'But you must know a few?'

He thought about it. 'What's all this about anyway?' So she told him the latest clue.

'Let me think,' he said. 'How about the Farmer?'

'Is he one?' 'Going by his handshake.'

'Do you think he'd mind me calling him?'

'Quite the opposite.' There was a pause. 'Now you're going to ask if I know his home number, and as it happens you're in luck.' He took out his notebook, recited the number.

'Thanks, John.'

'How's it going anyway?'

'Okay.'

Rebus detected a slight reticence. 'Everything all right with Grant?'

'Fine, yes.'

Rebus raised his eyes to the gantry. 'He's there with you, isn't he?'

'That's right.'

'Message received. We'll talk later. Oh, hang on. 'What?'

You ever had anything to do with someone called Steve Holly?' 'Who is he?'

'A local hack.'

'Oh, him. I think we might have talked once or twice.' 'He ever call you at home?'

'Don't be daft. That's one number I keep close to my chest.' 'Funny, he has it pinned to the wall in his office.' She didn't say anything. 'No idea how he could have come by it?'

185 I.

'I suppose there are ways. I'm not giving him tip-offs or anything, if that's what you're implying.'

'The only thing I'm implying, Siobhan, is that he needs watching. He's as smooth as a fresh-laid turd and gives off the same smell.'

'Charming. I've got to go.'

Yes, me too.' Rebus cut the call and drained his second drink. Right, that was that then, time to call it a day. Except there was another race coming up on TV, and he had his eye on the chestnut, Long Day's Journey. Maybe one more wouldn't do any harm ... Then his phone rang again, and, cursing, he pushed his way outdoors, squinting into the sudden light.

Yes?' he snapped.

'That was a bit naughty.'

'Who's this?'

'Steve Holly. We met at Bev's house.'

'Funny, I was just talking about you.'

'Only, I'm glad we met that day, or I might not have been able to place you from Margot's description.' Margot: the blonde receptionist with the earpiece. Not enough of a conspirator to resist grassing Rebus up ...

'What do you mean?'

'Come on, Rebus. The coffin.'

'I heard you'd finished with it.'

'Is it evidence then?'

'No, I was just returning it to Ms Dodds.'

J.

'I'll bet. Something's going on here.'

'Bright boy. That "something" is a police investigation. In fact I'm up to my eyes in it right now, so if you wouldn't mind ...' 'Bev said something about all these other coffins ...' 'Did she? Maybe she misheard.'

'Fine,' the journalist said into the silence. 'We'll talk later.' We 'I don't think so.' Holly waited, but Rebus wasn't saying an~11.,~~i talk later, the very words Rebus had used to Siobhan. For a sp second, he wondered if Holly had been listening in. But it possible. As the phone went dead, two things struck Rebus. One was that Holly hadn't mentioned the phone numbers missing from his wall, so probably hadn't noticed them yet. The other was that he'd just called Rebus on his mobile, meaning he knew the number. Normally, Rebus gave out his pager rather than his mobile. He wondered which he had given to Bev Dodds ...

186 Balfour's Bank wasn't much like a bank at all. For a start, it was sited on Charlotte Square, one of the most elegant parts of the New Town. Shoppers queued grimly for nonexistent buses outside, but inside was very different: thick carpets, an imposing staircase, and a huge chandelier, walls recently given a coat of startling white. There were no cashiers, no queues. Transactions were dealt with by three members of staff seated at their own desks, far apart so that discretion was assured. The staff were young and well dressed. Other customers sat in comfortable chairs, selecting newspapers and magazines from the coffee table as they waited to be ushered into one of the private rooms. The atmosphere was rarefied: this was a place where money wasn't so much respected as worshipped. It reminded Siobhan of a temple.

'What did he say?' Grant Hood asked.

She slipped her mobile back into her pocket. 'He thinks we should talk to the Farmer.'

'Is that his number?' Grant nodded towards Siobhan's notebook. Yes.' She'd placed the letter F beside the number: F for Farmer. It made the various addresses and phone numbers in her notebook harder to identify, should the book fall into the wrong hands. She was annoyed that a journalist she barely knew should have access to her home number. Not that he'd called her there, but all the same ...

'Reckon anyone here has an overdraft?' Grant asked.

'The staff might. Not so sure about their clients.'

A middle-aged woman had come from behind one of the doors, closing it softly behind her. She made no noise at all as she walked towards them.

'Mr Marr will see you now.'

They'd expected to be led back to the door, but instead the woman headed for the staircase. Her brisk pace kept her four or five steps ahead of them: no chance for conversation. At the end of the first- floor hall she knocked on a double set of doors and waited.

'Enter!' At which command she pushed open both the doors, gesturing for the two detectives to walk past her and into the room.

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.

187 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 Iwith 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 A 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 188 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.1 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?'

189 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'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 190 * . .?' He broke off, smiled and shook his head. 'I forgot: you won't be at liberty to say.'