'What did Templer want?' she asked, unable to stop herself.

'Offered me liaison.'

227.

Siobhan concentrated on stirring her drink. 'Thought it might be that.'

'I'll be on the telly!'

'I'm thrilled.'

He stared at her. ~ou could try a bit harder.'

~ou're right, I could.' They locked eyes. 'Thanks for helping with the clues. I couldn't have done it without you.'

Only now did he seem to realise that their partnership truly was dissolved. 'Oh ... right,' he said. 'Look, Siobhan...'

'What happened in the office ... I really am sorry.'

She allowed herself a sour smile. 'Mraid I'll tell on you?'

'No ... it's not that . .

But it was, and they both knew it. 'Haircut and a new suit this weekend,' she suggested.

He looked down at his jacket.

'If you're going to be on the box. Plain shirt: no stripes or checks. Oh, and Grant ...?'

'What?'

She reached out a finger and slipped it under his tie.

'Keep this plain, too. Cartoon characters just aren't funny.'

'That's what DCS Templer said.' He sounded surprised, angling his head to examine the little Homer Simpson heads which decorated his tie.

Grant Hood's first TV appearance took place that same afternoon. He was seated next to Gill Templer as she read out a short statement concerning the finding of the body. Ellen Wylie watched on one of the office monitors. There wasn't going to be a speaking part for Hood, but she noticed how, as the media all started asking questions, he leaned over to whisper some comment into Templer's ear, the Chief Super nodding a response. Bill Pryde was on Templer's other side, fielding most of the queries. Everyone wanted to know if the corpse was that of Philippa Balfour; everyone wanted to know the cause of death.

'We're not in a position to confirm identity as yet,' Pryde stated, his words punctuated with little coughs. He looked nervous, and Wylie knew the coughs were vocal tics. She'd been the same herself, all that throat-clearing. Gill Templer glanced towards Pryde, and Hood seemed to take this as his cue.

'Cause of death is also yet to be determined,' he said, 'with a post- Imortem examination scheduled for late afternoon. As you know, 228 another conference will take place at seven this evening, by which time we hope to have more details available.'

'But the death's being treated as suspicious?' one journalist called out.

'At this early stage, yes, we're treating the death as suspicious.' Wylie stuck the end of her biro between her teeth and ground down on it. Hood was cool, no doubt about it. He'd changed his clothes: the ensemble looked brand new. Managed to wash his hair to 0, she thought.

'There's very little we can add right now,' he was telling the is edia, 'as you'll no doubt appreciate. If and when an identification made, family have to be contacted and the identification confirmed.'

'Can I ask if Philippa Balfour's family are coming to Edinburgh?' Hood gave the questioner a sour look. 'I won't deign to answer Beside him, Gill Templer was nodding agreement, marking j hat.'

r own distaste.

'Can I ask Detective Inspector Pryde if the missing persons mvestigation is ongoing?'

The investigation's ongoing,' Pryde said determinedly, picking ji up some confidence from Hood's performance. Wylie wanted to switch off the monitor, but others were watching with her, so instead she got up and wandered down the corridor to the drinks machine. By the time she got back, the conference was ending. Someone else turned off the monitor and put her out of her misery.

'Looked good in there, didn't he?'

She stared at the uniform who'd asked, but there was no malice apparent. ~es,' she confirmed. 'He did all right.'

'Better than some,' another voice said. She turned her head, but there were three officers there, all Gayfield-based. None was looking at her. She reached out a hand for her coffee, but didn't pick it up, fearing her trembling would be noticed. Instead, she turned her attention to Siobhan's notes on the German student. She could make a start, busy herself with phone calls.

Just as soon as she got the words better than some out of her head.

Siobhan was sending another message to Quizmaster. She'd taken twenty minutes getting it right.

Helibank solved. Flip's body found there. Do you want to talk?

It didn't take long for him to respond.

How did you solve it?

229 j;ram of Arthur's;;, i:;;~the hillside's name. I Was it you who found the body?

I.

No. Was it you who killed her? No.

connected to the think anyone was help~ng I her?

I don't know. Do you wish to continue?

Continue?

IStricture awaits.

She stared at the screen. Did Flip's death mean so little to him?

Flip's dead. Someone killed her at Hellbank. I need you to come forward.

I.

His reply took time coming through. Can't help.

I think you can, Quizmaster.

Undergo Stricture. Perhaps we can meet there.

She thought for a moment. What is the game's goal? When does ~t end?

There was no answer. She was aware of a figure standing behind her: Rebus.

'What's Lover Boy saying?'

"'Lover Boy"?'

You seem to be spending a lot of time together.'

I.

'That's the job.'

'I suppose it is. So what's he saying?'

I.

'He wants me to go on playing the game.'

'Tell him to sod off. You don't need him now.

'Don't I?'

The phone rang; Siobhan picked up.

I.

Yes ... that's fine ... of course.' She looked up at Rebus, but he was sticking around. When she ended the call, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

'The Chief Super,' she explained. 'Now that Grant's got liaison, I'm to stick with the computer angle.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning find out if there's any way of tracing Quizmaster. What do you reckon: Crime Squad?'

'I doubt those buggers could spell "modem", never mind use one.' 'But they'll have contacts in Special Branch.'

Rebus accepted as much with a shrug.

'The other thing I need to do is canvass Flip's friends a~d family again.'

230 r 'Why?'

'Because I couldn't have got to Hellbank on my own.' Rebus nodded. You don't think she did either?'

'She needed to know London tube lines, geography and the Scots language, Rosslyn Chapel and crossword puzzles.'

'A tall order?'

'That's my guess.'

Rebus was thoughtful. 'Whoever Quizmaster is, he needed to know all those things too.'

'Agreed.'

'And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?' 'I think maybe there were other players... not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.'

'Quizmaster won't say?'

'No.'

'I wonder why.'

Siobhan shrugged. 'I'm sure he has his reasons.

Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. 'I was wrong. We need him after all, don't we?'

She looked at him. "'We"?'

He held up his hands. 'Ml I meant was, the case needs him.'

'Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt...'

'Which is?'

~Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.' Perish the thought, Siobhan.' He paused. 'But if you're going to be talking to her friends ...'

Yes?'

'Would that include David Costello?'

'We already talked to him. He said he didn't know anything about the game.'

'But you're planning to talk to him again anyway?' She almost smiled. 'Am I so easy to read?'

'It's just that maybe I could tag along. I've got a few more questions for him myself.'

'What sort of questions?'

'Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll tell you ..

That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a faniily friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour's Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven 231 the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later - the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.

A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.

'That's us then,' Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media - names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.

'Oh, dear,' Devlin said. He'd removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. 'What a terrible shame.'