‘You’ve been to his shop then?’
‘I’ve bought a few pieces from him down the years. But I mostly buy mail order.’
‘And over the Internet?’
Marr nodded. ‘Once or twice, yes. Look, who was it exactly who told you about this?’
‘About you liking to play games?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s taken you a while to ask,’ Siobhan commented.
He glowered at her. ‘Well, I’m asking now.’
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say.’
Marr didn’t like that, but refrained from making a comment. ‘Am I right in thinking,’ he said instead, ‘that whatever game it was Flip was playing, it was nothing like this?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘Nothing at all like it, sir.’
Marr looked relieved. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ Grant asked.
‘Everything’s fine. It’s just … it’s proving such a terrible strain on all of us.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Siobhan said. Then, with a last expansive look around: ‘Well, thank you for letting us see your toys, Mr Marr. We’d better let you get back to work now …’ But having half turned away, she stopped again. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen soldiers like these somewhere before,’ she said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Maybe in David Costello’s flat?’
‘I think I did give David one piece,’ Marr said. ‘Was it him who … ?’ He broke off, smiled and shook his head. ‘I forgot: you won’t be at liberty to say.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ Hood told him.
As they left the building, Grant started to chuckle. ‘He didn’t like it when you called them “toys”.’
‘I know, that’s why I said it.’
‘Don’t bother trying to open an account, I can see you being blackballed.’
She smiled. ‘He knows about the Internet, Grant. And playing those sorts of games, he’s probably got an analytical mind.’
‘Quizmaster?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, why would he do it? What’s in it for him?’
Grant shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing much … apart from control of Balfour’s Bank.’
‘Yes, there’s always that,’ Siobhan said. She was thinking about the playing piece in David Costello’s flat. A little gift from Ranald Marr … only Costello had said he’d no idea where it had come from, with its broken musket and the soldier’s head twisted round. Then he’d called her and told her about Marr’s little hobby …
‘Meantime,’ Grant was saying, ‘we’re no closer to solving the clue.’
He broke her train of thought. She turned towards him. ‘Just promise me one thing, Grant.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Promise you’re not going to turn up outside my flat at midnight.’
‘No can do,’ Grant said, smiling. ‘We’re against the clock, remember.’
She looked at him again, remembering the way he’d been on top of Hart Fell, the way he’d gripped her hands. Right now, he looked like he was enjoying himself – the chase, the challenge – just a little too much.
‘Promise,’ she said again.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
Then he turned and gave her a wink.
*
Back at the station, Siobhan sat in a toilet cubicle and studied the hand which she’d brought up level with her eyes. The hand carried a slight tremble. It was curious how you could be quivering inside, yet manage not to show it. But she knew her body had other ways of manifesting outward signs: the rashes she sometimes got; the outbreaks of acne on her chin and neck; the eczema she sometimes suffered from on the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.
She was trembling now because she was having trouble focusing on what was important. It was important to do the job well; important, too, not to piss off Gill Templer. She didn’t think her own hide was toughened the way Rebus’s was. The case was important, and maybe Quizmaster was too. It rankled that she couldn’t know for sure. She knew one thing: that the game was in danger of becoming an obsession. She kept trying to put herself in Flip Balfour’s shoes, to think along the same lines. She couldn’t be sure how well she was doing. Then there was Grant, who was looking more and more of a liability. Yet she couldn’t have come this far without him, so maybe it was important that she stay close to him. She couldn’t even be sure that Quizmaster was male. She had a gut feeling, but it was dangerous to depend on those: she’d seen Rebus screw up more than once on the strength of a gut feeling for someone’s guilt or innocence.
She still wondered about the liaison job, and whether she’d burned her bridges there. Gill had succeeded only by becoming more like the male officers around her, people like ACC Carswell. She probably thought she’d played the system, but Siobhan suspected that it was the system which had played her, moulding her, changing her, making sure she would fit in. It meant putting up barriers, keeping your distance. It meant teaching people lessons, people like Ellen Wylie.
She heard the door to the Ladies’ creak open. A moment later, there was a soft tapping on her cubicle door.
‘Siobhan? That you in there?’
She recognised the voice: Dilys Gemmill, one of the WPCs. ‘What’s up, Dilys?’ she called.
‘That drink tonight, wondered if you were still on.’
It was a regular thing: four or five WPCs, plus Siobhan. A bar with loud music, plenty of gossip to go with the Moscow Mules. Siobhan an honorary member: the only non-uniform ever invited.
‘I don’t think I can manage it, Dilys.’
‘Come on, girl …’
‘Next time for definite, okay?’
‘It’s your funeral,’ Gemmill said, moving away.
‘I hope not,’ Siobhan muttered to herself, getting up to unlock the door.
Rebus stood across the road from the church. He’d been home to change, but now that he was here he couldn’t make himself go in. A taxi drew up and Dr Curt stepped out. As he stopped to button his jacket, he saw Rebus. It was a small, local church, just as Leary had wanted. He’d said as much to Rebus several times during the course of their conversations.
‘Quick, clean and simple,’ he’d stated. ‘It’s the only way I’ll have it.’
The church might have been small, but the congregation looked large. The Archbishop, who’d attended the Scots College in Rome with Leary, would be leading the service, and what looked like dozens of priests and officiates had filed into the church already. ‘Clean’ it might be, but Rebus doubted the event would turn out either ‘quick’ or ‘simple’ …
Curt was crossing the street. Rebus flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the roadway and slid his hands into his pockets. He noticed some ash clinging to his sleeve, but didn’t bother brushing it away.
‘Nice day for it,’ Curt commented, studying a sky which thick cloud had turned a bruised-looking grey. It felt claustrophobic, even outdoors. When Rebus brushed a hand across the back of his head he could feel the follicles coated with sweat. On afternoons like this, Edinburgh felt like imprisonment, a city of walls.
Curt was tugging at one of his shirt sleeves, making sure it came an inch below the jacket, exposing a hallmarked silver cuff-link. His suit was dark blue, the shirt white, his tie plain black. His black brogues had been given a polish. Always immaculately dressed. Rebus knew his own suit, though the best, the most formal he possessed, was shabby by comparison. He’d had it six, seven years, had sucked his gut in to get the trousers fastened. Hadn’t even bothered trying to button the jacket. Austin Reed he’d got it from; maybe it was time for another visit. He got few invites these days to weddings and christenings, but funerals were another matter. Colleagues, drinkers he knew … they were falling off the perch. Only three weeks back, he’d been to the crematorium, a woolly-suit from St Leonard’s who’d died less than a year after retiring. The white shirt and black tie had gone back on to the hanger afterwards. He’d checked the shirt collar this afternoon, before putti
ng the shirt back on.
‘Shall we go in then?’ Curt said.
Rebus nodded. ‘You go ahead.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m just not sure …’ He took his hands from his pockets, busied himself with another cigarette. Offered one to Curt, who nodded and took it.
‘Not sure of what?’ the pathologist asked, as Rebus lit the cigarette for him. Rebus waited until he had his own one lit. A couple of puffs and then a loud exhaling of smoke.
‘I want to remember him the way he was to me,’ he said. ‘If I go in there, it’ll be speeches and other people’s memories. It won’t be the Conor I knew.’
‘The pair of you were pretty close at one time,’ Curt agreed. ‘I didn’t really know him that well.’
‘Is Gates coming?’ Rebus asked.
Curt shook his head. ‘Prior commitment.’
‘Did the pair of you do the autopsy?’
‘It was a brain haemorrhage.’
More mourners were arriving, some on foot, others by car. Another taxi drew up, and Donald Devlin got out. Rebus thought he spotted a grey cardigan beneath the suit jacket. Devlin took the church steps at a brisk pace and disappeared inside.
‘Was he able to help you?’ Curt asked.
‘Who?’
Curt nodded towards the departing taxi. ‘The old-timer.’
‘Not really. He gave it his best shot though.’
‘Then he did as much as Gates or I could have.’
‘I suppose so.’ Rebus was thinking of Devlin, picturing him at the desk, poring over details, Ellen Wylie keeping her distance. ‘He was married, wasn’t he?’ he asked.
Curt nodded again. ‘Widower. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, really.’
Curt looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stamped the cigarette out on the pavement. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about the cemetery?’
‘I think I’ll give that a miss too.’ Rebus looked up at the clouds. ‘What the Americans would call a rain-check.’
Curt nodded. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Next time there’s a homicide,’ Rebus confirmed. Then he turned and walked away. His head was filling with images of the mortuary, the post-mortem examination. The wooden blocks they laid the deceased’s head on. The little channels on the table which drained away the body fluids. The instruments and specimen jars … He thought of the jars he’d seen in the Black Museum, the way horror had mixed with fascination. One day, maybe not too far away, he knew it would be him on that table, maybe Curt and Gates preparing their day’s routine. That was what he would be to them: part of the routine, just as another routine was being played out in the church behind him. He hoped some of it would be in Latin: Leary had been a great fan of the Latin mass, would recite whole passages to Rebus, knowing he couldn’t understand.
‘Surely in your day they taught Latin?’ he’d asked one time.
‘Maybe at the posh school,’ Rebus had replied. ‘Where I went, it was woodwork and metalwork.’
‘Turning out workers for the religion of heavy industry?’ And Leary had chuckled, the sound booming from deep within his chest. Those sounds were what Rebus would remember: the clucking of his tongue whenever he felt Rebus had said anything wantonly idiotic; the exaggerated groan whenever he rose to fetch more Guinness from the fridge.
‘Ah, Conor,’ Rebus said now, bowing his head so no passers-by would see the tears forming.
Siobhan was on the phone to the Farmer.
‘It’s good to hear from you, Siobhan.’
‘Actually, I’m after a favour, sir. Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet.’
‘There’s such a thing as too much peace and quiet, you know.’ The Farmer laughed, so she would assume he was joking, but she detected something behind his words.
‘It’s important to stay active.’ She almost winced: it sounded like something from an agony column.
‘That’s what they say all right.’ He laughed again: it sounded even more forced this time. ‘Which new hobby are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know.’ Siobhan squirmed in her chair. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d expected. Grant Hood was sitting the other side of the desk. He’d borrowed John Rebus’s chair, which looked like the one from the Farmer’s old office. ‘Maybe golf ?’
Now Grant frowned, wondering what the hell she was talking about.
‘I’ve always said golf spoils a good walk,’ the Farmer said.
‘Well, walking’s good for you.’
‘Is it? Thanks for reminding me.’ The Farmer definitely sounded tetchy; she didn’t know quite why or how she’d hit a nerve.
‘About this favour … ?’ she began.
‘Yes, better ask it quick, before I get my jogging shoes on.’
‘It’s sort of a clue to a puzzle.’
‘You mean a crossword?’
‘No, sir. It’s something we’re working on. Philippa Balfour was trying to solve all these clues, so we’re doing the same.’
‘And how can I help?’ He’d calmed a little; sounded interested.
‘Well, sir, the clue goes: “a corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended”. We’re wondering if it might be “mason” as in “Masonic Lodge”.’
‘And someone told you I’m a Mason?’
‘Yes.’
The Farmer was quiet for a moment. ‘Let me get a pen,’ he said at last. Then he had her repeat the clue while he wrote it down. ‘Capital M on Mason?’
‘No, sir. Does that make a difference?’
‘I’m not sure. Usually I’d expect a capital.’
‘So it could be a stonemason or something instead?’
‘Hang on, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just need to think about it. Can you give me half an hour or so?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you at St Leonard’s?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Siobhan, you don’t need to call me “sir” any more.’
‘Understood … sir.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, can’t help it.’
The Farmer seemed to brighten a little. ‘Well, I’ll call you back after I’ve given this some thought. No nearer to finding out what happened to her?’
‘We’re all working flat out, sir.’
‘I’m sure you are. How’s Gill coping?’
‘In her element, I think.’
‘She could go all the way, Siobhan, mark my words. There’s a lot you could learn from Gill Templer.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Bye, Siobhan.’
She put the phone down. ‘He’s going to mull it over,’ she told Grant.
‘Great, and meantime the clock’s ticking.’
‘Okay then, clever-clogs, let’s hear your great idea.’
He looked at her as if measuring the challenge, then held up a finger. ‘One, it reads to me almost like a story-line. Maybe from Shakespeare or somewhere.’ A second finger. ‘Two, does it mean “corny” as in old-fashioned, or is it maybe to do with where corn comes from?’
‘You mean where corn was first grown?’
He shrugged. ‘Or how it starts off life as a seed: ever heard the expression “sowing the corn of an idea”?’
She shook her head. He held up another finger.
‘Three, say it’s mason as in stonemason. Could it be a gravestone? That’s where all our dreams end, after all. Maybe it’s a carving of a corn-stalk.’ He bunched the raised fingers into a fist. ‘That’s what I’ve got so far.’
‘If it’s a gravestone, we need to know which cemetery.’ Siobhan picked up the scrap of paper on which she’d written the clue. ‘There’s nothing here, no map reference or page number …’
Grant nodded. ‘It’s a different kind of clue.’ He seemed to spot something else. ‘Could “a corny beginning” actually be “acorny”, as in like an acorn?’
> Siobhan frowned. ‘Where would that get us?’
‘An oak tree … maybe oak leaves. A cemetery with “acorn” or “oak” in its name?’
She puffed out her cheeks. ‘And where would this cemetery be, or do we have to check every town and city in Scotland?’
‘I don’t know,’ Grant conceded, rubbing at his temples. Siobhan let the clue drop back on to the desk.
‘Are they getting harder?’ she asked. ‘Or is it that my brain’s packing in?’
‘Maybe we just need a break,’ Grant said, trying to get comfortable in the chair. ‘We could even call it a day.’
Siobhan glanced up at the clock. It was true: they’d put in about ten hours already. The whole morning had been spent on a wasted trip south. She could feel her limbs aching from the climb. A long hot soak with some bath salts and a glass of Chardonnay … It was tempting. But she knew that when she woke up tomorrow, there’d be scant time left before the clue was void, always supposing Quizmaster stuck to his rules. The problem was, the only way to know whether he would or not was to fail to solve the clue in time. It wasn’t the sort of risk she wanted to take.
The trip to Balfour’s Bank … she wondered if that had been a waste of time too. Ranald Marr and his little soldiers … the tip-off coming from David Costello … the broken playing piece in Costello’s flat. She wondered if Costello had been trying to tell her something about Marr. She couldn’t think what. Skulking at the back of her mind was the possibility that this whole exercise was a waste of time, that Quizmaster really was playing with them, that the game had nothing to do with Flip’s disappearance … Maybe that drink with the girls wasn’t such a bad idea … When her phone went, she snatched at it.
‘DC Clarke, CID,’ she recited into the mouthpiece.
‘DC Clarke, it’s the front desk. Got someone down here wants a word.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A Mr Gandalf.’ The speaker’s voice dropped. ‘Weird-looking bugger, like he got sunstroke in the Summer of Love and hasn’t been right since …’
Siobhan went downstairs. Gandalf was holding a dark brown fedora, stroking the multicoloured feather attached to its headband. He wore a brown leather waistcoat over the same Grateful Dead T-shirt he’d worn in his shop. The pale blue cords had seen better days, as had the sand-shoes on his feet.