300 'Would that help?'

'It might. You know the Americans can read e-mails using atellites? Any e-mails in the world...' She just stared at him, and ~h~e laughed. 'I'm not saying Special Branch have that sort of echnology, but you never know, do you?'

Siobhan was thoughtful. 'Then give them what we've got. Give them Ranald Marr.'

The laptop told them they had a message. Siobhan clicked it open. Quizmaster.

Seeker - We meet on completion of Stricture. Acceptable?

'Ooh,' Bain said, 'he's actually asking you.'

So game isn't closed? Siobhan typed back.

Special dispensation.

She typed another message: There are questions need answering right now.

An immediate reply: Ask, Seeker.

So she asked: Was anyone playing the game apart from Flip?

They waited a minute for the response.

Yes.

She looked at Bain. 'He said before that there wasn't.'

'He was either lying then, or he's lying now. Fact that you asked the question again makes me think you didn't believe him first time round.'

How many? Siobhan typed. Three.

Pitted against each other? Did they know? They knew.

They knew who they were playing against? A thirty-second pause. Absolutely not.

'Truth or lie?' Siobhan asked Bain.

'I'm busy wondering if Mr Marr's had enough time to get back to his office.'

'Someone in his profession, wouldn't surprise me if he kept a laptop and mobile in the car, just to stay ahead of the game.' She smiled at the unmeant pun.

'I could call his office . . .' Bain was already reaching for the phone. Siobhan recited the bank's number.

'Mr Marr's office, please,' Bain said into the receiver. Then: 'Is that Mr Marr's assistant? It's DS Bain here, Lothian Police. Could I have a word with Mr Marr?' He looked at Siobhan. 'Due back any minute? Thank you.' Then an afterthought. 'Oh, is there any way I could contact him in his car? He doesn't have access to e-mails 301 there, does he?' A pause. 'No, it's okay, thank you. I'll call again later.' He put the phone down. 'No in-car e-mails.'

'As far as his assistant knows,' Siobhan said quietly.

Bain nodded.

'These days,' she went on, 'all you need is a phone.' A WAP phone, she was thinking, just like Grant's. For some reason her mind flashed on that morning in the Elephant House... Grant busy on a crossword he'd already completed, trying to impress the woman at the next table ... She got to work on her next message: Can you tell me who they were? Do you know who they are? The reply was immediate.

No.

No you can't or no you don't?

No to both. Stricture awaits.

One final thing, Master. How did you come to choose Flip?

She came to me, as you did.

But how did she find you?

Stricture clue will follow shortly.

'I think he's had enough,' Bain said. 'Probably not used to his slaves talking back.'

Siobhan thought about trying to keep the dialogue going, then nodded her agreement.

'I don't think I'm quite Grant Hood's standard,' Bain added. She frowned, not understanding. 'In the puzzle-solving department,' he explained.

'Let's wait and see about that.'

'Meantime, I can get that stuff PDQ'd to SB.'

'AOK,' Siobhan said with a smile. She was thinking of Grant again. She wouldn't have got this far without him. Yet since his transfer he hadn't shown the least curiosity, hadn't so much as called to find out if there were some new clue to be solved . . She wondered at his ability to switch focus so completely. The Grant she saw on TV was almost unrecoguisable from the one who'd paced her flat at midnight, the one who'd lost heart on Hart Fell. She knew which model she preferred; didn't think it was just professional jealousy. She thought she'd learned something about Gill Templer now. Gill was running scared, terror of her new seniority causing her to dish it out to the juniors. She was targeting the keen and the confident, maybe because she lacked confidence in herself. Siobhan hoped it was just a phase. She prayed it was.

She hoped that when Stricture came through, the busy Grant 302 might spare a minute for his old sparring partner, whether his new sponsor liked it or not.

Grant Hood had spent the morning dealing with the press, reworking the daily news release for later in the day - hopefully this time to the satisfaction of both DCS Templer and ACC Carswell - and fielding calls from the victim's father, angry that more broadcast time wasn't being given to appeals for information.

'What about Crimewatch?' he'd asked several times. Secretly, Grant thought Crimewatch was a bloody good idea, so he'd called the BBC in Edinburgh and been given a number in Glasgow. Glasgow had then given him a number in London, and the switchboard there had put him through to a researcher who'd informed him - in a tone which said any liaison officer worth their salt would already know - that Crimewatch had ended its run and wouldn't be back on air for several months.

'Oh, yes, thanks,' Grant had said, putting down the phone.

He hadn't had time for lunch, and breakfast had been a bacon roll from the canteen, almost six hours ago. He was aware of politics all around him - the politics of Police HQ. Carswell and Templer might agree on some things, but never on everything, and he was poised somewhere between them, trying not to fall too fatally into either camp. Carswell was the real power, but Templer was Grant's boss, she had the means to kick him back into the wilderness. His job was to deprive her of motive and opportunity.

He knew he was coping so far, but only by dint of forgoing food, sleep and free time. On the plus side, the case was now garnering interest from further afield, not just the London media, but New York, Sydney, Singapore and Toronto. International press agencies wanted clarification of the details they had. There was talk of bringing correspondents to Edinburgh, and would DC Hood be available for a short broadcast interview?

In each case, Grant felt able to answer in the affirmative. He made sure he jotted down the details of each journalist, with contact numbers and even a note of the time difference.

'No point me sending you faxes in the middle of the night,' he'd told one news editor in New Zealand.

'I'd prefer an e-mail, mate.'

So Grant had taken those details down, too. It struck him that he needed to get his laptop back from Siobhan. Either that or invest in something more up-to-date. The case could use its own website. He'd send a memo to Carswell, copy to Templer: stating his case.

303 If he ever got the time ...

Siobhan and his laptop: he hadn't thought of her in a couple of days. His 'crush' on her hadn't lasted long. Just as well they hadn't taken things any further really: his new job would have driven a wedge between them. He knew they could play down that kiss, until it would seem as if it had never happened. Rebus was the only witness, but if the pair of them denied it, called him a liar, he'd start forgetting, too.

Only two things Grant felt sure of now: that he wanted Liaison permanently, and that he was good at it.

He celebrated with the day's sixth cup of coffee, nodding to strangers in the corridors and on the stairwell. They seemed to know who he was, wanting both to know him and be known by him. His phone was ringing again when he pushed open his door - the office was small, no bigger than the cupboards in some stations, and there was no natural light. Still, it was his fiefdom. He leaned back in his chair, taking the receiver with him.

'DC Hood.'

You sound happy.'

'Who is this, please?'

'It's Steve Holly. Remember me?'

'Sure, Steve, what can I do for you?' But the tone was immediately more professional.

'Well . . . Grant.' Holly managed to get a sneer into the word. 'I was just after a quote to go with a piece I'm running.'

Yes?' Grant leaned forward a little in his chair, not quite so comfortable now.

'Women going missing all over Scotland ... dolls found at the scene... games on the Internet... students dead on hulsides. Any of it ring a bell?'

Grant thought he'd squeeze the life out of the receiver. The desk, the walls... they'd all gone hazy. He closed his eyes, tried to shake his head clear.

'Case like this, Steve,' he said, attempting levity, 'a reporter will hear all kinds of stuff.'

'Believe you solved some of the Internet clues yourself, Grant. What do you reckon? Got to be connected to the murder, haven't they?'

'I've no comment to make on that, Mr Holly. Look, whatever you think you may know, you've got to understand that stories - true or false - can do irreparable damage to an investigation, especially one at a crucial stage.'

304 'Is the Balfour inquiry at a crucial stage? I hadn't heard ...' 'All I'm trying to say is ...

'Look, Grant, admit it: you're fucked on this one, pardon my French. Best thing you can do is fill me in on the small print.'

'I don't think so.'

'Sure about that? Tasty new posting you've got there ... I'd hate to see you go down in flames.'

'Something tells me you'd like nothing better, Holly.'

The telephone receiver laughed into Grant's ear. 'Steve to Mr Holly to Holly ... you'll be calling me names next, Grant.'

'Who told you?'

'Something this big, you can never keep it watertight.'

'So who punched the hole through the hull?'

'A whisper here, a whisper there ... you know how it is.' Holly paused. 'Oh no, that's right - you don't know how it is. I keep forgetting, you've only been in the job five fucking minutes, and already you think you can lord it over the likes of me.'

'I don't know what-'

'Those little individual briefings, just you and your favoured poodles. Stuff all that, Grant. It's the likes of me you should be looking out for. And you can take that any way you like.'

'Thanks, I will. How soon are you going to press?'

'Going to try slapping us with a two-eye?' When Grant didn't say anything. Holly laughed again. You don't even know the lingo!' he crowed. But Grant was a fast learner.

'It's an interim interdict,' he guessed, knowing he was right. Two i's: a.court injunction, halting publication. 'Look,' he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, 'on the record, we don't know that any of the stuff you've mentioned is pertinent to the current case.'

'It's still news.'

'And possibly prejudicial.'

'So sue me.'

'People play dirty like this, I never forget it.'

'Get in the fucking queue.'

Grant was about to put down the phone, but Holly beat him to it. He got up and kicked the desk, then kicked it again, followed by the waste-bin, his briefcase (bought at the weekend), and the corner where two walls met. He rested his head against the wall.

I have to go to Carswell with this. I have to tell Gill Templer!!

Templer first... chain of command. Then she'd have to break the news to the ACC, who in turn would probably have to disturb the Chief Constable's daily routine.Mid-afternoon... Grant wondered 305 how late he could leave it. Maybe Holly would call Templer or Carswell himself. If Grant sat on it till day's end, he'd be in bigger trouble. It could even be that there was still time for that two-eye.

He picked up the phone, squeezed shut his eyes once more in what, this time round, was a short and silent prayer.

Made the call.

It was late afternoon, and Rebus had been staring at the coffins for a good five minutes. Occasionally he would pick one up, examine the workmanship, comparing and contrasting with the others. His latest thought: bring in a forensic anthropologist. The tools used to make the coffins would have left tiny grooves and incisions, marks an expert could identify and explore. If the exact same chisel had been used on each joint, maybe it could be proven. Perhaps there were fibres, fingerprints ... The scraps of cloth: could they be traced? He slid the list of victims so that it sat in front of him on the desk: 1972.. ...... .'82 and '95. The first victim, Caroline Farmer, was the youngest by far; the others were in their twenties and thirties, women in the prime of life. Drownings and disappearances. Where there was no body, it was all but impossible to prove a crime had been committed. And death by drowning... pathologists could tell if someone were alive or dead when they entered the water, but other than that ... Say you knocked someone unconscious and pushed them in: even if it came to court, there'd be room for haggling, the murder charge reduced to culpable homicide. Rebus remembered a fireman once telling him the perfect way to commit murder: get the victim drunk in their kitchen, then turn the heat up under the chip-pan.

Simple and clever.

Rebus still didn't know how clever his adversary had been. Fife, Nairn, Glasgow and Perth - certainly he'd ranged far and wide. Someone who travelled. He thought of Quizmaster and the jaunts Siobhan had taken so far. Was it possible to connect Quizmaster to whoever had left the coffins? Having scribbled the words 'forensic pathologist' on to his notepad, Rebus added two more: 'offender profiling'. There were university psychologists who specialised in this, deducing aspects of a culprit's character from their MO. Rebus had never been convinced, but he felt he was banging his fists against a locked and bolted door, one he was never going to break down without help.

When Gill Templer stormed down the corridor, past the CID 306 suite's doorway, Rebus didn't think she'd seen him. But now she was heading straight for him, her face furious.

'I thought,' she said, 'you'd been told.'

'Told. what?' he asked innocently.

She pointed to the coffins. 'Told that these were a waste of time.' Her voice vibrated with anger. Her whole body was taut.

'Jesus, Gill, what's happened?'

She didn't say anything, just swung her arm across the desk, sending the coffins flying. Rebus scrambled from his chair, started picking them up, checking for damage. When he looked round, Gill was on her way to the door again, but she stopped, half turned.

~ou'll find out tomorrow,' she said, making her exit.