ‘Or how it starts off life as a seed: ever heard the expression “sowing the corn of an idea”?’

She shook her head. He held up another finger.

‘Three, say it’s mason as in stonemason. Could it be a gravestone? That’s where all our dreams end, after all. Maybe it’s a carving of a corn-stalk.’ He bunched the raised fingers into a fist. ‘That’s what I’ve got so far.’

‘If it’s a gravestone, we need to know which cemetery.’ Siobhan picked up the scrap of paper on which she’d written the clue. ‘There’s nothing here, no map reference or page number...’

Grant nodded. ‘It’s a different kind of clue.’ He seemed to spot something else. ‘Could “a corny beginning” actually be “acorny”, as in like an acorn?’

Siobhan frowned. ‘Where would that get us?’

‘An oak tree... maybe oak leaves. A cemetery with “acorn” or “oak” in its name?’

She puffed out her cheeks. ‘And where would this cemetery be, or do we have to check every town and city in Scotland?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grant conceded, rubbing at his temples. Siobhan let the clue drop back on to the desk.

‘Are they getting harder?’ she asked. ‘Or is it that my brain’s packing in?’

‘Maybe we just need a break,’ Grant said, trying to get comfortable in the chair. ‘We could even call it a day.’

Siobhan glanced up at the clock. It was true: they’d put in about ten hours already. The whole morning had been spent on a wasted trip south. She could feel her limbs aching from the climb. A long hot soak with some bath salts and a glass of Chardonnay... It was tempting. But she knew that when she woke up tomorrow, there’d be scant time left before the clue was void, always supposing Quizmaster stuck to his rules. The problem was, the only way to know whether he would or not was to fail to solve the clue in time. It wasn’t the sort of risk she wanted to take.

The trip to Balfour’s Bank... she wondered if that had been a waste of time too. Ranald Marr and his little soldiers... the tip-off coming from David Costello... the broken playing piece in Costello’s flat. She wondered if Costello had been trying to tell her something about Marr. She couldn’t think what. Skulking at the back of her mind was the possibility that this whole exercise was a waste of time, that Quizmaster really was playing with them, that the game had nothing to do with Flip’s disappearance... Maybe that drink with the girls wasn’t such a bad idea... When her phone went, she snatched at it.

‘DC Clarke, CID,’ she recited into the mouthpiece.

‘DC Clarke, it’s the front desk. Got someone down here wants a word.’

‘Who is it?’

‘A Mr Gandalf.’ The speaker’s voice dropped. ‘Weird-looking bugger, like he got sunstroke in the Summer of Love and hasn’t been right since...’

Siobhan went downstairs. Gandalf was holding a dark brown fedora, stroking the multicoloured feather attached to its headband. He wore a brown leather waistcoat over the same Grateful Dead T-shirt he’d worn in his shop. The pale blue cords had seen better days, as had the sand-shoes on his feet.

‘Hi there,’ Siobhan said.

His eyes widened as though he didn’t quite recognise her.

‘It’s Siobhan Clarke,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘We met at your shop.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled. He stared at her hand but didn’t seem inclined to shake it, so Siobhan lowered her arm.

‘What brings you here, Gandalf?’

‘I said I’d see what I could find about Quizmaster.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come upstairs? I could probably rustle us up a cup of coffee.’

He stared at the door she’d just come through, and slowly shook his head. ‘Don’t like police stations,’ he said gravely. ‘They give off a bad vibe.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘You’d rather talk outside?’ She looked out at the street. Still rush hour, the traffic nose to tail.

‘There’s a shop round the corner, run by some people I know...’

‘Good vibes?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Excellent,’ Gandalf said, his voice animated for the first time.

‘Won’t it be shut?’

He shook his head. ‘They’re still open. I checked.’

‘All right then, just give me a minute.’ Siobhan walked over to the desk, where a shirtsleeved officer was watching from behind a glass shield. ‘Can you buzz upstairs to DC Hood, tell him I’ll be back in ten?’

The officer nodded.

‘Come on then,’ Siobhan told Gandalf. ‘What’s the shop called anyway?’

‘Out of the Nomad’s Tent.’

Siobhan knew the place. It was more warehouse than shop, and sold gorgeous carpets and crafts. She’d splashed out there once on a kilim, because the rug she’d coveted was out of her price range. A lot of the stuff came from India and Iran. As they walked in, Gandalf waved a greeting to the proprietor, who waved back and returned to some paperwork.

‘Good vibes,’ Gandalf said with a smile, and Siobhan couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Not sure my overdraft would agree,’ she said.

‘It’s only money,’ Gandalf told her, as though imparting some great wisdom.

She shrugged, keen to get down to business. ‘So, what can you tell me about Quizmaster?’

‘Not a great deal, except that he may have other names.’

‘Such as?’

‘Questor, Quizling, Myster, Spellbinder, OmniSent... How many do you want?’

‘What does it all mean?’

‘These are names used by people who’ve set challenges on the Internet.’

‘Games that are happening right now?’

He reached out his hand to touch a rug hanging from the nearest wall. ‘You could study this pattern for years,’ he said, ‘and still not wholly understand it.’

Siobhan repeated her question and he seemed to come to himself.

‘No, they’re old games. Some involving logic puzzles, numerology... others where you took on a role, like knight or apprentice wizard.’ He glanced towards her. ‘We’re talking about the virtual world. Quizmaster could have virtually any number of names at his disposal.’

‘And no way of tracing him?’

Gandalf shrugged. ‘Maybe if you asked the CIA or the FBI...’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

He shifted slightly in what was almost a squirm. ‘I did learn one other thing.’

‘What?’

He took a sheet of paper from the back pocket of his cords, handed it to Siobhan, who unfolded it. A news cutting from three years before. It concerned a student who had disappeared from his home in Germany. A body had been found on a remote hillside in the north of Scotland. It had been lying there many weeks, even months, disturbed only by the local wildlife. Identification had proven difficult, the corpse reduced to skin and bone. Until the parents of the German student had widened their search. They became convinced the body on the hillside was that of their son, Jürgen. A revolver had been found twenty feet from the corpse. A single bullet had pierced the young man’s skull. The police had it down as suicide, explained away the location of the firearm by saying a sheep or some other animal could have moved it. Plausible, Siobhan had to concede. But the parents still weren’t convinced that their son hadn’t been murdered. The gun wasn’t his, and couldn’t be traced. The bigger question was: how had he ended up in the Scottish Highlands? No one seemed to know. Then Siobhan frowned, had to read the story’s final paragraph again:

Jürgen was keen on role-playing games, and spent many hours surfing the Internet. His parents think it possible that their student son became involved in some game which had tragic consequences.

Siobhan held up the clipping. ‘Is this all there is?’

He nodded. ‘Just the one story.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From someone I know.’ He held out his hand. ‘He’d like it back.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s writing a book about the perils of the e-universe. Incidentally, he’d like to interview you some time, too.’

‘Maybe later.’ Siobhan folded the clipping but made no attempt to hand it back. ‘I need to keep this, Gandalf. Your friend can have it when I’m finished with it.’

Gandalf looked disappointed in her, as though she’d failed to keep her side of some bargain.

‘I promise he can have it back when I’m finished.’

‘Couldn’t we just photocopy it?’

Siobhan sighed. An hour from now, she hoped she’d be in that bathtub, maybe with a gin and tonic replacing the wine. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come back to the station and...’

‘They’ll have a copier here.’ He was pointing towards the corner where the proprietor sat.

‘Okay, you win.’

Gandalf brightened at this, as though those three little words were the sweetest ones he knew.

Back at the station, having left Gandalf at Out of the Nomad’s Tent, Siobhan found Grant Hood scrunching another sheet of paper into a ball and failing to hit the waste-paper bin with it.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘I got wondering about anagrams.’

‘And?’

‘Well, if the town of Banchory didn’t have that “h”, it would be an anagram of “a corny b”.’

Siobhan burst out laughing, slapping her hand to her mouth when she saw Grant’s look.

‘No,’ he said, ‘go ahead and laugh.’

‘God, I’m sorry, Grant. I think I’m nearing a state of mild hysteria.’

‘Should we try e-mailing Quizmaster, tell him we’re stuck?’

‘Maybe nearer the deadline.’ Looking over his shoulder at the remaining sheet of paper, Siobhan saw that he was working on anagrams for ‘mason’s dream’.

‘Call it a day?’ he suggested.

‘Maybe.’

He caught her tone of voice. ‘You’ve got something?’

‘Gandalf,’ she said, handing over the news story. She watched him read, noticing that his lips moved slightly. She wondered if he’d always done it...

‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘Do we follow it up?’

‘I think we have to, don’t you?’

He shook his head. ‘Hand it over to the inquiry. We’ve got our work cut out with this bloody clue.’

‘Hand it over...?’ She was aghast. ‘This is ours, Grant. What if it turns out to be vital?’

‘Christ, Siobhan, listen to yourself. It’s an inquiry, lots of people all chipping in. It doesn’t belong to us. You can’t be selfish with something like this.’

‘I just don’t want someone else stealing our thunder.’

‘Even if it means finding Flip Balfour alive?’

She paused, screwed up her face. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it?’

Colour rose to her cheeks. ‘What does?’

‘Wanting to keep it all to yourself, like the whole investigation’s down to you and you alone.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You know it yourself; I can see it just by looking at you.’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

He stood up to face her. They were no more than a foot apart, the office empty. ‘You know it,’ he repeated quietly.

‘Look, all I was trying to say...’

‘... was that you don’t want to share, and if that doesn’t sound like Rebus, I don’t know what does.’

‘You know your trouble?’

‘I get the feeling I’m about to find out.’

‘You’re too chicken, always playing by the rule-book.’

‘You’re a cop, not a private detective.’

‘And you’re chicken. Blinkers on and toeing the line.’

‘Chickens don’t wear blinkers,’ he spat back.

‘They must, because you do!’ she exploded.

‘That’s right,’ he said, seeming to calm a little, head bobbing. ‘That’s right: I always play by the rules, don’t I?’

‘Look, all I meant was—’

He grabbed her arms, pulled her to him, his mouth seeking hers. Siobhan’s body went rigid, then her face twisted away. The grip he had on her arms, she couldn’t move them. She’d backed up against the desk, stuck there.

‘A good close working partnership,’ a voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s what I like to see.’

Grant’s grip on her fell away as Rebus walked into the room.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he continued. ‘Just because I don’t indulge in these new-fangled methods of policing doesn’t mean I don’t approve.’

‘We were just...’ Grant’s voice died. Siobhan had walked round the desk and was lowering herself shakily into her chair. Rebus approached.

‘Finished with this?’ He meant the Farmer’s chair. Grant nodded and Rebus wheeled it back towards his own desk. He noticed that on Ellen Wylie’s desk, the autopsy reports were tied back up with string: conclusions reached, and of no further use. ‘Did the Farmer get you a result?’ he asked.

‘Hasn’t called back,’ Siobhan said, trying to control her voice. ‘I was just about to phone him.’

‘But you mistook Grant’s tonsils for the receiver, eh?’

‘Sir,’ she said, keeping her voice level, though her heart was pounding, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression about what happened here...’

Rebus held up a hand. ‘Nothing to do with me, Siobhan. You’re dead right. Let’s say no more about it.’

‘I think something needs to be said.’ Her voice had risen. She glanced over towards where Grant was standing, body turned away from her, head twisted so his eyes were not quite on her.

But she knew he was pleading. Mr Boy-Tekky-Racer! Mr Nerdy-Well with his gadgets and flash car!

Better make that a bottle of gin, a whole crateful of gin. And sod the bath.

‘Oh?’ Rebus was asking, genuinely curious now.

I could finish your career right here, Grant. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said finally. Rebus stared at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the paperwork before her.

‘Anything happening your end, Grant?’ he asked blithely, settling into his chair.

‘What?’ Colour bloomed in Grant’s cheeks.

‘The latest clue: anywhere near solving it?’

‘Not really, sir.’ Grant was standing by one of the other desks, gripping its edge.

‘How about you?’ Siobhan asked, shifting in her seat.

‘Me?’ Rebus tapped a pen against his knuckles. ‘I think today I’ve managed to achieve the square root of bugger all.’ He threw the pen down. ‘Which is why I’m buying.’

‘Already had a couple of drinks?’ Siobhan asked.

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘A few. They put a friend of mine into the ground. Tonight, I was planning a private wake. If either of you would like to join me, that would be fine.’

‘I need to go home,’ Siobhan said.

‘I don’t...’

‘Come on, Grant. It’ll be good for you.’

Grant looked in Siobhan’s direction, seeking guidance, or maybe permission. ‘I suppose I might manage the one,’ he conceded.

‘Good lad,’ Rebus told him. ‘One drink it is.’

Having nursed his pint while Rebus downed two double whiskies and two beers, Grant was dismayed to find another half poured into his glass as soon as there was room for it.

‘I have to drive home,’ he warned.

‘Bloody hell, Grant,’ Rebus complained, ‘that’s about all I’ve heard from you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And apologies make up the rest. I can’t see there’s any need to apologise for snogging Siobhan.’

‘I don’t know how it happened.’

‘Don’t try to analyse it.’

‘I think the case just got...’ He broke off at the sound of a dull electronic bleeping. ‘Yours or mine?’ he asked, already reaching into his jacket. But it was Rebus’s mobile. He angled his head to let Grant know he was taking it outside.

‘Hello?’ Cool twilight, taxis looking for trade. A woman nearly tripped over a cracked paving slab. A young man, shaven head and nose-ring, helped her retrieve the oranges which had tumbled from her shopping bag. A small act of kindness... but Rebus watched until the youth moved away, just in case.

‘John? It’s Jean. Are you working?’

‘Surveillance,’ Rebus told her.

‘Oh dear, do you want me to...?’

‘It’s okay, Jean. I was joking. I’m just out having a drink.’

‘How was the funeral?’

‘I didn’t go. I mean, I did go, but I couldn’t face it.’

‘And now you’re drinking?’

‘Don’t start with the help-line stuff.’

She laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to. It’s just that I’m sitting here with a bottle of wine and the TV...’

‘And?’

‘And some company would be nice.’

Rebus knew he was in no state to drive; not much of a state for anything, if it came to it. ‘I don’t know, Jean. You’ve not seen me after a drink.’

‘What, you turn into Mr Hyde?’ She laughed again. ‘I had that with my husband. I doubt you could show me anything new.’ Her voice strained for levity, but there was an edge to it. Maybe she was nervous about asking him: no one liked a rejection. Or maybe there was more to it...

‘I suppose I could take a taxi.’ He studied himself: still in the funeral suit, the tie removed and top two buttons of the shirt undone. ‘Maybe I should go home and change.’

‘If you like.’

He looked across the street. The woman with the shopping was waiting at the bus stop now. She kept glancing into her bag as if checking everything was there. City life: mistrust part of the armour you wore; no such thing as a simple good deed.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.

Back in the pub, Grant was standing next to his empty pint glass. As Rebus came forwards, he raised his hands in a show of surrender.

‘Got to go.’

‘Yes, me too,’ Rebus said.

Grant looked somehow disappointed, as though he’d wanted Rebus to go on drinking, getting drunker. Rebus looked at the empty glass, wondering if the barman had been persuaded to ditch its contents.

‘You all right to drive?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good.’ Rebus slapped Grant’s shoulder. ‘In that case, you can give me a lift to Portobello...’

Siobhan had spent the past hour trying to clear her head of anything and everything to do with the case. It wasn’t working. The bath hadn’t worked; the gin was refusing to kick in. The music on her hi-fi — Mutton Birds, Envy of Angels — wasn’t cocooning her the way it usually did. The latest clue was ricocheting around her skull. And every thirty seconds or so... here it came again!.. she watched a replay of Grant pinning her arms, while John Rebus — of all people! — watched from the doorway. She wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t announced his presence. She wondered how long he’d been there, and whether he’d heard any of their argument.

She leaped back up from the sofa and started pacing the room again, glass in hand. No, no, no... as if repeating the word could make everything go away, never have happened. Because that was the problem. You couldn’t unmake something.

‘Stupid bitch,’ she said aloud in a sing-song voice, repeating the phrase until the words lost their meaning.

She was over by the window when the track ended. In the momentary silence, she heard a car turning into the end of her street, and instinct told her who it was. She ran to the lamp and stamped down on the floor-switch, plunging the room into darkness. There was a light on in her hallway, but she doubted it could be seen from outside. She was afraid to move, afraid she would cast a telltale shadow. The car had stopped. The next track was playing. She reached down for the remote and used it to turn off the CD player. Now she could hear the car idling. Her heart was pounding.

Then the door buzzer, telling her someone was outside and wanting in. She waited, didn’t move. Her fingers were so tight around the glass that they began to cramp. She changed hands. The buzzer again.

No no no no...

Just leave it, Grant. Get in the Alfa and go home. Tomorrow we can start pretending it never happened.

Bzzzz bzzzz zzzz...

She began to hum softly to herself, a tune she was making up. Not even a tune really; just sounds to compete with the buzzer and the blood singing in her ears.

She heard a car door close, relaxed a little. Nearly dropped the glass when her phone started ringing.

She could see it by the light of the streetlamp. It was lying on the floor by the sofa. Six rings and the answering machine would kick in. Two... three... four...

Maybe the Farmer!

‘Hello?’ She slumped on to the sofa, phone to her ear.

‘Siobhan? It’s Grant.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’ve just been ringing your doorbell.’

‘Mustn’t be working. What can I do for you?’

‘Letting me in would be a start.’

‘I’m tired, Grant. Just going to bed.’

‘Five minutes, Siobhan.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh.’ The silence was like a third party, some huge, humourless friend only one of them had invited.

‘Just go home, eh? I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘That might be too late for the Quizmaster.’

‘Oh, you’re here to talk about work?’ She slid her free hand up her body, tucking it beneath the arm holding the phone.

‘Not exactly,’ he admitted.

‘No, I didn’t think so. Look, Grant, let’s call it a moment of madness, eh? I think I can live with that.’

‘That’s what you think it was?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘What are you scared of, Siobhan?’

‘How do you mean?’ Her voice hardening.

A short silence before he relented, telling her: ‘Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Sorry.’

‘I’ll see you in the office then.’

‘Right.’

‘Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll crack the clue tomorrow.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Goodnight, Grant.’

‘’Night, Shiv.’

She ended the call, didn’t even take the time to tell him she hated ‘Shiv’: girls at school had used it. One of her boyfriends at college had liked it, too. He told her it was slang for a knife. Siobhan: even the teachers at her school in England had had trouble with her name. ‘See-Oban’ they’d pronounce it, and she would have to correct them.

Night, Shiv...

Stupidbitch...

She heard his car move off, watched the play of headlights across her ceiling and far wall. She sat there in the dark, finishing her drink without tasting it. When her phone rang again, she swore out loud.

‘Look,’ she roared into the mouthpiece, ‘just let it go, okay?’

‘Well... if you say so.’ It was the Farmer’s voice.

‘Oh, hell, sir, I’m sorry.’

‘Expecting another call?’

‘No, I... maybe another time.’

‘Fair enough. I’ve been doing some ringing round. There are people who know the Craft far better than I do, I thought maybe they could shed some light.’

His tone told her what she needed to know. ‘No joy?’

‘Not as such. But a couple of folk have still to get back to me. Nobody home, so I left messages. Nil desperandum: that’s what they say, isn’t it?’

Her smile was bleak. ‘Some of them probably do, yes.’ Hopeless optimists, for example.

‘So you can expect another call tomorrow. What time’s the cut-off?’

‘Late morning.’

‘Then I’ll make some follow-up calls first thing.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s nice to feel useful again.’ He paused. ‘Things getting you down, Siobhan?’

‘I’ll cope.’

‘I’d put money on it. Speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

She put the phone down. Her drink was finished. This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it? Grant’s words to her during their argument. Now here she was with an empty glass in her hand, sitting in the dark, staring out the window.

‘I’m not like him at all,’ she said out loud, then she picked up the phone again and called his number. Got his answering machine. She knew she could try his mobile. Maybe he was out on the bevvy; almost certainly he was out on the bevvy. She could meet up with him, explore the city’s late openers, each dimly lit howff protection against the dark.

But he’d want to talk about Grant, about the clinch he thought he’d found them in. It would be there between them, no matter what the conversation.

She thought about it for a minute, then called his mobile anyway, but it was switched off. Another answering service; another message not left. Last-chance saloon was his pager, but she was winding down now. A mug of tea... she’d take it to bed with her. She switched the kettle on, looked for the tea-bags. The box was empty. All she had were some little sachets of herbal stuff: camomile. She wondered if the petrol station at Canonmills would be open... maybe the chip shop on Broughton Street. Yes, that was it... she could see the answer to her problems! She slipped her shoes and coat on, made sure she had keys and money. When she went out, she checked that the door had locked behind her. Down the stairs and out into the night, searching for the one ally she could depend on, no matter what.

Chocolate.