‘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 5 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 head- band. 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, J~rgen. 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: Jurgen 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 dipping. ‘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 dipping 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 awa
y. 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.’