‘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 …’ Grant 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 crosswords 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 w
as 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 robbery,’ 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 Philippa 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.
‘Sorry, no idea,’ Silvers said into the phone. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He held the receiver out towards Siobhan.
‘Lady wants to speak to you.’
Siobhan crossed the floor, mouthing the word ‘who?’, but Silvers just shrugged, handed her the phone.
‘Hello, DC Clarke speaking?’
‘Siobhan, it’s Jean Burchill.’
‘Hi, Jean, what can I do for you?’
‘Have you identified her yet?’
‘Not a hundred per cent. How did you know?’
‘John told me, then he rushed off.’
Siobhan’s lips formed a silent O. John Rebus and Jean Burchill … well, well. ‘Do you want me to tell him you called?’
‘I tried his mobile.’
‘He might have it turned off: you don’t always want interruptions at the locus.’
‘The what?’
‘The crime scene.’
‘Arthur’s Seat, isn’t it? We were there only yesterday morning.’
Siobhan looked across to Silvers. It seemed like every other person had been on Arthur’s Seat recently. When her eyes moved to Grant, she saw that he was staring at his notepad, as if mesmerised by something there.
‘Do you know where on Arthur’s Seat?’ Jean was asking.
‘Across the road from Dunsapie Loch and a bit further around towards the east.’
Siobhan was watching Grant. His eyes were on her as he got up from his chair, picking up the notebook.
‘Where’s that … ?’ The question was rhetorical, Jean trying to picture the location. Grant was holding the notebook out in front of him, but still too far away for her to make out much: jumbles of letters, and then a couple of words circled. Siobhan narrowed her eyes.
‘Oh,’ Jean said suddenly, ‘I know where you mean. Hellbank, I think it’s called.’
‘Hellbank?’ Siobhan made sure Grant could hear her, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
‘Quite a steep slope,’ Jean was saying, ‘which might explain the name, though of course the folklore prefers witches and devilry.’
‘Yes,’ Siobhan said, dragging the word out. ‘Look, Jean, I’ve got to go.’ She was staring at the words circled on Grant’s notepad. He’d worked out the anagram. ‘That’s a surer’ had become ‘Arthur’s Seat’.
Siobhan put down the phone.
‘He was leading us to her,’ Grant said quietly.
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean, “maybe”?’
‘You’re saying he knew Flip was dead. We can’t know that for certain. All he was doing was taking us to the places Flip went.’
‘She turned up dead at this one. And who apart from Quizmaster knew she’d be there?’
‘Someone could have followed her, or even chanced upon her.’
‘You don’t believe that,’ Grant said confidently.
‘I’m playing devil’s advocate, Grant, that’s all.’
‘He killed her.’
‘Then why bother helping us play the game?’
‘To fuck with our heads.’ He paused. ‘No, to fuck with your head. And maybe more than that.’
‘Then he’d have killed me before now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because now I don’t need to play the game any more. I’ve come as far as Flip did.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘You’re saying if he sends you the clue for … what’s the next stage?’
‘Stricture.’
He nodded. ‘If he sends it, you won’t be tempted?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You’re lying.’
‘Well, after this there’s no way I’d go anywhere without back-up, and he must know that.’ She had a thought. ‘Stricture,’ she said.
‘What about it?’
‘He e-mailed Flip … after she’d been killed. Why on earth would he do that if he’d killed her?’
‘Because he’s a psychopath.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You should get online and ask him.’
‘Ask if he’s a p
sychopath?’
‘Tell him what we know.’
‘He could just disappear. Face it, Grant, we could walk past him in the street and not know him. He’s just a name – and not even a real name.’
Grant thumped the desk. ‘Well, we’ve got to do something. Any minute now he’s going to hear on the radio or TV that the body’s been found. He’ll be expecting to hear from us.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. The laptop was in her shoulder-bag, still hooked up to the mobile phone. She got it out and set it up, plugging both computer and phone into the floor point for a recharge.
Which gave Grant time enough to start having second thoughts. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘we need to clear this with DCS Templer.’
She gave him a look. ‘Back to playing by the rules, eh?’
His face reddened, but he nodded. ‘Something like this, we need to tell her.’
Silvers and Wylie, who’d been listening intently throughout, had understood enough to know something important was going on.
‘I’m with Siobhan,’ Wylie said. ‘Strike while the iron is hot and all that.’
Silvers disagreed. ‘You know the score: Chief Super’ll blast the pair of you if you go behind her back.’
‘We’re not going behind her back,’ Siobhan stated, eyes on Wylie.
‘Yes we are,’ Grant said. ‘It’s a murder case now, Siobhan. The time for playing games just stopped.’ He rested both hands on her desk. ‘Send that e-mail, and you’re on your own.’
‘Maybe that’s where I want to be,’ she retorted, regretting the words the moment they were out.
‘Nice to have a bit of plain speaking,’ Grant said.
‘I’m all for it,’ John Rebus said from the doorway. Ellen Wylie straightened up and folded her arms. ‘Speaking of which,’ he went on, ‘sorry, Ellen, I should have called you.’
‘Forget it.’ But it was clear to everyone in the room that she wouldn’t.
When Rebus had listened to Siobhan’s version of the morning’s events – Grant interrupting now and then with a comment or different perspective – they all looked to him for a decision. He ran a finger along the top of the laptop’s screen.
‘Everything you’ve just told me,’ he advised, ‘needs to be taken to DCS Templer.’
To Siobhan’s eyes, Grant didn’t look so much vindicated as revoltingly smug. Ellen Wylie, meantime, looked like she was spoiling for a fight with anyone … about anything. As a murder team, they weren’t exactly ideal.