The Falls

9

It had just gone seven-thirty when the phone woke her up. She staggered from bed, padded through to the living room. She had one hand on her forehead; the other reached for the handset.

‘Hello?’

‘Good morning, Siobhan. Didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘No, I was just making breakfast.’ She blinked a few times, then stretched her face, trying to get her eyes open. The Farmer sounded like he’d been up for hours.

‘Well, I don’t want to keep you, only I’ve just had a very interesting phone call.’

‘One of your contacts?’

‘Another early riser. He’s in the middle of writing a book about the Knights Templar, connecting them to the Masons. That’s probably why he saw it straight away.’

Siobhan was in the kitchen now. She checked there was water in the kettle and switched it on. Enough instant coffee in the jar for maybe two or three cups. She had to do a supermarket run one of these days. Crumbs of chocolate on the worktop. She pressed her finger to them, lifting them to her mouth.

‘Saw what?’ she said.

The Farmer started laughing. ‘You’re not awake yet, are you?’

‘A bit groggy, that’s all.’

‘Late night?’

‘Maybe one Rolo too many. Saw what, sir?’

‘The clue. It’s a reference to Rosslyn Chapel. You know where that is?’

‘I was there not too long ago.’ Another case; one she’d worked with Rebus.

‘Then maybe you saw it: one of the windows apparently is decorated with carvings of maize.’

‘I don’t remember.’ But she was waking up now.

‘Yet the chapel was built before maize was known in Britain.’

‘“A corny beginning”,’ she recited.

‘That’s right.’

‘And the mason’s dream?’

‘Something you must have noticed in the chapel: two elaborate pillars. One is called the Mason’s Pillar, the other the Apprentice Pillar. The story goes, the Master Mason decided to go abroad to study the design for the pillar he was to construct. But while he was away, one of his apprentices had a dream about the way the finished pillar should look. He got to work and created the Apprentice Pillar. When the Master Mason returned, he was so jealous he went after the apprentice and bludgeoned him to death with a mallet.’

‘So the mason’s dream ended with the pillar?’

‘That’s right.’

Siobhan went through the story in her head. ‘It all fits,’ she said at last. ‘Thanks so much, sir.’

‘Mission accomplished?’

‘Well, not quite. I’ve got to go.’

‘Call me some other time, Siobhan. I want to hear how it ends.’

‘I will. Thanks again.’

She ran both hands through her hair. A corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended. Rosslyn Chapel. It was in the village of Roslin, about six miles south of the city. Siobhan picked up her phone again, ready to call Grant... But then she put it down. Over at the laptop, she sent an e-mail to Quizmaster:

The Apprentice Pillar, Rosslyn Chapel.

Then she waited. She drank a cup of weak coffee, using it to wash down two paracetamol. She went into the bathroom and had a shower. She was rubbing her hair dry with a towel when she walked back into the living room. There was still no message from Quizmaster. She sat down again, chewed her bottom lip. They hadn’t needed to go to Hart Fell: the name had been enough. In less than three hours, time would be up. Did Quizmaster want her to go to Roslin? She sent another e-mail:

Do I stay or do I go?

Again she waited. The second cup of coffee was weaker than the first. The jar was empty now. If she wanted anything else to drink, it would have to be camomile tea. She wondered if Quizmaster could have gone somewhere. She got the feeling he would take a laptop and mobile with him wherever he went. Maybe he’d even run it twenty-four/ seven, just like she’d been doing. He’d want to know when messages came through.

So what was he playing at?

‘Can’t risk it,’ she said out loud. One final message: I’m going to the chapel. Then she went to get dressed.

She got into her car, placed the laptop on the passenger seat. She thought again about calling Grant, but decided against it. She’d be all right; she could take any flak he threw at her...

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

Grant’s words to her. Yet here she was heading off to Roslin on her own. No back-up, and having alerted Quizmaster that she was coming. Before she’d reached the top of Leith Walk she’d made up her mind. She turned the car in the direction of Grant’s flat.

It was just gone eight-fifteen when the phone woke Rebus up. It was his mobile. He’d plugged it into a wall socket last thing, charged it overnight. He slid from the bed and got his feet caught in the clothes strewn across the carpet. Down on hands and knees, he fumbled for the phone, held it to his ear.

‘Rebus,’ he said. ‘And this had better be good.’

‘You’re late,’ the voice said. Gill Templer.

‘Late for what?’

‘The big story.’

Still on hands and knees, Rebus glanced towards the bed. No sign of Jean. He wondered if she’d gone to work.

‘What big story?’

‘Your presence is requested in Holyrood Park. A body’s been found on Arthur’s Seat.’

‘Is it her?’ Rebus felt his skin suddenly go clammy.

‘Hard to judge at this stage.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ He angled his neck, eyes to the ceiling. ‘How did she die?’

‘Body’s been there a while.’

‘Are Gates and Curt on the scene?’

‘Expected shortly.’

‘I’ll go straight there.’

‘Sorry to have disturbed you. Not at Jean’s by any chance?’

‘Is that a wild guess?’

‘Maybe call it woman’s intuition.’

‘Bye, Gill.’

‘Bye, John.’

As he was switching off the phone, the door swung open and Jean Burchill walked in. She was wearing a towelling robe and carrying a tray: orange juice and toast, a cafetière full of coffee.

‘My,’ she said, ‘don’t you look fetching?’

Then she saw the look on his face and her smile vanished. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

So he told her.

Grant yawned. They’d picked up a couple of beakers of coffee from a newsagent’s, but even so he wasn’t fully awake yet. His hair was standing up at the back, and he seemed conscious of it, kept trying to press it flat with his hand.

‘Didn’t get much sleep last night,’ he said, glancing in Siobhan’s direction. She kept her eyes on the road.

‘Anything in the paper?’

He had the day’s tabloid — bought along with the coffees — open across his lap. ‘Not much.’

‘Anything about the case?’

‘I don’t think so. Relegated to oblivion.’ He had a sudden thought, started patting his pockets.

‘What?’ For a split second, she thought maybe he’d forgotten some vital medication.

‘My mobile. Must’ve left it on the table.’

‘We’ve got mine.’

‘Yes, hooked to my ISP: what happens if someone tries calling?’

‘They’ll leave a message.’

‘I suppose so... Look, about yesterday...’

‘Let’s pretend it never happened,’ she said quickly.

‘But it did.’

‘I just wish it hadn’t, all right?’

‘You’re the one who was always complaining I—’

‘Subject closed, Grant.’ She turned to him. ‘I mean it. It’s either closed, or I take it to the boss — your call.’

He started to say something, but stopped himself, folded his arms across his chest. Virgin AM was playing quietly on the stereo. She liked it; helped her wake up. Grant wanted something newsy, Radio Scotland or Radio Four.

‘My car, my stereo,’ was all she’d said to that.

Now he asked her to repeat what she’d already told him about the Farmer’s call. She did, glad that they were staying off the subject of the clinch.

Grant sipped his coffee while she spoke. He was wearing sunglasses, though there was no sun. They were Ray-Bans, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Sounds good,’ he said when she’d finished.

‘I think so,’ she agreed.

‘Almost too easy.’

She snorted. ‘So easy we almost missed it.’

He shrugged. ‘It didn’t take any skill, that’s what I’m saying. It’s the sort of thing you either know or you don’t.’

‘Like you said, a different kind of clue.’

‘How many Masons do you suppose Philippa Balfour knows?’

‘What?’

‘It’s how you found out. How would she have worked it out?’

‘She was studying art history, wasn’t she?’

‘True. So she might have come across Rosslyn Chapel in her studies?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And would Quizmaster have known that?’

‘How could he?’

‘Maybe she told him what she was studying.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Otherwise, it’s just not the sort of clue she’d have been able to get. Do you see what I’m saying?’

‘I think so. You’re saying it needed specialist knowledge that the previous clues didn’t?’

‘Something like that. Of course, there is one other possibility.’

‘Which is?’

‘That Quizmaster knew damned fine she’d know a little of Rosslyn Chapel, whether she told him what she was studying or not.’

Siobhan saw what he was getting at. ‘Someone who knows her? You’re saying Quizmaster is one of her friends?’

Grant peered at her over the top of his Ray-Bans. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if Ranald Marr turned out to be a Mason, man in his line of work...’

‘No, nor me,’ Siobhan said thoughtfully. ‘We might just have to go back and ask him.’

They turned off the main road and drove into the village of Roslin. Siobhan parked the car beside the chapel’s gift shop. The door was locked tight.

‘Place doesn’t open till ten,’ Grant said, reading from the notice. ‘How long do you reckon we’ve got?’

‘If we wait till ten, not very long.’ Siobhan was sitting in the car, checking that there were no new e-mails for her.

‘There must be somebody.’ Grant banged on the door with his fist. Siobhan got out of the car and studied the wall surrounding the chapel grounds.

‘Any good at climbing?’ she asked Grant.

‘We could give it a go,’ he said. ‘But what if the chapel’s locked too?’

‘What if someone’s in there giving it a quick spit and polish?’

He nodded. But then there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened and a man stood there.

‘We’re not open yet,’ he said sternly.

Siobhan showed him her warrant card. ‘Police officers, sir. Afraid we can’t wait.’

They followed him along a path towards the chapel’s side door. The building itself was covered with a huge canopy. From her previous visit, Siobhan knew there was a problem with the roof. It had to dry out before work could be done on it. The chapel was small on the outside, but seemed larger inside, a trick of its ornate decoration. The ceiling itself was stunning, even if much of it was green with damp and decay. Grant stood in the central aisle, gawping much as she had done the first time she’d come here.

‘It’s incredible,’ he said quietly, his words echoing back off the walls. There were carvings everywhere. But Siobhan knew what she was looking for, and walked straight towards the Apprentice Pillar. It was next to some steps leading down to the sacristy. The pillar was about eight feet high, carved ribbons snaking down it.

‘This it?’ Grant said.

‘This is it.’

‘So what are we looking for?’

‘We’ll know when we find it.’ Siobhan ran her hands over the cool surface of the pillar, then crouched down. Intertwined dragons were coiled around the base. The tail of one of them, twisting back on itself, had left a small nook. She reached in with finger and thumb and brought out a small square of paper.

‘Bloody hell,’ Grant said.

She didn’t bother with gloves or an evidence bag, knew by now that Quizmaster wouldn’t have left anything useful to Forensics. It was a piece of notepaper, folded over three times. She unfolded it, Grant shifting so they could both see what was printed there.

You are the Seeker. Your next destination is Hellbank. Instructions to follow.

‘I don’t get it,’ Grant said. ‘All of this, just for that?’ His voice was rising.

Siobhan read the message through again, turned the paper over. Its other side was blank. Grant had spun on his heels and kicked air.

‘Bastard!’ he called out, earning a frown from the guide. ‘I bet he’s having a bloody good laugh, seeing us chasing all over the place!’

‘I think that’s part of it, yes,’ Siobhan agreed quietly.

He turned to her. ‘Part of what?’

‘Part of the attraction for him. He likes to see us being run ragged.’

‘Yes, but he doesn’t see us, does he?’

‘I don’t know. I sometimes get the feeling he might be watching.’

Grant stared at her, then walked up to the guide. ‘What’s your name?’

‘William Eadie.’

Grant had his notebook out. ‘And what’s your address, Mr Eadie?’ He started to take down Eadie’s details.

‘He’s not the Quizmaster,’ Siobhan stated.

‘The who?’ Eadie asked, his voice wavering.

‘Never mind,’ Siobhan said, dragging Grant away by the arm. They went back to the car, and Siobhan started typing an e-mail:

Ready for Hellbank clue.

She sent it, then sat back.

‘Now what?’ Grant asked. Siobhan shrugged. But then the laptop announced there was a new message. She clicked to read it.

Ready to give up? That’s a surer thing.

Grant let out a hiss of breath. ‘Is this a clue or a taunt?’

‘Maybe both.’ Another message came through:

Hellbank by six tonight.

Siobhan nodded. ‘Both,’ she repeated.

‘Six? He’s only giving us eight hours.’

‘No time to waste then. What’s a surer thing?’

‘Not a clue.’

She looked at him. ‘You don’t think it’s a clue?’

He forced a smile. ‘That’s not what I meant. Let’s take another look at it.’ Siobhan put the message back up on the screen. ‘You know what it looks like?’

‘What?’

‘A crossword clue. I mean, it’s not quite grammatical, is it? It almost makes sense, but doesn’t.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Like it’s a bit strained?’

‘If it was a crossword clue...’ Grant pursed his lips. A little vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated. ‘If it was a clue, then “give up” could mean “yield”, as in yielding meaning. Do you see?’

He fumbled in his pocket, brought out his notebook and pen. ‘I need to see it written down,’ he explained, copying out the clue. ‘It’s a classic crossword construction: part of it tells you what you have to do, part is the meaning you’ll have if you do it.’

‘Keep going. You might start making sense soon.’

He smiled again, but kept his eyes on the words in front of him. ‘Let’s say it’s an anagram. “Ready to give up... that’s a surer”. If you give up — meaning render or use — the letters in “that’s a surer”, you’ll get a word or words meaning a “thing”.’

‘What sort of thing?’ Siobhan could feel a headache coming on.

‘That’s what we have to find out.’

‘If it’s an anagram.’

‘If it’s an anagram,’ Grant conceded.

‘And what’s any of it got to do with Hellbank, whatever Hellbank is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If it is an anagram, isn’t that too easy?’

‘Only if you know how crosswords work. Otherwise you’d read it literally, and it wouldn’t mean anything at all.’

‘Well, you’ve just explained it and it still sounds like gobbledygook to me.’

‘Then aren’t you lucky I’m here? Come on.’ He tore off a fresh sheet of paper and handed it to her. ‘See if you can unscramble “that’s a surer”.’

‘To make a word that means a thing?’

‘Word or words,’ Grant corrected her. ‘You’ve got eleven letters to play with.’

‘Isn’t there some computer program we could use?’

‘Probably. But that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?’

‘Right now, cheating sounds fine to me.’

But Grant wasn’t listening. He was already at work.

‘I was only up here yesterday,’ Rebus said. Bill Pryde had left his clipboard back at Gayfield Square. He was breathing heavily as they climbed. Uniformed officers were standing around. They held rolls of striped tape and were waiting to be told whether a cordon was necessary or practical. There was a line of parked cars on the roadway below: journalists, photographers, at least one TV crew. Word had gone around fast, and the circus had come to town.

‘Anything to tell us, DI Rebus?’ he’d been asked by Steve Holly as he got out of his own car.

‘Just that you’re annoying me.’

Now Pryde was explaining that a walker had found the body. ‘In some gorse bushes. No real attempt to hide it.’

Rebus kept quiet. Two bodies never found... the other two found in water. Now this: a hillside. It broke the pattern.

‘Is it her?’ he asked.

‘From the Versace T-shirt, I’d have to say yes.’

Rebus stopped, looked around. A wilderness in the middle of Edinburgh. Arthur’s Seat itself was an extinct volcano, surrounded by a bird sanctuary and three lochs. ‘You’d have a hard job dragging a body up here,’ he said.

Pryde nodded. ‘Probably killed on the spot.’

‘Lured up here?’

‘Or maybe just out walking.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t figure her for the walking type.’ They’d started moving again, getting close now. A cluster of stooped forms on the hillside, white overalls and hoods: all too easy to contaminate a crime scene. Rebus recognised Professor Gates, red-faced from the exertion of the climb. Gill Templer was next to him, not talking, just listening and looking. The scene-of-crime officers were doing a rudimentary ground search — later on, when the body had been shifted, they’d bring in some of the uniforms and start a fingertip search. It wouldn’t be easy: the grass was long and thick. A police photographer was adjusting his lens.

‘Better not go any further than this,’ Pryde said. Then he called for someone to fetch two more sets of overalls. As Rebus started pulling his on over his shoes, the thin material crackled and flapped in the strong breeze.

‘Any sign of Siobhan Clarke?’ he asked.

‘Tried contacting her and Grant Hood,’ Pryde said. ‘So far, no luck.’

‘Really?’ Rebus had to hold back a smile.

‘Something I should know about?’ Pryde asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Grim place to die, isn’t it?’

‘Aren’t they all?’ Pryde zipped up his one-piece and started forwards towards the corpse.

‘Throttled,’ Gill Templer informed them.

‘Best guess at this stage,’ Gates corrected her. ‘Morning, John.’

Rebus nodded a greeting back. ‘Dr Curt not with you?’

‘Phoned in sick. He’s been sick a lot lately.’ Gates was just making conversation while his examination continued. The body lay awkwardly, legs and arms all jutting angles. The gorse bushes next to it must have hidden it well enough, Rebus guessed. Combined with the long grass, you’d need to be closer than eight feet before you’d be able to make out what it was. The clothing helped with the camouflage: light green combat trousers, khaki T-shirt, grey jacket. The clothes Flip had been wearing the day she’d gone missing.

‘Parents informed?’ he asked.

Gill nodded. ‘They know a body’s been found.’

Rebus walked around her to get a better view. The face was turned away from him. There were leaves in the hair, and a slug’s shimmering trail. Her skin was mauve-coloured. Gates had probably moved the body slightly. What Rebus was seeing was lividity, the blood sinking in death, colouring the body parts nearest the ground. He’d seen dozens of corpses over the years; they never got any less sad, or made him any less depressed. Animation was the key to every living thing, its absence difficult to accept. He’d seen grieving relatives reach out to bodies on mortuary slabs and shake them, as if this would bring them back. Philippa Balfour wasn’t coming back.

‘The fingers have been gnawed at,’ Gates stated, more for his tape recorder than his audience. ‘Local wildlife most probably.’

Weasels or foxes, Rebus guessed. Facts of nature you didn’t find in the TV documentaries.

‘Bit of a bugger, that,’ Gates went on. Rebus knew what he meant: if Philippa had fought her attacker, her fingertips might have told them a lot — bits of skin or blood beneath the nails.

‘What a waste,’ Pryde suddenly said. Rebus got the feeling he didn’t mean Philippa’s death as such, but the effort they’d expended during the days since her disappearance — the checks on airports, ferries, trains... working on the assumption that she was maybe — just maybe — still alive. And throughout, she’d been lying here, each day robbing them of possible evidence, possible clues.

‘Lucky she was found so soon,’ Gates commented, perhaps to comfort Pryde. True enough, another woman’s body had been found a few months back in a different part of the park, hardly any distance at all from a popular path. Yet the body had lain there for over a month. It had turned out to be a ‘domestic’, that handy euphemism when victims were killed by their loved ones.

Down below, Rebus recognised one of the grey mortuary vans arriving. The body would be bagged and taken away to the Western General, where Gates would conduct his autopsy.

‘Drag marks on her heels,’ Gates was reciting into his tape machine. ‘Not too severe. Lividity consistent with body’s position, so she was either still alive or only just dead when she was dragged here.’

Gill Templer looked around. ‘How far do we need to widen the search?’

‘Fifty, a hundred yards maybe,’ Gates told her. She glanced in Rebus’s direction, and he saw that she wasn’t hopeful. Unlikely they’d be able to pinpoint exactly where she was dragged from, unless she’d dropped something.

‘Nothing in the pockets?’ Rebus asked.

Gates shook his head. ‘Jewellery on the hands, and quite an expensive watch.’

‘Cartier,’ Gill added.

‘At least we can rule out robbery,’ Rebus muttered, causing Gates to smile.

‘No signs of the clothing having been disturbed,’ the pathologist commented, ‘so you can probably rule out a sexual motive while you’re at it.’

‘Better and better.’ Rebus looked at Gill. ‘This is going to be a cinch.’

‘Hence my ear-to-ear grin,’ she parried solemnly.

Back at St Leonard’s, the station was buzzing with the news, but all Siobhan could feel was a dazed numbness. Playing Quizmaster’s game — the way Philippa probably had — had made Siobhan feel an affinity with the missing student. Now she was no longer a MisPer, and the worst fears had been realised.

‘We always knew, didn’t we?’ Grant said. ‘It was just a matter of when the body turned up.’ He dropped his notebook on to the desk in front of him. Three or four pages were covered with anagrams. He sat down and turned to a fresh sheet, pen in hand. George Silvers and Ellen Wylie were in the CID room too.

‘I took my kids up Arthur’s Seat just last weekend,’ Silvers was saying.

Siobhan asked who found the body.

‘Someone out walking,’ Wylie replied. ‘Middle-aged woman, I think. Daily constitutional.’

‘Be a while before she takes that route again,’ Silvers muttered.

‘Was Flip lying there all this time?’ Siobhan was looking across to where Grant was busy juggling letters. Maybe he was right to keep working, but she couldn’t help feeling a certain distaste. How could he not be affected by the news? Even George Silvers — as cynical as they came — looked a bit shell-shocked.

‘Arthur’s Seat,’ he repeated. ‘Just last weekend.’

Wylie decided to answer Siobhan’s question. ‘Chief Super seems to think so.’ As she spoke, she looked down at her desk, and rubbed her hand along it as though wiping off dust.

It hurts her, Siobhan thought... even saying the words ‘Chief Super’ reminds her of that TV appearance and hardens the sense of resentment.

When one of the phones rang, Silvers went to answer.

‘No, he’s not here,’ he told the caller. Then: ‘Hang on, I’ll check.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ellen, any idea when Rebus will be back?’

She shook her head slowly. Suddenly Siobhan knew where he was: he was on Arthur’s Seat... while Wylie, who was supposed to be his partner, wasn’t. She thought of Gill Templer, telling Rebus he was needed there. He’d have gone like a shot, leaving Wylie behind. It looked to Siobhan like a calculated snub by Templer. She would know exactly how Wylie would feel.

‘Sorry, no idea,’ Silvers said into the phone. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He held the receiver out towards Siobhan.

‘Lady wants to speak to you.’

Siobhan crossed the floor, mouthing the word ‘who?’, but Silvers just shrugged, handed her the phone.

‘Hello, DC Clarke speaking?’

‘Siobhan, it’s Jean Burchill.’

‘Hi, Jean, what can I do for you?’

‘Have you identified her yet?’

‘Not a hundred per cent. How did you know?’

‘John told me, then he rushed off.’

Siobhan’s lips formed a silent O. John Rebus and Jean Burchill... well, well. ‘Do you want me to tell him you called?’

‘I tried his mobile.’

‘He might have it turned off: you don’t always want interruptions at the locus.’

‘The what?’

‘The crime scene.’

‘Arthur’s Seat, isn’t it? We were there only yesterday morning.’

Siobhan looked across to Silvers. It seemed like every other person had been on Arthur’s Seat recently. When her eyes moved to Grant, she saw that he was staring at his notepad, as if mesmerised by something there.

‘Do you know where on Arthur’s Seat?’ Jean was asking.

‘Across the road from Dunsapie Loch and a bit further around towards the east.’

Siobhan was watching Grant. His eyes were on her as he got up from his chair, picking up the notebook.

‘Where’s that...?’ The question was rhetorical, Jean trying to picture the location. Grant was holding the notebook out in front of him, but still too far away for her to make out much: jumbles of letters, and then a couple of words circled. Siobhan narrowed her eyes.

‘Oh,’ Jean said suddenly, ‘I know where you mean. Hellbank, I think it’s called.’

‘Hellbank?’ Siobhan made sure Grant could hear her, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

‘Quite a steep slope,’ Jean was saying, ‘which might explain the name, though of course the folklore prefers witches and devilry.’

‘Yes,’ Siobhan said, dragging the word out. ‘Look, Jean, I’ve got to go.’ She was staring at the words circled on Grant’s notepad. He’d worked out the anagram. ‘That’s a surer’ had become ‘Arthur’s Seat’.

Siobhan put down the phone.

‘He was leading us to her,’ Grant said quietly.

‘Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, “maybe”?’

‘You’re saying he knew Flip was dead. We can’t know that for certain. All he was doing was taking us to the places Flip went.’

‘She turned up dead at this one. And who apart from Quizmaster knew she’d be there?’

‘Someone could have followed her, or even chanced upon her.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ Grant said confidently.

‘I’m playing devil’s advocate, Grant, that’s all.’

‘He killed her.’

‘Then why bother helping us play the game?’

‘To fuck with our heads.’ He paused. ‘No, to fuck with your head. And maybe more than that.’

‘Then he’d have killed me before now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because now I don’t need to play the game any more. I’ve come as far as Flip did.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘You’re saying if he sends you the clue for... what’s the next stage?’

‘Stricture.’

He nodded. ‘If he sends it, you won’t be tempted?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re lying.’

‘Well, after this there’s no way I’d go anywhere without back-up, and he must know that.’ She had a thought. ‘Stricture,’ she said.

‘What about it?’

‘He e-mailed Flip... after she’d been killed. Why on earth would he do that if he’d killed her?’

‘Because he’s a psychopath.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You should get online and ask him.’

‘Ask if he’s a psychopath?’

‘Tell him what we know.’

‘He could just disappear. Face it, Grant, we could walk past him in the street and not know him. He’s just a name — and not even a real name.’

Grant thumped the desk. ‘Well, we’ve got to do something. Any minute now he’s going to hear on the radio or TV that the body’s been found. He’ll be expecting to hear from us.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. The laptop was in her shoulder-bag, still hooked up to the mobile phone. She got it out and set it up, plugging both computer and phone into the floor point for a recharge.

Which gave Grant time enough to start having second thoughts. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘we need to clear this with DCS Templer.’

She gave him a look. ‘Back to playing by the rules, eh?’

His face reddened, but he nodded. ‘Something like this, we need to tell her.’

Silvers and Wylie, who’d been listening intently throughout, had understood enough to know something important was going on.

‘I’m with Siobhan,’ Wylie said. ‘Strike while the iron is hot and all that.’

Silvers disagreed. ‘You know the score: Chief Super’ll blast the pair of you if you go behind her back.’

‘We’re not going behind her back,’ Siobhan stated, eyes on Wylie.

‘Yes we are,’ Grant said. ‘It’s a murder case now, Siobhan. The time for playing games just stopped.’ He rested both hands on her desk. ‘Send that e-mail, and you’re on your own.’

‘Maybe that’s where I want to be,’ she retorted, regretting the words the moment they were out.

‘Nice to have a bit of plain speaking,’ Grant said.

‘I’m all for it,’ John Rebus said from the doorway. Ellen Wylie straightened up and folded her arms. ‘Speaking of which,’ he went on, ‘sorry, Ellen, I should have called you.’

‘Forget it.’ But it was clear to everyone in the room that she wouldn’t.

When Rebus had listened to Siobhan’s version of the morning’s events — Grant interrupting now and then with a comment or different perspective — they all looked to him for a decision. He ran a finger along the top of the laptop’s screen.

‘Everything you’ve just told me,’ he advised, ‘needs to be taken to DCS Templer.’

To Siobhan’s eyes, Grant didn’t look so much vindicated as revoltingly smug. Ellen Wylie, meantime, looked like she was spoiling for a fight with anyone... about anything. As a murder team, they weren’t exactly ideal.

‘Okay,’ she said, ready to make at least a partial peace, ‘we’ll go talk to the Chief Super.’ And, as Rebus started nodding, she added: ‘Though I’m willing to bet it’s not what you would have done.’

‘Me?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have had the first clue, Siobhan. Know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because e-mail’s a black art as far as I’m concerned.’

Siobhan smiled, but there was a thread running through her mind: black art... coffins used in witches’ spells... Flip’s death on a hillside called Hellbank.

Witchcraft?

Six of them in the cramped office at Gayfield Square: Gill Templer and Bill Pryde; Rebus and Ellen Wylie; Siobhan and Grant. Templer was the only one sitting. Siobhan had printed off all the e-mails, and Templer was sifting through them silently. Finally she looked up.

‘Is there any way we can identify Quizmaster?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Siobhan admitted.

‘It’s possible,’ Grant added. ‘I mean, I’m not sure how, but I think it’s possible. Look at these viruses, somehow the Americans always seem to be able to trace them back.’

Templer nodded. ‘That’s true.’

‘The Met has a computer crime unit, doesn’t it?’ Grant went on. ‘They could have links to the FBI.’

Templer studied him. ‘Think you’re up to it, Grant?’

He shook his head. ‘I like computers, but this is way out of my league. I mean, I’d be happy to liaise...’

‘Fair enough.’ Templer turned to Siobhan. ‘This German student you were telling us about...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like a bit more detail.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

Suddenly Templer’s gaze shifted to Wylie. ‘Can you run with that, Ellen?’

Wylie looked surprised. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re splitting us up?’ Rebus interrupted.

‘Unless you can think of a good reason not to.’

‘A doll was left at Falls, now the body’s turned up. It’s the same pattern as before.’

‘Not according to your coffin-maker. Different workmanship altogether, I believe he said.’

‘You’re putting it down to coincidence?’

‘I’m not putting it down to anything, and if something else crops up in connection with it, you can start back in again. But we’re on a murder case now, and that changes everything.’

Rebus glanced towards Wylie. She was simmering — the transfer from dusty old autopsies to a background check on a student’s curious demise... it wasn’t exactly thrilling her. But at the same time she wasn’t going to throw her weight behind Rebus — too busy working on her own sense of injustice.

‘Right,’ Templer said into the silence. ‘For the moment, you’ll be going back to the body of the investigation — and yes, I know there’s a joke in there somewhere.’ She tidied the sheets of paper together, made to hand them back to Siobhan. ‘Can you stay behind for a sec?’

‘Sure,’ Siobhan said. The rest of them squeezed out of the room, glad of the fresher, cooler air. Rebus, however, loitered near Templer’s door. He stared across the room to the array of information on the far wall — faxes, photos and the rest. Someone was busy dismantling the collage, now that this was no longer a MisPer inquiry. The pace of the investigation seemed already to have slowed, not from any sense of shock or out of respect for the dead, but because things had changed: there was no need to rush, no one out there whose life they might just possibly save...

Inside the office, Templer was asking Siobhan if she’d like to reconsider the liaison position.

‘Thanks,’ Siobhan replied. ‘But I don’t think so.’

Templer leaned back in her chair. ‘Want to share the reasons with me?’

Siobhan looked around, as though seeking out the phrases that might be hidden on the bare walls. ‘I can’t think of any offhand,’ she shrugged. ‘I just don’t fancy it right now.’

‘I may not fancy asking again.’

‘I know. Maybe I’m just too deep into this case. I want to keep working it.’

‘Okay,’ Templer said, dragging out the second syllable. ‘I think that’s us finished here.’

‘Right.’ Siobhan reached for the doorhandle, trying not to read too much into those words.

‘Oh, could you ask Grant to pop in?’

Siobhan paused with the door an inch or two open, then nodded and left the room. Rebus stuck his head round.

‘Got two seconds, Gill?’

‘Just barely.’

He wandered in anyway. ‘Something I forgot to mention...’

‘Forgot?’ She produced a wry smile.

He had three sheets of fax paper in his hand. ‘These came through from Dublin.’

‘Dublin?’

‘A contact there called Declan Macmanus. I was asking about the Costellos.’

She looked up from the sheets. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Just a hunch.’

‘We’d already looked into the family.’

He nodded. ‘Of course: a quick phone call, and back comes the news that there are no convictions. But you know as well as I do, that’s often just the beginning of the story.’

And in the case of the Costellos, that story was a long one. Rebus knew he had Templer hooked. When Grant Hood knocked, she told him to come back in five minutes.

‘Better make that ten,’ Rebus added, winking towards the young man. Then he moved three file-boxes from the spare chair and made himself comfortable.

Macmanus had come good. David Costello had been wild in his youth: ‘the result of too much money given and not enough attention’, in Macmanus’s phrase. Wild meant fast cars, speeding tickets, verbal warnings issued where some miscreants would have found themselves behind bars. There were fights in pubs, smashed windows and phone boxes, at least two episodes when he’d relieved himself in a public place — O’Connell Bridge, mid-afternoon. Even Rebus had been impressed by this last. It was said that the eighteen-year-old David had held a record of sorts in the number of pubs he was barred from at the same time: the Stag’s Head, J. Grogan’s, Davie Byrnes, O’Donoghue’s, Doheny and Nesbitt’s, the Shelbourne... eleven in total. The previous year, an ex-girlfriend complained to police that he’d punched her in the face outside a nightclub on the banks of the Liffey. Templer looked up when she reached that part.

‘She’d had a few, couldn’t remember the name of the nightclub,’ Rebus said. ‘Eventually, she let it drop.’

‘You think maybe money changed hands?’

He shrugged. ‘Keep reading.’

Macmanus conceded that David Costello had cleaned up his act, pinpointing the turnaround to an eighteenth birthday party, where a friend had tried to leap between two roofs for a dare, falling short, plummeting into the alley below.

He wasn’t killed. But there was brain damage, spinal damage... not much more than a vegetable, cared for round the clock. Rebus thought back to David’s flat — the half-bottle of Bell’s... Not a drinker, he’d thought.

‘Bit of a shock at that age,’ Macmanus had written. ‘Got David clean and sober in no seconds flat, otherwise he might have turned out not so much a chip off the old block as a bloody great boulder.’

Like son, like father. Thomas Costello had managed to write off eight cars, yet never lose his driving licence. His wife Theresa had twice called police to the home when her husband was in a rage. Both times they’d found her in the bathroom, door locked but missing some splinters where Thomas had started attacking it with a carving knife. ‘Just trying to get the bloody thing open,’ he’d explained to officers the first time. ‘Thought she was going to do herself in.’

‘It’s not me that needs doing in!’ Theresa had yelled back. (In the margins of the fax, Macmanus had added a handwritten note to the effect that Theresa had twice taken overdoses, and that everyone in the city felt sorry for her: hard-working wife, abusive and lazy husband who just happened to be hugely wealthy through no significant effort of his own.)

At the Curragh, Thomas had verbally abused a tourist visitor and been ejected by stewards. He’d threatened to cut off a bookmaker’s penis after the man had asked if Mr Costello might wish finally to settle up his huge losses, losses the bookmaker had been carrying for several months.

And so it went on. The two rooms at the Caledonian made sense now...

‘Lovely family,’ Templer commented.

‘Dublin’s finest.’

‘And all of it covered up by police.’

‘Tut tut,’ Rebus remarked. ‘We wouldn’t do that here, would we?’

‘Dear me, no,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘And your thinking on all this is...?’

‘That there’s a side of David Costello we didn’t know about till now. And that goes for his family, too. Are they still in the city?’

‘They went back to Ireland a couple of days ago.’

‘But they’ll be coming over again?’

She nodded. ‘Now that Philippa’s been found.’

‘Has David Costello been told?’

‘He’ll have heard. If Philippa’s parents haven’t said, the media will have.’

‘I’d like to have been there,’ Rebus said to himself.

‘You can’t be everywhere.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Okay, talk to the parents when they get here.’

‘And the boyfriend?’

She nodded. ‘But not too heavy... doesn’t look good with someone who’s grieving.’

He smiled. ‘Always thinking of the media, eh, Gill?’

She looked at him. ‘Could you send Grant in, please?’

‘One impressionable young officer coming right up.’ He pulled open the door. Grant was standing there, rocking on the heels of his shoes. Rebus didn’t say anything, just gave another wink as he passed.

Ten minutes later, Siobhan was getting a coffee from the machine when Grant found her.

‘What did Templer want?’ she asked, unable to stop herself.

‘Offered me liaison.’

Siobhan concentrated on stirring her drink. ‘Thought it might be that.’

‘I’ll be on the telly!’

‘I’m thrilled.’

He stared at her. ‘You could try a bit harder.’

‘You’re right, I could.’ They locked eyes. ‘Thanks for helping with the clues. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

Only now did he seem to realise that their partnership truly was dissolved. ‘Oh... right,’ he said. ‘Look, Siobhan...’

‘Yes?’

‘What happened in the office... I really am sorry.’

She allowed herself a sour smile. ‘Afraid I’ll tell on you?’

‘No... it’s not that...’

But it was, and they both knew it. ‘Haircut and a new suit this weekend,’ she suggested.

He looked down at his jacket.

‘If you’re going to be on the box. Plain shirt: no stripes or checks. Oh, and Grant...?’

‘What?’

She reached out a finger and slipped it under his tie.

‘Keep this plain, too. Cartoon characters just aren’t funny.’

‘That’s what DCS Templer said.’ He sounded surprised, angling his head to examine the little Homer Simpson heads which decorated his tie.

Grant Hood’s first TV appearance took place that same afternoon. He was seated next to Gill Templer as she read out a short statement concerning the finding of the body. Ellen Wylie watched on one of the office monitors. There wasn’t going to be a speaking part for Hood, but she noticed how, as the media all started asking questions, he leaned over to whisper some comment into Templer’s ear, the Chief Super nodding a response. Bill Pryde was on Templer’s other side, fielding most of the queries. Everyone wanted to know if the corpse was that of Philippa Balfour; everyone wanted to know the cause of death.

‘We’re not in a position to confirm identity as yet,’ Pryde stated, his words punctuated with little coughs. He looked nervous, and Wylie knew the coughs were vocal tics. She’d been the same herself, all that throat-clearing. Gill Templer glanced towards Pryde, and Hood seemed to take this as his cue.

‘Cause of death is also yet to be determined,’ he said, ‘with a post-mortem examination scheduled for late afternoon. As you know, another conference will take place at seven this evening, by which time we hope to have more details available.’

‘But the death’s being treated as suspicious?’ one journalist called out.

‘At this early stage, yes, we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

Wylie stuck the end of her biro between her teeth and ground down on it. Hood was cool, no doubt about it. He’d changed his clothes: the ensemble looked brand new. Managed to wash his hair too, she thought.

‘There’s very little we can add right now,’ he was telling the media, ‘as you’ll no doubt appreciate. If and when an identification is made, family have to be contacted and the identification confirmed.’

‘Can I ask if Philippa Balfour’s family are coming to Edinburgh?’

Hood gave the questioner a sour look. ‘I won’t deign to answer that.’ Beside him, Gill Templer was nodding agreement, marking her own distaste.

‘Can I ask Detective Inspector Pryde if the missing persons investigation is ongoing?’

‘The investigation’s ongoing,’ Pryde said determinedly, picking up some confidence from Hood’s performance. Wylie wanted to switch off the monitor, but others were watching with her, so instead she got up and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. By the time she got back, the conference was ending. Someone else turned off the monitor and put her out of her misery.

‘Looked good in there, didn’t he?’

She stared at the uniform who’d asked, but there was no malice apparent. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘He did all right.’

‘Better than some,’ another voice said. She turned her head, but there were three officers there, all Gayfield-based. None was looking at her. She reached out a hand for her coffee, but didn’t pick it up, fearing her trembling would be noticed. Instead, she turned her attention to Siobhan’s notes on the German student. She could make a start, busy herself with phone calls.

Just as soon as she got the words better than some out of her head.

Siobhan was sending another message to Quizmaster. She’d taken twenty minutes getting it right.

Hellbank solved. Flip’s body found there. Do you want to talk?

It didn’t take long for him to respond.

How did you solve it?

Anagram of Arthur’s Seat. Hellbank the hillside’s name.

Was it you who found the body?

No. Was it you who killed her?

No.

But connected to the game. You don’t think anyone was helping her?

I don’t know. Do you wish to continue?

Continue?

Stricture awaits.

She stared at the screen. Did Flip’s death mean so little to him?

Flip’s dead. Someone killed her at Hellbank. I need you to come forward.

His reply took time coming through.

Can’t help.

I think you can, Quizmaster.

Undergo Stricture. Perhaps we can meet there.

She thought for a moment. What is the game’s goal? When does it end?

There was no answer. She was aware of a figure standing behind her: Rebus.

‘What’s Lover Boy saying?’

‘“Lover Boy”?’

‘You seem to be spending a lot of time together.’

‘That’s the job.’

‘I suppose it is. So what’s he saying?’

‘He wants me to go on playing the game.’

‘Tell him to sod off. You don’t need him now.’

‘Don’t I?’

The phone rang; Siobhan picked up.

‘Yes... that’s fine... of course.’ She looked up at Rebus, but he was sticking around. When she ended the call, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

‘The Chief Super,’ she explained. ‘Now that Grant’s got liaison, I’m to stick with the computer angle.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning find out if there’s any way of tracing Quizmaster. What do you reckon: Crime Squad?’

‘I doubt those buggers could spell “modem”, never mind use one.’

‘But they’ll have contacts in Special Branch.’

Rebus accepted as much with a shrug.

‘The other thing I need to do is canvass Flip’s friends and family again.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t have got to Hellbank on my own.’

Rebus nodded. ‘You don’t think she did either?’

‘She needed to know London tube lines, geography and the Scots language, Rosslyn Chapel and crossword puzzles.’

‘A tall order?’

‘That’s my guess.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Whoever Quizmaster is, he needed to know all those things too.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?’

‘I think maybe there were other players... not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.’

‘Quizmaster won’t say?’

‘No.’

‘I wonder why.’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’

Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. ‘I was wrong. We need him after all, don’t we?’

She looked at him. ‘“We”?’

He held up his hands. ‘All I meant was, the case needs him.’

‘Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt...’

‘Which is?’

‘Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.’

‘Perish the thought, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re going to be talking to her friends...’

‘Yes?’

‘Would that include David Costello?’

‘We already talked to him. He said he didn’t know anything about the game.’

‘But you’re planning to talk to him again anyway?’

She almost smiled. ‘Am I so easy to read?’

‘It’s just that maybe I could tag along. I’ve got a few more questions for him myself.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you...’

That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a family friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour’s Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later — the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.

A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.

‘That’s us then,’ Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media — names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.

‘Oh, dear,’ Devlin said. He’d removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. ‘What a terrible shame.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jean Burchill said, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she approached. Rebus was out of his chair, taking the coat from her, asking what she wanted to drink.

‘Let me buy a round,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘My invitation. That makes it my duty to get in the first round at least.’

They had colonised the back room’s top table. The place wasn’t busy, and the TV in the opposite corner meant they were unlikely to be overheard.

‘Some sort of pow-wow?’ Jean asked, after Rebus had gone.

‘Or maybe a wake,’ Wylie guessed.

‘It’s her then?’ Jean asked. Their silence was answer enough.

‘You work on witchcraft and stuff, don’t you?’ Siobhan asked Jean.

‘Belief systems,’ Jean corrected her, ‘but, yes, witchcraft falls into it.’

‘It’s just that with the coffins, and Flip’s body being found in a place called Hellbank... You said yourself there might be some connection with witchcraft.’

Jean nodded. ‘It’s true that Hellbank may have come by its name that way.’

‘And true that the little coffins on Arthur’s Seat might have been to do with witchcraft?’

Jean looked to Donald Devlin, who was following the dialogue intently. She was still debating what to say when Devlin spoke up.

‘I very much doubt there’s any element of witchcraft involved in the Arthur’s Seat coffins. But you do propose an interesting hypothesis, in that, enlightened though we might think ourselves, we are always ready to invite such mumbo-jumbo.’ He smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’m impressed that a police detective should be so minded.’

‘I didn’t say I was,’ Siobhan snapped back.

‘Clutching at straws then, perhaps?’

When Rebus returned with Jean’s lime and soda, he couldn’t help but note the silence which had fallen over the table.

‘Well,’ Wylie said impatiently, ‘now we’re all here...?’

‘Now we’re all here...’ Rebus echoed, lifting his pint, ‘cheers!’

He waited till they’d lifted their own glasses before putting his own to his mouth. Scotland: you couldn’t refuse a toast.

‘All right,’ he said, putting the glass back down, ‘there’s a murder case needs solving, and I just want to be sure in my own mind where we all stand.’

‘Isn’t that what the morning briefings are for?’

He looked at Wylie. ‘Then call this an unofficial briefing.’

‘With the booze as a bribe?’

‘I’ve always been a fan of incentive schemes.’ He managed to force a smile from her. ‘Right, here’s what I think we’ve got so far. We’ve got Burke and Hare — taking things chronologically — and soon after them we’ve got lots of little coffins found on Arthur’s Seat.’ He looked towards Jean, noticing for the first time that though there was a space on the bench next to Devlin, she’d pulled a chair over from one of the other tables so she was next to Siobhan instead. ‘Then, connected or not, we’ve got a series of similar coffins turning up in places where women happen to have disappeared or turned up dead. One such coffin is found in Falls, just after Philippa Balfour goes missing. She then turns up dead on Arthur’s Seat, location of the original coffins.’

‘Which is a long way from Falls,’ Siobhan felt bound to point out. ‘I mean, those other coffins you’ve got, they were found near the scene, weren’t they?’

‘And the Falls coffin is different from the others,’ Ellen Wylie added.

‘I’m not saying otherwise,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘I’m just trying to establish whether I’m the only one who sees possible links?’

They all looked at each other; no one said anything until Wylie lifted her Bloody Mary and, studying its red surface, mentioned the German student. ‘Swords and sorcery, role-playing, ends up dead on a Scottish hillside.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But,’ Wylie continued, ‘hard to tie in with your disappearances and drownings.’

Devlin seemed persuaded by her tone. ‘It’s not,’ he added, ‘as if the drownings were considered suspicious at the time, and my examination of the pertinent details doesn’t persuade me otherwise.’ He had taken his hands from his pockets; they now rested on the shiny knees of his baggy grey trousers.

‘Fine,’ Rebus said, ‘then I’m the only one who’s even remotely convinced?’

This time, not even Wylie spoke up. Rebus took another long swallow of beer. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Look, why are we here?’ Wylie laid her hands on the table. ‘You’re trying to convince us to work as a team?’

‘I’m just saying all these little details may end up being part of the same story.’

‘Burke and Hare to the Quizmaster’s Treasure Hunt?’

‘Yes.’ But Rebus looked like he was believing it less himself now. ‘Christ, I don’t know...’ He ran a hand over his head.

‘Look, thanks for the drink...’ Ellen Wylie’s glass was empty. She picked her shoulder-bag up from the bench, started getting to her feet.

‘Ellen...’

She looked at him. ‘Big day tomorrow, John. First full day of the murder inquiry.’

‘It’s not officially a murder inquiry until the pathologist pronounces,’ Devlin reminded her. She looked ready to say something, but just graced him with the coldest of smiles. Then she squeezed out between two of the chairs, said a general goodbye, and was gone.

‘Something connects them,’ Rebus said quietly, almost to himself. ‘I can’t for the life of me think what it is, but it’s there...’

‘It can be detrimental,’ Devlin pronounced, ‘to begin obsessing — as our transatlantic cousins might say — on a case. Detrimental both to the case and to oneself.’

Rebus tried for the same smile Ellen Wylie had just given. ‘I think the next round’s yours,’ he said.

Devlin checked his watch. ‘Actually, I’m afraid I’m unable to tarry.’ He seemed to find it painful rising from the table. ‘I don’t suppose one of the young ladies might proffer a lift?’

‘You’re on my way home,’ Siobhan conceded at last.

Rebus’s sense of desertion was softened when he saw her glance in Jean’s direction: she was leaving the two of them alone, that was all.

‘But I’ll get a round in before I go,’ Siobhan added.

‘Maybe next time,’ Rebus told her with a wink. He sat in silence with Jean until they’d gone, and was about to speak when Devlin came shuffling back.

‘Am I right to assume,’ he said, ‘that my usefulness is now at an end?’ Rebus nodded. ‘In which case, will the files be sent back to their place of origin?’

‘I’ll get DS Wylie to do it first thing,’ Rebus promised.

‘Many thanks then.’ Devlin’s smile was directed at Jean. ‘It’s been a pleasure to have met you.’

‘And you,’ she said.

‘I may pop into the Museum some day. Perhaps you’d do me the honour of showing me round...?’

‘I’d love to.’

Devlin bowed his head, and started back towards the stairs again.

‘I hope he doesn’t,’ she muttered when he’d gone.

‘Why not?’

‘He gives me the creeps.’

Rebus looked over his shoulder, as though some final view of Devlin might persuade him she was right. ‘You’re not the first to say that.’ He turned back to her. ‘But don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe with me.’

‘Oh, I hope not,’ she said, eyes twinkling above her glass.

They were in bed when the news came through. Rebus took the call, seated naked on the edge of the mattress, uncomfortably aware of the view he was presenting to Jean: probably two spare tyres around his middle, arms and shoulders more fat than muscle. The silver lining was: the view could only be worse from the front...

‘Strangulation,’ he told her, sliding back under the bedclothes.

‘It was quick then?’

‘Definitely. There’s bruising on the neck just at the carotid artery. She probably passed out, then he strangled her.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Easier to kill someone when they’re compliant. No struggle.’

‘You’re quite the expert, aren’t you? Ever killed someone, John?’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘That’s a lie, isn’t it?’

He looked at her and nodded. She leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

‘You don’t want to talk about it. That’s okay.’

He wrapped his arm around her, kissed her hair. There was a mirror in the room, one of those floor-standing models so you could see yourself head to foot. It faced away from the bed. Rebus wondered if that was on purpose or not, but he wasn’t about to ask.

‘Where’s the carotid artery?’ she asked.

He placed a finger on his own neck. ‘Put pressure on it, the person blacks out in a matter of seconds.’

She felt her neck until she’d found it. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Does everyone except me know that?’

‘Know what?’

‘Where it is, what it does.’

‘I don’t suppose so, no. What are you getting at?’

‘It’s just that whoever did it was in the know.’

‘Cops know about it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not much used these days, for obvious reasons. But there was a time it could make an unruly prisoner manageable. The Vulcan death-grip, we used to call it.’

She smiled. ‘The what?’

‘You know, Spock on Star Trek.’ He pinched her shoulder blade. She wriggled free and gave his chest a slap, resting her hand there. Rebus was thinking of his army training, and how he’d been taught attack techniques, including pressure on the carotid...

‘Would doctors know?’ Jean asked.

‘Probably anyone who’s had medical training would.’

She looked thoughtful.

‘Why?’ he asked at last.

‘Just something from the paper. Wasn’t one of Philippa’s friends a medical student, one of the ones she was going to meet that night...?’