‘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 itusually 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 leapt 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.
Stupidbitchstupidbitch …
No no no no no no …
The mason’s dream …
Flip Bal four … Gandalf … Ranald Marr …
Grant Hood.
Stupidbitchstupidbitch …
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 e
ven take the time to tell him she hated ‘Shiv’: girls at school had used it. One of her boyiriends 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 mouth piece, ‘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.
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 Quizniaster 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 cafetiere 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.