‘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 sufface 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 …’ G
rant 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 cros swords 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 robb
ery,’ 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 Phillipa 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.