It was huge, with three floor-to-ceiling windows, covered by pale linen roller-blinds. There was a polished oak committee-table, laid with pens, notepads and water-jugs. It took up only a third of the available space. There was a seating area — sofa and chair, with a TV nearby showing stock-market fluctuations. Ranald Marr himself was standing behind his desk, a huge antique expanse of walnut. Marr, too, was burnished, his tan looking as though it had its roots in the Caribbean rather than a Nicolson Street sun-bed. He was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately barbered. His suit was a double-breasted pinstripe, almost certainly bespoke. He deigned to come forward to greet them.
‘Ranald Marr,’ he said unnecessarily. Then, to the woman: ‘Thank you, Camille.’
She closed the doors after her, and Marr gestured towards the sofa. The two detectives made themselves comfortable while Marr settled into the matching leather chair. He crossed one leg over the other.
‘Any news?’ he asked, his face turning solicitous.
‘Inquiries are progressing, sir,’ Grant Hood informed him. Siobhan tried not to look askance at her colleague: inquiries are progressing... she wondered which TV show Grant had picked that up from.
‘The reason we’re here, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, ‘is because it looks like Philippa was involved in some sort of role-playing game.’
‘Really?’ Marr looked puzzled. ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’
‘Well, sir,’ Grant said, ‘it’s just that we’ve heard you like to play those sorts of games, too.’
‘“Those sorts of...”?’ Marr clapped his hands together. ‘Oh, I know what you mean now. My soldiers.’ He frowned. ‘Is that what Flip was involved in? She never showed any interest...’
‘This is a game where clues are given and the player has to solve each one to reach a different level.’
‘Not the same thing at all.’ Marr slapped his knees and rose to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you.’ He went to his desk and took a key from a drawer. ‘This way,’ he said brusquely, opening the door to the hallway. He led them back to the top of the staircase, but climbed a narrower stairwell to the second storey. ‘Along here.’ As he walked, Siobhan noticed a slight limp. He disguised it well, but it was there. Probably he should have been using a stick, but she doubted his vanity would allow it. She caught wafts of eau-de-Cologne. No wedding ring on show. When he made to slip the key into a lock, she saw that his wristwatch was a complicated affair with a leather strap to match his tan.
He opened the door and preceded them inside. The window had been covered with a black sheet, and he switched on the overhead lights. The room was half the size of his office, much of the space taken up with something at table height. It was a model, maybe eighteen feet long by ten wide: green rolling hills, a blue strip of river. There were trees and ruined dwellings, and, covering much of the board, two armies. Several hundred soldiers, divided into regiments. The pieces themselves were less than an inch high, but the detail on each was painstaking.
‘I painted most of them myself. Tried to keep them all that little bit different, give them a personality.’
‘You re-enact battles?’ Grant said, picking up a cannon. Marr didn’t look happy at this transgression. He nodded, lifting the piece delicately from Grant with forefinger and thumb.
‘That’s what I do. War-gaming, you could call it.’ He placed the piece back on the board.
‘I went paintballing once,’ Grant told him. ‘Ever done that?’
Marr allowed the officer a thin smile. ‘We took the bank staff once. I can’t say I was keen: too much mess. But John enjoyed himself. He’s always threatening a return fixture.’
‘John being Mr Balfour?’ Siobhan guessed.
There was a shelf stacked with books: some on modelling, some about the battles themselves. Other shelves contained clear plastic boxes within which rested armies, waiting for their chance at victory.
‘Do you ever change the outcome?’ Siobhan asked.
‘That’s part of the strategy,’ Marr explained. ‘You figure out where the defeated side went wrong, and you try to alter history.’ There was a new passion in his voice. Siobhan walked over to where a seamstress’s dummy had been kitted out in uniform. There were other uniforms — some better preserved than others — mounted behind glass on the walls. No weapons of any kind, just the clothes the soldiers would have worn.
‘The Crimea,’ Marr said, pointing to one of the framed jackets.
Grant Hood interrupted with a question. ‘Do you play against other people?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘They come here?’
‘Never here, no. I have a much larger layout in the garage at my house.’
‘Then why do you need a set-up here?’
Marr smiled. ‘I find that it relaxes me, helps me think. And I do get the occasional break from the desk.’ He broke off. ‘You think it a childish hobby?’
‘Not at all,’ Siobhan said, only half truthfully. There was a certain ‘toys for the boys’ feel to it, and she could see the years dropping from Grant as he studied the little model armies. ‘Ever play any other way?’ she asked.
‘How do you mean?’
She shrugged, as if the question had been a casual inquiry merely, keeping the conversation going. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe moves sent by post. I’ve heard of chess players doing that. Or how about the Internet?’
Grant glanced at her, seeing her gist immediately.
‘I know of some Internet sites,’ Marr said. ‘You get one of those camera thingies.’
‘Web cams?’ Grant offered.
‘That’s it. Then you can play across continents.’
‘But you’ve never done that?’
‘I’m not the most technically gifted of people.’
Siobhan turned her attention back to the bookcase. ‘Ever heard of a character called Gandalf?’
‘Which one?’ She just looked at him. ‘I mean, I know at least two. The wizard in Lord of the Rings, and the rather odd chap who runs the games shop on Leith Walk.’
‘You’ve been to his shop then?’
‘I’ve bought a few pieces from him down the years. But I mostly buy mail order.’
‘And over the Internet?’
Marr nodded. ‘Once or twice, yes. Look, who was it exactly who told you about this?’
‘About you liking to play games?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s taken you a while to ask,’ Siobhan commented.
He glowered at her. ‘Well, I’m asking now.’
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say.’
Marr didn’t like that, but refrained from making a comment. ‘Am I right in thinking,’ he said instead, ‘that whatever game it was Flip was playing, it was nothing like this?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘Nothing at all like it, sir.’
Marr looked relieved. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ Grant asked.
‘Everything’s fine. It’s just... it’s proving such a terrible strain on all of us.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Siobhan said. Then, with a last expansive look around: ‘Well, thank you for letting us see your toys, Mr Marr. We’d better let you get back to work now...’ But having half turned away, she stopped again. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen soldiers like these somewhere before,’ she said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Maybe in David Costello’s flat?’
‘I think I did give David one piece,’ Marr said. ‘Was it him who...?’ He broke off, smiled and shook his head. ‘I forgot: you won’t be at liberty to say.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ Hood told him.
As they left the building, Grant started to chuckle. ‘He didn’t like it when you called them “toys”.’