Back out in the café, she watched as Grant Hood completed the crossword and threw the paper back down, leaning back in his seat and nonchalantly slipping his pen into his pocket. He was trying hard not to look at the table next to him, where a lone female coffee-drinker had been appraising his performance over the top of her paperback book.
Siobhan started forwards. ‘Thought you’d already done that one?’ she said, nodding towards the Scotsman.
‘Easier the second time,’ he answered in a voice which, had it been any more of an undertone, would have leapt up and broken into the chorus of ‘Teenage Kicks’. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’
The woman had gone back to her book. It was something by Muriel Spark. ‘I was just remembering an old song,’ Siobhan said.
Grant looked at her, but she wasn’t about to enlighten him, so he reached a hand out and touched the crossword. ‘Know what a homonym is?’
‘No, but it sounds rude.’
‘It’s when a word sounds like another word. Crosswords use them all the time. There’s even one in today’s, and second time around it got me thinking.’
‘Thinking what?’
‘About our latest clue. “Sounds dear”: we were thinking of “dear” meaning expensive or cherished, right?’
Siobhan nodded.
‘But it could be a homonym, signalled by “sounds”.’
‘I’m not following.’ But she’d tucked one leg beneath her and leaned forward, interested.
‘It could be telling us that the word we want isn’t d-e-a-r but d-e-e-r.’
She frowned. ‘So we end up with “B4 Scots Law deer”? Is it just me, or does that actually make less sense than before?’
He shrugged, turned his attention to the window again. ‘If you say so.’
She slapped at his leg. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘You think you’re the only one who can take a moody?’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looked at her. She was smiling again. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now... wasn’t there some story about how Holyrood got its name? One of the ancient kings shooting arrows at a deer?’
‘Search me.’
‘Excuse me.’ The voice came from the table next to them. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’ The woman put her book down on the table. ‘It was David the First, back in the twelfth century.’
‘Was it now?’ Siobhan said.
The woman ignored her tone. ‘He was out hunting when a stag pinned him to the ground. He reached for its antlers only to find that it had vanished and in its place he was holding a cross. Holy rood means holy cross. David saw it as a sign and built the abbey of Holyrood.’
‘Thank you,’ Grant Hood said. The woman bowed her head and went back to her book. ‘Nice to see an educated person,’ he added, for Siobhan’s benefit. She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘So it might have something to do with the Palace of Holyrood.’
‘One of the rooms could be called B4,’ Siobhan said. ‘Like a school classroom.’
He saw that she wasn’t being serious. ‘There could be part of Scots Law relating to Holyrood — it would make another royal connection, like Victoria.’
Siobhan unfolded her arms. ‘Could be,’ she conceded.
‘So all we have to do is find ourselves a friendly lawyer.’
‘Would someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s office do?’ Siobhan asked. ‘If so, I might know just the person...’
The Sheriff Court was in a new building on Chambers Street, just across from the museum complex. Grant dashed back down to Grassmarket to feed coins to the meter, despite Siobhan’s protestation that it’d have been cheaper getting a fine slapped on him. She went on ahead and asked around the court until she’d located Harriet Brough. The lawyer was wearing yet another tweed two-piece with grey stockings and flat black shoes. Shapely ankles though, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing.
‘My dear girl, this is splendid,’ Brough said, taking Siobhan’s hand and working her arm as if it were a water-pump. ‘Simply splendid.’ Siobhan noted that the elder woman’s make-up served merely to heighten her wrinkles and the folds of skin, and gave her face a garish pall.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Siobhan began.
‘Not in the slightest.’ They were in the court’s main entrance hall, busy with ushers and lawyers, security staff and worried-looking families. Elsewhere in the building, guilt and innocence were being judged, sentences handed down. ‘Are you here for a trial?’
‘No, I just had a question and I wondered if you might be able to help.’
‘I’d be delighted to.’
‘It’s a note I’ve found. It might relate to a case, but it seems to be in some sort of code.’
The lawyer’s eyes widened. ‘How exciting,’ she gasped. ‘Let’s just grab somewhere to sit and then you can tell me all about it.’
They found a free bench and sat down. Brough read the note through its polythene jacket. Siobhan watched as she mouthed the words silently, her brow creasing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe the context would help.’
‘It’s a missing person inquiry,’ Siobhan explained. ‘We think she may have been taking part in a game.’
‘And you need to solve this to reach the next stage? How very curious.’
Grant Hood arrived, breathing heavily. Siobhan introduced him to Harriet Brough.
‘Anything?’ he asked. Siobhan just shook her head. He looked towards the lawyer. ‘B4 doesn’t mean anything in Scots Law? Some paragraph or sub-section?’
‘My dear boy,’ Brough laughed, ‘there could be several hundred examples, though they’d more likely be 4B rather than B4. We use numerals first, as a general rule.’
Hood nodded. ‘So it would be “paragraph 4, sub-section b”?’
‘Exactly.’
‘The first clue,’ Siobhan added, ‘had a royal connection. The answer was Victoria. We’re wondering if this one might have something to do with Holyrood.’ She explained her reasoning, and Brough took another look at the note.
‘Well, the pair of you are cleverer than I am,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe my lawyer’s mind is too literal.’ She made to hand the note to Siobhan, but then snatched it back again. ‘I wonder if the phrase “Scots Law” is there to put you off the scent.’
‘How do you mean?’ Siobhan asked.
‘It’s just that if the clue is meant to be wilfully obscure, then whoever wrote it might have been thinking laterally.’
Siobhan looked to Hood, who merely shrugged. Brough was pointing to the note.
‘Something I learned from my hill-walking days,’ she said, ‘is that “law” is the Scots word for a hill...’
Rebus was on the phone to the manager of the Huntingtower Hotel.
‘So it might be in storage?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ the manager said.
‘Could you take a look? Maybe ask around, see if anyone knows?’