‘Because of the connection with David Costello?’
‘The Costellos are well known, Inspector, part of the Dublin social fabric, you might say.’
‘You’d know better than me, which is the reason I’m calling.’
‘Ah, is it now?’
‘I want to know a bit more about the family.’ Rebus started doodling on a sheet of paper. ‘I’m sure they’re blemish-free, but it would put my mind at rest if I had some evidence of that.’
‘As to “blemish-free”, I’m not sure I can give that guarantee.’
‘Oh?’
‘Every family has its dirty laundry, does it not?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Maybe I could send you the Costellos’ laundry list. How would that be?’
‘That would be fine.’
‘Do you happen to have a fax number there?’
Rebus recited it. ‘You’ll need the international code,’ he warned.
‘I think I can manage that. How confidential would this information remain?’
‘As confidential as I can make it.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word then. Are you a rugby man, Inspector?’
Rebus got the feeling he should answer yes. ‘Only as a spectator.’
‘I like to come to Edinburgh for the Six Nations. Maybe we’ll meet for a drink next time.’
‘I’d like that. Let me give you a couple of numbers.’ This time he recited his office number and his mobile.
‘I’ll be sure to look you up.’
‘You do that. I owe you a large malt.’
‘I’ll hold you to it.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not really a rugby man at all, are you?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted. There was laughter on the line.
‘But you’re honest, and that’s a start. Goodbye, Inspector.’
Rebus put the phone down. It struck him that he still didn’t know Macmanus’s rank, or anything much about him at all. When he looked down at the doodles covering the sheet of paper in front of him, he found he’d drawn half a dozen coffins. He waited twenty minutes for Macmanus to get back to him, but the fax machine was playing dead.
He hit the Maltings first, and followed it up with the Royal Oak, before making for Swany’s. Just the one drink in each pub, starting with a pint of Guinness. It had been a while since he’d tried the stuff; it was good but filling. He knew he couldn’t do too many, so switched to IPA and finally a Laphroaig with the merest drizzle of water. Then it was a taxi to the Oxford Bar, where he demolished the last corned beef and beetroot roll on the shelf and followed it with a main course of a Scotch egg. He was back on the IPA, needed something to wash down the food. A few of the regulars were in. The back room had been taken over by a party of students, and no one in the front bar was saying much, as if the sounds of enjoyment from upstairs were somehow blasphemous. Harry was behind the bar, and clearly relishing the prospect of the revellers’ departure. When someone was dispatched to fetch another round, Harry kept up a steady stream of comments along the lines of ‘you’ll be heading off soon … going to a club … the night’s young …’ The young man, his face so shiny it might have been polished, just grinned inanely, taking none of it in. Harry shook his head in disgust. When the drinker headed off, tray laden with slopping pints, one of the regulars informed Harry that he was losing his touch. The stream of profanities which followed seemed, to everyone present, evidence to the contrary.
Rebus had come here in a vain attempt to flush all those little coffins out of his mind. He kept imagining them, seeing them as the work of one man, one killer … and wondering if there were any more of them, lying rotting on barren hillsides perhaps, or tucked away in crevasses, or turned into macabre ornaments in their finders’ garden sheds … Arthur’s Seat and Falls and Jean’s four coffins. He saw a continuity there, and it filled him with dread. I want to be cremated, he thought, or maybe strung up in a tree the way Aborigines do it. Anything but the strict confines of a box … anything but that.
When the door opened, everyone turned to examine the new arrival. Rebus straightened his back, trying not to show surprise. It was Gill Templer. She saw him immediately and smiled, unbuttoning her coat and taking off her scarf.
‘Thought I might find you here,’ she said. ‘I tried phoning, but got your machine.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘Gin and tonic.’
Harry had heard the order and was already reaching for a glass. ‘Ice and lemon?’ he asked.
‘Please.’
Rebus noticed that the other drinkers had shifted a little, giving Rebus and Gill as much privacy as the cramped front bar would allow. He paid for the drink and watched Gill gulp at it.
‘I needed that,’ she said.
Rebus lifted his own glass and toasted her. ‘Slainte.’ Then he took a sip. Gill was smiling.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘rude of me to just hammer it like that.’
‘Rough day?’
‘I’ve had better.’
‘So what brings you here?’
‘A couple of things. As usual, you haven’t been bothering to keep me up to date with any progress.’
‘There’s not much to report.’
‘It’s a dead end then?’
‘I didn’t say that. I just need a few more days.’ He lifted his glass again.
‘Then there’s the small matter of your doctor’s appointment.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ll get round to it, promise.’ He nodded towards the pint. ‘This is my first tonight, by the way.’
‘Aye, that’ll be right,’ Harry muttered, busying himself drying glasses.
Gill smiled, but her eyes were on Rebus. ‘How are things with Jean?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Fine. She’s concentrating on the historical side.’
‘Do you like her?’
Now Rebus looked at Gill. ‘Does the matchmaker service come free?’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘And you came all this way to ask?’
‘Jean’s been hurt before by an alcoholic, it’s how her husband went.’
‘She told me. Don’t worry on that score.’
She looked down at her drink. ‘How’s it working out with Ellen Wylie?’
‘I’ve no complaints.’
‘Has she said anything about me?’
‘Not really.’ Rebus had finished his drink, waved his glass to signal as much. Harry put down the tea-cloth and started pouring. Rebus felt awkward. He didn’t like Gill being here like this, dropping in and catching him off-guard. He didn’t like that the regulars were listening to every word. Gill seemed to sense his discomfort.
‘Would you rather we did this at the office?’
He shrugged again. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Enjoying the new job?’
‘I think I’ll manage.’
‘I’d put money on it.’ He pointed to her glass, offered a refill. Gill shook her head. ‘I should be going. This was just a quick one before home.’
‘Same here.’ Rebus made a show of checking his watch.
‘I’ve got the car outside … ?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I like to walk, keeps me fit.’
Behind the bar, Harry snorted. Gill wrapped the scarf back around her neck.
‘Maybe see you tomorrow then,’ she said.
‘You know where my office is.’
She studied her surroundings – walls the colour of a used cigarette-filter, dusty prints of Robert Burns – and began to nod. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ Then she gave a little wave which seemed to take in the whole bar, and was gone.
‘Your boss?’ Harry guessed. Rebus nodded. ‘Swap you,’ the barman said. The regulars started laughing. Another student appeared from the back room, the list of required drinks scribbled on the back of an envelope.
‘Three IPA,’ Harry began to recite, ‘two lager tops, a gin, lime and soda, two Becks and a dry white wine.’
The student looked a
t the note, then nodded in amazement. Harry winked at his audience.
‘Might be students, but they’re not the only smart bastards round here.’
Siobhan sat in her living room, staring at the message on the laptop’s screen. It was in response to an e-mail she’d sent to Quizmaster, informing him that she was now working on the second clue.
I forgot to tell you, from now on you’re against the clock. In twenty-four hours’ time, the next clue becomes void.
Siobhan got to work on the keyboard: I think we should meet. I have some questions. She hit ‘send’, then waited. His reply was prompt.
The game will answer your questions.
She hit more keys: Did Flip have anyone helping her? Is anyone else playing the game?
She waited for several minutes. Nothing. She was in the kitchen, pouring another half-glass of Chilean red, when she heard the laptop telling her she had a message. Wine splashed on to the back of her hand as she dashed back through.
Hello, Siobhan.
She stared at the screen. The sender’s address was a series of numbers. Before she could reply, the computer told her she had another message.
Are you there? Your light’s on.
She froze, the screen seeming to shimmer. He was here! Right outside! She walked quickly to the window. Down below, a car was parked, headlights still on.
Grant Hood’s Alfa.
He waved up at her. Cursing, she ran to the front door, down the stairs and out of the tenement.
‘Is that your idea of a joke?’ she hissed.
Hood, easing himself from the driver’s seat, seemed stunned by her reaction.
‘I just had Quizmaster online,’ she explained. ‘I thought you were him.’ She paused, narrowed her eyes. ‘Just exactly how did you do that?’
Hood held up his mobile phone. ‘It’s a WAP,’ he explained sheepishly. ‘Just got it today. Sends e-mails, the lot.’
She snatched it from him and studied it. ‘Jesus, Grant.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to …’
She handed back the phone, knowing damned well what he’d wanted: to show off his latest gadget.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked.
‘I think I’ve cracked it.’
She stared at him. ‘Again?’ He shrugged. ‘How come you always wait till late at night?’
‘Maybe that’s when I do my best thinking.’ He glanced up at the tenement. ‘So are you going to invite me in, or do we go on giving the neighbours a free show?’
She looked around. It was true that heads were silhouetted at a couple of windows. ‘Come on then,’ she said.
Upstairs, the first thing she did was check the laptop, but Quizmaster hadn’t replied.
‘I think you scared him off,’ Hood said, reading the onscreen dialogue.
Siobhan fell on to the sofa and picked up her glass. ‘So what have you got for us tonight, Einstein?’
‘Ah, that famous Edinburgh hospitality,’ Hood said, eyeing the glass.
‘You’re driving.’
‘One glass can’t hurt.’
Siobhan got up again, uttering a slight groan of protest, and headed for the kitchen. Hood reached into the bag he’d brought with him and started pulling out maps and guidebooks.
‘What have you got there?’ Siobhan asked, handing him a tumbler and starting to pour. She sat down, drained her own glass, refilled it, and placed what was left of the bottle on the floor.
‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’ He was teasing her – or trying to. But she wasn’t in the mood.
‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’
‘Well … if you’re absolutely sure I’m not …’ Her glare brought him up short. He stared down at the maps. ‘I got thinking about what that lawyer said.’
‘Harriet?’ Siobhan frowned. ‘She said hills are sometimes called laws.’
Hood nodded. ‘“Scots Law”,’ he recited. ‘Meaning maybe we’re looking for a word that means the same thing law does in Scots.’
‘Which would be … ?’
Hood unfolded a sheet of paper and started to read aloud. ‘Hill, heights, bank, brae, ben, fell, tor …’ He turned the sheet towards her. ‘The thesaurus is full of them.’
She took the paper from him and started reading the list for herself. ‘We went through all the maps,’ she complained.
‘But we didn’t know what we were looking for. Some of the guides have hills and mountains indexed at the back. For the rest, we check grid reference B4 on each page.’
‘Looking for what exactly?’
‘Deer Hill, Stag’s Brae, Doe Bank …’
Siobhan nodded. ‘You’re assuming “sounds dear” means “d-e-e-r”?’
Hood took a sip of wine. ‘I’m assuming a lot. But it’s better than nothing.’
‘And it couldn’t wait till morning?’
‘Not when Quizmaster suddenly decides we’re against the clock.’ Hood picked up the first map-book and flicked to the index.
Siobhan studied him over the top of her glass. Yes, she was thinking, but you didn’t know there was a time element until you got here. She was also still shaken by the way he’d e-mailed her by phone. She wondered just how mobile Quizmaster was. She’d given him her name, and the city where she worked. These days, how hard would it be for him to get an address? Five minutes on the Net would probably do it.
Hood didn’t seem to notice that she was still staring at him. Maybe he’s closer than you think, girl, Siobhan thought to herself.
After half an hour, she put on some music, a Mogwai EP, about as laid-back as the band ever got. She asked Hood if he wanted coffee. He was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. He had spread an Ordnance Survey map across his thighs and was studying one of the squares. He looked up at her and blinked, as though the lighting in the room was new to him.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
When she came back with the mugs, she told him about Ranald Marr. The look on his face changed to a scowl.
‘Keeping it a secret, were you?’
‘I thought it could wait till morning.’ Her answer didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he took his coffee from her with only a grunt of thanks. Siobhan could feel her anger rising again. This was her place, her home. What was he doing here anyway? Work was for the office, not her living room. How come he didn’t phone and tell her to go to his place? The more she thought about it, the more she realised that she really didn’t know Grant at all. She’d worked with him before; they’d been to parties, gone out drinking and for that one meal. She didn’t think he’d ever had a girlfriend. At St Leonard’s a few of the CID called him Go-Go Gadget, a reference to some TV cartoon. He was both a useful officer and a figure of amusement at the same time.
He wasn’t like her. He was nothing like her at all. And yet here she was sharing her free time with him. Here she was letting him turn that free time into yet more work.
She picked up another of the map books, Handy Road Atlas Scotland. The first page, square B4 was the Isle of Man. This really annoyed her for some reason: the Isle of Man wasn’t even in Scotland! The next page, B4 was in the Yorkshire Dales.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said out loud.
‘What is it?’
‘This map, it’s like Bonnie Prince Charlie won the war.’ She flipped to the next page, where B4 was the Mull of Kintyre, but the page after that her eyes fixed on the words ‘Loch Fell’. She studied the square more closely: the M74 motorway and the town of Moffat. She knew Moffat: a picture-postcard place with at least one good hotel, where she’d stopped once for lunch. At the top of square B4 she saw a small triangle, indicating a peak. The peak was called Hart Fell. It was eight hundred and eight metres high. She looked at Hood.
‘A hart’s a kind of deer, isn’t it?’
He got up off the floor, came and sat next to her. ‘Harts and hinds,’ he said. ‘The hart is the male.’
‘Why not a stag?’
r /> ‘Harts are older, I think.’ He studied the map, his shoulder touching Siobhan’s arm. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard work. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s the middle of nowhere.’
‘Maybe it’s coincidence,’ she suggested.
He nodded, but she could see he was convinced. ‘Square B4,’ he said. ‘A fell is another name for a law. A hart is a kind of deer …’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘No coincidence.’
Siobhan switched her TV on and pressed for Teletext.
‘What are you doing?’ Hood asked.
‘Checking the weather for tomorrow. No way I’m climbing Hart Fell in a gale.’
Rebus had dropped into St Leonard’s, gathered together the notes on the four cases: Glasgow, Dunfermline, Perth and Nairn.
‘All right, sir?’ one of the uniforms had asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He’d had a few drinks, so what? Didn’t make him incapable. The taxi was waiting for him outside. Five minutes later, he was climbing the stairs to his flat. Another five after that, he was smoking a cigarette, drinking tea, and opening the first file. He sat in his chair by the window, his little oasis in the midst of chaos. He could hear a siren in the distance; sounded like an ambulance, hurtling along Melville Drive. He had photos of the four victims, culled from newspapers. They smiled at him in black and white. The snatch of poetry came back to him, and he knew all four shared the same characteristic.
They’d died because they’d been available.
He started pinning the photos to a large corkboard. He had a postcard, too, bought from the museum shop: three of the Arthur’s Seat coffins in close-up, surrounded by darkness. He turned the postcard over and read: ‘Carved wooden figures, with fabric clothing, in miniature coffins of pine, from a group found in a rocky niche on the north-eastern slopes of Arthur’s Seat, in June 1836.’ It struck him that the police of the time had probably been involved, which meant there might be paperwork somewhere. Then again, just how organised had the force been back then? He doubted there’d been anything like the modern CID. Probably they’d resorted to examining victims’ eyeballs, looking for images of the murderer. Not too far removed from the witchcraft which was one theory behind the dolls. Had witches ever plied their trade on Arthur’s Seat? These days, he suspected they’d get some sort of Enterprise Initiative.