The Falls

  ‘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 even take the time to tell him she hated ‘Shiv’: girls at school had used it. One of her boyfriends 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 mouthpiece, ‘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 mes
sage 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 the
re 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.