‘Doctor’s orders. We’re being picked off one by one, John.’
Rebus commiserated for a couple of minutes, thinking of his own doctor’s appointment, the one he was missing yet again by making this call. When he put the phone down, he scribbled the name Marr on to his pad and circled it. Ranald Marr, with his Maserati and toy soldiers. You’d almost have thought he’d lost a daughter... Rebus was beginning to revise that opinion. He wondered if Marr knew how precarious his job was, knew that the mere thought of their savings catching a cold might spur the small investors on, demanding a sacrifice...
He switched to a picture of Thomas Costello, who’d never had to work in his life. What must that be like? Rebus couldn’t begin to answer the question. His parents had been poor all their lives: never owned their own house. When his father had died, he’d left four hundred quid for Rebus to split with his brother. A policy had taken care of the funeral. Even back then, pocketing his share of the notes in the bank manager’s office, he’d wondered... half his parents’ life savings represented one of his week’s wages.
He had money in the bank himself now: did very little with his monthly salary. The flat was paid off; neither Rhona nor Samantha ever seemed to want anything from him. Food and drink, and garage bills for the Saab. He never went on holiday, probably bought a couple of LPs or CDs a week. A couple of months back, he’d thought of buying a Linn hi-fi system, but the shop had knocked him back, told him they’d nothing in stock and would phone him when they had. They’d never phoned. The Lou Reed tickets hadn’t exactly stretched him: Jean had insisted on paying for hers... and cooked him breakfast next morning to boot.
‘It’s the Laughing Policeman!’ Siobhan called across the office. She was seated at her desk next to Brains from Fettes. Rebus realised he had a big grin on his face. He got up and crossed the room.
‘I withdraw that remark,’ Siobhan said quickly, holding up her hands in surrender.
‘Hello, Brains,’ Rebus said.
‘His name’s Bain,’ Siobhan corrected him. ‘He likes to be called Eric.’
Rebus ignored this. ‘It’s like the deck of the Starship Enterprise in here.’ He was looking at the array of computers and connections: two laptops, two PCs. He knew one of the PCs was Siobhan’s, the other Flip Balfour’s. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what do we know about Philippa’s early life in London?’
She wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Not much. Why?’
‘Because the boyfriend says she was having these nightmares, running up and down the London house being chased by something.’
‘Sure it was the London house?’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘Just that Junipers gave me the heebies: suits of armour and dusty old billiard rooms... imagine growing up with that.’
‘David Costello said the London house.’
‘Transference?’ Bain suggested. They both looked at him. ‘Just a thought,’ he said.
‘So really it was Junipers she was scared of?’ Rebus asked.
‘Let’s get out the ouija board and ask her.’ Siobhan realised what she’d said and winced. ‘Worst possible taste, sorry.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rebus said. He had, too. At the murder scene, one of the woolly-suits helping with the cordon had been overheard telling a mate: ‘I bet she hadn’t banked on that. Get it?’
‘It’s kind of sub-Hitchcock, isn’t it?’ Bain said now. ‘You know, Marnie, that sort of thing...’
Rebus thought of the book of poems in David Costello’s flat: I Dream of Alfred Hitchcock.
You do not die for being bad, you die
For being available...
‘You’re probably right,’ he said.
Siobhan read his tone. ‘All the same, you still want the low-down on Flip’s London years?’
He began to nod, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right... it’s too far-fetched.’
As he moved away, Siobhan turned to Bain. ‘That’s usually right up his street,’ she murmured. ‘The more far-fetched it is, the better he likes it.’
Bain smiled. He had the briefcase with him again; still hadn’t opened it. After the meal on Friday night they’d said their goodbyes. Siobhan had got into her car Saturday morning and headed north for the football. Didn’t bother offering anyone a lift: she’d packed an overnight bag. Found herself a guest house. Good win for Hibs in the afternoon, then a bit of exploring and a spot of dinner. She’d taken her Walkman, half a dozen tapes and a couple of paperbacks with her, leaving the laptop back in her flat. A weekend without Quizmaster: just what the doctor ordered. Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if there was a message for her. She’d made sure she was late getting back Sunday night, then busied herself with laundry.
Now the laptop sat on her desk. She was almost afraid to touch it, afraid to give in to the craving...
‘Good weekend?’ Bain asked.
‘Not bad. How about you?’
‘Quiet. That dinner on Friday was just about the highlight.’
She smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘So what do we do now? Get on the blower to Special Branch?’
‘We talk to the Crime Squad. They route our request.’
‘We can’t cut out the middle-man?’
‘The middle-man wouldn’t like that.’
Siobhan thought of Claverhouse: Bain was probably right. ‘Go ahead then,’ she said.
So Bain picked up the phone and had a long conversation with DI Claverhouse at the Big House. Siobhan ran her fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. It was already connected to her mobile. A phone message had been waiting for her at home on Friday night: her mobile account, wondering if she knew that her usage had suddenly gone up. Yes, she knew all right. With Bain still busy explaining things to Claverhouse, she decided to connect to the Net, just to give her something to do...
There were three messages from Quizmaster. The first was from Friday evening, around the time she got home:
Seeker — My patience wears thin. The quest is about to close on you. Immediate response requested.
The second was from Saturday afternoon:
Siobhan? I’m disappointed in you. Your times so far have been excellent. Game is now closed.
Closed or not, he’d come back on Sunday at the stroke of midnight:
Are you busy tracing me, is that it? Do you still want to meet?
Bain ended his conversation and put down the phone. He was staring at the screen.
‘You’ve got him rattled,’ he said.
‘New ISP?’ Siobhan asked. Bain checked the headers and nodded.
‘New name, new everything. Still, he’s getting the inkling that he’s not untraceable.’
‘Then why doesn’t he just shut down?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You really think the game’s closed?’
‘Only one way to find out...’
So Siobhan got busy on the keyboard:
I was away all weekend, that’s all. Inquiries progress. Meantime, yes, I’d still like to meet.
She sent the message. They went and grabbed coffee, but when they came back there was no reply.
‘Is he sulking?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Or away from his machine.’
She looked at him. ‘Your bedroom, is it full of computer stuff?’
‘You’re angling an invite to my bedroom?’
She smiled. ‘No, I was just wondering. Some of these people, they can spend all day and night at a monitor, can’t they?’
‘Absolutely. But I’m not one of them. Three chat rooms where I’m a regular, maybe an hour or two of surfing when I get bored.’
‘What are the chat rooms?’