6
On Monday morning, Rebus took Jean’s press cuttings in to work. Waiting for him on his desk were three messages from Steve Holly and a note in Gill Templer’s handwriting, informing him of a doctor’s appointment at eleven o’clock. He went to her office to plead his case, but a sheet of paper on her door stated that she would be spending the day at Gayfield Square. Rebus went back to his chair, grabbed his cigarettes and lighter, and headed for the car park. He’d just got one lit when Siobhan Clarke arrived.
‘Any luck?’ he asked her. Siobhan lifted the laptop she was carrying.
‘Last night,’ she told him.
‘What happened?’
She looked at his cigarette. ‘Soon as you finish that foul thing, come upstairs and I’ll show you.’
The door swung shut behind her. Rebus stared at the cigarette, took one last puff, and flicked it on to the ground.
By the time he got to the CID room, Siobhan had set up the laptop. An officer called over that there was a Steve Holly on the line. Rebus shook his head. He knew damned well what Holly wanted: Bev Dodds had told him about the trip to Falls. He held up a finger, asking Siobhan to wait a second, then got on the phone to the museum.
‘Jean Burchill’s office, please,’ he said. Then he waited.
‘Hello?’ It was her voice.
‘Jean? John Rebus here.’
‘John, I was just thinking of calling you.’
‘Don’t tell me: you’re being hassled?’
‘Well, not exactly hassled...’
‘A reporter called Steve Holly, wanting to talk about the dolls?’
‘He’s been on to you too, then?’
‘Best advice I can give, Jean: don’t say anything. Refuse his calls, and if he does get through, tell him you’ve nothing to say. No matter how hard he pushes...’
‘Understood. Did Bev Dodds blab?’
‘My fault, I should’ve known she would.’
‘I can look after myself, John, don’t worry.’
They said their goodbyes and he put down the receiver, took the short walk to Siobhan’s desk and read the message on the laptop’s screen.
This game is not a game. It’s a quest. You’ll need strength and endurance, not to mention intelligence. But your prize will be great. Do you still wish to play?
‘I sent back an e-mail saying I was interested, but asking how long the game would take.’ Siobhan was moving her finger across the keypad. ‘He told me it could take a few days, or a few weeks. So then I asked if I could start with Hellbank. He came back straight away, telling me Hellbank was the fourth level, and I’d have to play the whole thing. I said okay. At midnight, this arrived.’
There was another message on the screen. ‘He’s used a different address,’ Siobhan said. ‘God knows how many he’s got.’
‘Making him difficult to track down?’ Rebus guessed. Then he read:
How can I be sure you are who you say you are?
‘He means my e-mail address,’ Siobhan explained. ‘I was using Philippa’s before; now I’m using Grant’s.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him he’d have to trust me; either that or we could always meet.’
‘And was he keen?’
She smiled. ‘Not overly. But he did send me this.’ She hit another button.
Seven fins high is king. This queen dines well before the bust.
‘Is that it?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘I asked if he could give me a clue. All he did was send me the message again.’
‘Presumably because it is the clue.’
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I was up half the night. I don’t suppose it means anything to you?’
He shook his head. ‘You need someone who likes puzzles. Doesn’t young Grant do cryptic crosswords?’
‘Does he?’ Siobhan looked across the room to where Grant Hood was making a phone call.
‘Why don’t you go and ask?’
When Hood came off the phone, Siobhan was waiting. ‘How’s the laptop?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘I hear you like a puzzle.’
He took the sheet, but didn’t look at it. ‘Saturday night?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Saturday night was fine.’
And it had been, too: a couple of drinks and then dinner at a decent, small restaurant in the New Town. They’d talked shop mostly, having not much else in common, but it was good to have a laugh, relive a few stories. He’d been quite the gentleman, walking her home afterwards. She hadn’t asked him up for coffee. He’d said he’d find a cab on Broughton Street.
Now, Grant nodded back and smiled. ‘Fine’ was good enough for him. Then he looked at the sheet. ‘“Seven fins high is king”,’ he read aloud. ‘What’s it mean?’
‘I was hoping maybe you’d tell me.’
He studied the message again. ‘Could be an anagram. Unlikely though: not enough vowels, it’s all i’s and e’s. “Before the bust” — drugs bust maybe?’ Siobhan just shrugged. ‘Maybe it would help if you told me a bit about it,’ Hood said.
Siobhan nodded. ‘Over a coffee, if you like,’ she said.
Back at his desk, Rebus watched them leave the room, then picked up the first of the cuttings. There was a conversation going on nearby, something about another press conference. The consensus was, if DCS Templer wanted you to front it, it meant she had the knives out. Rebus’s eyes narrowed. There was a sentence he must have missed first time round. It was the 1995 clipping: Huntingtower Hotel near Perth, a dog finding the coffin and scrap of cloth. Three-quarters of the way through the story, an anonymous member of the hotel staff was quoted as saying, ‘If we’re not careful, Huntingtower’s going to get itself a reputation.’ Rebus wondered what was meant by that. He picked up the phone, thinking maybe Jean Burchill would know. But he didn’t make the call, didn’t want her to think he was... well, what exactly? He’d enjoyed yesterday, and thought she had too. He’d dropped her at her home in Portobello, but had declined the offer of coffee.
‘I’ve taken up too much of your day as it is,’ he’d said. She hadn’t denied it.
‘Maybe another time then,’ was all she’d said.
Driving back to Marchmont, he’d felt that something had been lost between them. He’d almost called her that evening, but had switched on the TV instead, losing himself in a nature programme, unable afterwards to recall anything about it. Until he’d remembered about the reconstruction and headed out to watch it...
His hand was still resting on the receiver. He picked it up and got a number for the Huntingtower Hotel, asked to speak to the manager.
‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said. ‘He’s in a meeting at the moment. Can I take a message?’
Rebus explained who he was. ‘I want to speak to someone who was working at the hotel in nineteen ninety-five.
‘What’s their name?’
He smiled at her mistake. ‘No, I mean, anyone will do.’
‘Well, I’ve been here since ninety-three.’