Was it you who found the body?
No. Was it you who killed her?
No.
But connected to the game. You don’t think anyone was helping her?
I don’t know. Do you wish to continue?
Continue?
Stricture awaits.
She stared at the screen. Did Flip’s death mean so little to him?
Flip’s dead. Someone killed her at Hellbank. I need you to come forward.
His reply took time coming through.
Can’t help.
I think you can, Quizmaster.
Undergo Stricture. Perhaps we can meet there.
She thought for a moment. What is the game’s goal? When does it end?
There was no answer. She was aware of a figure standing behind her: Rebus.
‘What’s Lover Boy saying?’
‘“Lover Boy”?’
‘You seem to be spending a lot of time together.’
‘That’s the job.’
‘I suppose it is. So what’s he saying?’
‘He wants me to go on playing the game.’
‘Tell him to sod off. You don’t need him now.’
‘Don’t I?’
The phone rang; Siobhan picked up.
‘Yes... that’s fine... of course.’ She looked up at Rebus, but he was sticking around. When she ended the call, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.
‘The Chief Super,’ she explained. ‘Now that Grant’s got liaison, I’m to stick with the computer angle.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning find out if there’s any way of tracing Quizmaster. What do you reckon: Crime Squad?’
‘I doubt those buggers could spell “modem”, never mind use one.’
‘But they’ll have contacts in Special Branch.’
Rebus accepted as much with a shrug.
‘The other thing I need to do is canvass Flip’s friends and family again.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I couldn’t have got to Hellbank on my own.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You don’t think she did either?’
‘She needed to know London tube lines, geography and the Scots language, Rosslyn Chapel and crossword puzzles.’
‘A tall order?’
‘That’s my guess.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Whoever Quizmaster is, he needed to know all those things too.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?’
‘I think maybe there were other players... not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.’
‘Quizmaster won’t say?’
‘No.’
‘I wonder why.’
Siobhan shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’
Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. ‘I was wrong. We need him after all, don’t we?’
She looked at him. ‘“We”?’
He held up his hands. ‘All I meant was, the case needs him.’
‘Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt...’
‘Which is?’
‘Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.’
‘Perish the thought, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re going to be talking to her friends...’
‘Yes?’
‘Would that include David Costello?’
‘We already talked to him. He said he didn’t know anything about the game.’
‘But you’re planning to talk to him again anyway?’
She almost smiled. ‘Am I so easy to read?’
‘It’s just that maybe I could tag along. I’ve got a few more questions for him myself.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you...’
That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a family friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour’s Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later — the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.
A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.
‘That’s us then,’ Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media — names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.
‘Oh, dear,’ Devlin said. He’d removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. ‘What a terrible shame.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jean Burchill said, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she approached. Rebus was out of his chair, taking the coat from her, asking what she wanted to drink.
‘Let me buy a round,’ she said, but he shook his head.
‘My invitation. That makes it my duty to get in the first round at least.’
They had colonised the back room’s top table. The place wasn’t busy, and the TV in the opposite corner meant they were unlikely to be overheard.
‘Some sort of pow-wow?’ Jean asked, after Rebus had gone.
‘Or maybe a wake,’ Wylie guessed.
‘It’s her then?’ Jean asked. Their silence was answer enough.
‘You work on witchcraft and stuff, don’t you?’ Siobhan asked Jean.
‘Belief systems,’ Jean corrected her, ‘but, yes, witchcraft falls into it.’
‘It’s just that with the coffins, and Flip’s body being found in a place called Hellbank... You said yourself there might be some connection with witchcraft.’
Jean nodded. ‘It’s true that Hellbank may have come by its name that way.’
‘And true that the little coffins on Arthur’s Seat might have been to do with witchcraft?’
Jean looked to Donald Devlin, who was following the dialogue intently. She was still debating what to say when Devlin spoke up.
‘I very much doubt there’s any element of witchcraft involved in the Arthur’s Seat coffins. But you do propose an interesting hypothesis, in that, enlightened though we might think ourselves, we are always ready to invite such mumbo-jumbo.’ He smiled at Siobhan. ‘I’m impressed that a police detective should be so minded.’
‘I didn’t say I was,’ Siobhan snapped back.
‘Clutching at straws then, perhaps?’
When Rebus returned with Jean’s lime and soda, he couldn’t help but note the silence which had fallen over the table.
‘Well,’ Wylie said impatiently, ‘now we’re all here...?’
‘Now we’re all here...’ Rebus echoed, lifting his pint, ‘cheers!’
He waited till they’d lifted their own glasses before putting his own to his mouth. Scotland: you couldn’t refuse a toast.
‘All right,’ he said, putting the glass back down, ‘there’s a murder case needs solving, and I just want to be sure in my own mind where we all stand.’
‘Isn’t that what the morning briefings are for?’
He looked at Wylie. ‘Then call this an unofficial briefing.’
‘With the booze as a bribe?’
‘I’ve always been a fan of incentive schemes.’ He managed to force a smile from her. ‘Right, here’s what I think we’ve got so far. We’ve got Burke and Hare — taking things chronologically — and soon after them we’ve got lots of little coffins found on Arthur’s Seat.’ He looked towards Jean, noticing for the first time that though there was a space on the bench next to Devlin, she’d pulled a chair over from one of the other tables so she was next to Siobhan instead. ‘Then, connected or not, we’ve got a series of similar coffins turning up in places where women happen to have disappeared or turned up dead. One such coffin is found in Falls, just after Philippa Balfour goes missing. She then turns up dead on Arthur’s Seat, location of the original coffins.’