‘I suppose so.’ Rebus was thinking of Devlin, picturing him at the desk, poring over details, Ellen Wylie keeping her distance. ‘He was married, wasn’t he?’ he asked.
Curt nodded again. ‘Widower. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, really.’
Curt looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stamped the cigarette out on the pavement. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about the cemetery?’
‘I think I’ll give that a miss too.’ Rebus looked up at the clouds. ‘What the Americans would call a rain-check.’
Curt nodded. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Next time there’s a homicide,’ Rebus confirmed. Then he turned and walked away. His head was filling with images of the mortuary, the post-mortem examination. The wooden blocks they laid the deceased’s head on. The little channels on the table which drained away the body fluids. The instruments and specimen jars... He thought of the jars he’d seen in the Black Museum, the way horror had mixed with fascination. One day, maybe not too far away, he knew it would be him on that table, maybe Curt and Gates preparing their day’s routine. That was what he would be to them: part of the routine, just as another routine was being played out in the church behind him. He hoped some of it would be in Latin: Leary had been a great fan of the Latin mass, would recite whole passages to Rebus, knowing he couldn’t understand.
‘Surely in your day they taught Latin?’ he’d asked one time.
‘Maybe at the posh school,’ Rebus had replied. ‘Where I went, it was woodwork and metalwork.’
‘Turning out workers for the religion of heavy industry?’ And Leary had chuckled, the sound booming from deep within his chest. Those sounds were what Rebus would remember: the clucking of his tongue whenever he felt Rebus had said anything wantonly idiotic; the exaggerated groan whenever he rose to fetch more Guinness from the fridge.
‘Ah, Conor,’ Rebus said now, bowing his head so no passers-by would see the tears forming.
Siobhan was on the phone to the Farmer.
‘It’s good to hear from you, Siobhan.’
‘Actually, I’m after a favour, sir. Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet.’
‘There’s such a thing as too much peace and quiet, you know.’ The Farmer laughed, so she would assume he was joking, but she detected something behind his words.
‘It’s important to stay active.’ She almost winced: it sounded like something from an agony column.
‘That’s what they say all right.’ He laughed again: it sounded even more forced this time. ‘Which new hobby are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know.’ Siobhan squirmed in her chair. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d expected. Grant Hood was sitting the other side of the desk. He’d borrowed John Rebus’s chair, which looked like the one from the Farmer’s old office. ‘Maybe golf?’
Now Grant frowned, wondering what the hell she was talking about.
‘I’ve always said golf spoils a good walk,’ the Farmer said.
‘Well, walking’s good for you.’
‘Is it? Thanks for reminding me.’ The Farmer definitely sounded tetchy; she didn’t know quite why or how she’d hit a nerve.
‘About this favour...?’ she began.
‘Yes, better ask it quick, before I get my jogging shoes on.’
‘It’s sort of a clue to a puzzle.’
‘You mean a crossword?’
‘No, sir. It’s something we’re working on. Philippa Balfour was trying to solve all these clues, so we’re doing the same.’
‘And how can I help?’ He’d calmed a little; sounded interested.
‘Well, sir, the clue goes: “a corny beginning where the mason’s dream ended”. We’re wondering if it might be “mason” as in “Masonic Lodge”.’
‘And someone told you I’m a Mason?’
‘Yes.’
The Farmer was quiet for a moment. ‘Let me get a pen,’ he said at last. Then he had her repeat the clue while he wrote it down. ‘Capital M on Mason?’
‘No, sir. Does that make a difference?’
‘I’m not sure. Usually I’d expect a capital.’
‘So it could be a stonemason or something instead?’
‘Hang on, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just need to think about it. Can you give me half an hour or so?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you at St Leonard’s?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Siobhan, you don’t need to call me “sir” any more.’
‘Understood... sir.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, can’t help it.’
The Farmer seemed to brighten a little. ‘Well, I’ll call you back after I’ve given this some thought. No nearer to finding out what happened to her?’
‘We’re all working flat out, sir.’
‘I’m sure you are. How’s Gill coping?’
‘In her element, I think.’
‘She could go all the way, Siobhan, mark my words. There’s a lot you could learn from Gill Templer.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Bye, Siobhan.’
She put the phone down. ‘He’s going to mull it over,’ she told Grant.
‘Great, and meantime the clock’s ticking.’
‘Okay then, clever-clogs, let’s hear your great idea.’
He looked at her as if measuring the challenge, then held up a finger. ‘One, it reads to me almost like a story-line. Maybe from Shakespeare or somewhere.’ A second finger. ‘Two, does it mean “corny” as in old-fashioned, or is it maybe to do with where corn comes from?’
‘You mean where corn was first grown?’
He shrugged. ‘Or how it starts off life as a seed: ever heard the expression “sowing the corn of an idea”?’
She shook her head. He held up another finger.
‘Three, say it’s mason as in stonemason. Could it be a gravestone? That’s where all our dreams end, after all. Maybe it’s a carving of a corn-stalk.’ He bunched the raised fingers into a fist. ‘That’s what I’ve got so far.’
‘If it’s a gravestone, we need to know which cemetery.’ Siobhan picked up the scrap of paper on which she’d written the clue. ‘There’s nothing here, no map reference or page number...’
Grant nodded. ‘It’s a different kind of clue.’ He seemed to spot something else. ‘Could “a corny beginning” actually be “acorny”, as in like an acorn?’
Siobhan frowned. ‘Where would that get us?’
‘An oak tree... maybe oak leaves. A cemetery with “acorn” or “oak” in its name?’
She puffed out her cheeks. ‘And where would this cemetery be, or do we have to check every town and city in Scotland?’
‘I don’t know,’ Grant conceded, rubbing at his temples. Siobhan let the clue drop back on to the desk.
‘Are they getting harder?’ she asked. ‘Or is it that my brain’s packing in?’
‘Maybe we just need a break,’ Grant said, trying to get comfortable in the chair. ‘We could even call it a day.’
Siobhan glanced up at the clock. It was true: they’d put in about ten hours already. The whole morning had been spent on a wasted trip south. She could feel her limbs aching from the climb. A long hot soak with some bath salts and a glass of Chardonnay... It was tempting. But she knew that when she woke up tomorrow, there’d be scant time left before the clue was void, always supposing Quizmaster stuck to his rules. The problem was, the only way to know whether he would or not was to fail to solve the clue in time. It wasn’t the sort of risk she wanted to take.
The trip to Balfour’s Bank... she wondered if that had been a waste of time too. Ranald Marr and his little soldiers... the tip-off coming from David Costello... the broken playing piece in Costello’s flat. She wondered if Costello had been trying to tell her something about Marr. She couldn’t think what. Skulking at the back of her mind was the possibility that this whole exercise was a waste of time, that Quizmaster really was playing with them, that the game had nothing to do with Flip’s disappearance... Maybe that drink with the girls wasn’t such a bad idea... When her phone went, she snatched at it.