'I'll suspend you from the ceiling if you don't cough up.'

She smiled, put the fork down, food untouched. The waiter took a step forward, ready to clear the table, but Rebus waved him back.

'Well,' Siobhan said, 'they went to pick up Mr Marr at his detached home in The Grange, only he wasn't there.'

'And?'

'And the reason he wasn't there was, he'd been told they'd be coming. Gill Templer called the ACC, said they were picking up Marr for questioning. The ACC "suggested" they phone Mr Marr beforehand, as "a courtesy".'

She picked up the water jug, tipped the dregs into her glass. The same waiter started forward, ready to replace the jug, but Rebus Iwaved him back again.

'So Marr did a runner?'

Siobhan nodded. 'Looks like it. His wife says he took the call, and two minutes later when she went to look for him, he wasn't there and neither was the Maserati.'

'Better stick one of the napkins in your pocket,' Rebus suggested. 'Looks like some egg needs wiping from Carswell's face.'

'I can't imagine he'll have fun explaining to the Chief Constable,' Siobhan agreed. Then she watched a grin light up Rebus's face. 'Just what you needed?' she guessed.

'Might help take some of the heat off.'

'Because Carswell will be too busy covering his own arse to find time to kick yours?'

'Eloquently put.'

'It's the college education.'

'So what's happening about Marr?' Rebus nodded towards the waiter, who took a hesitant step forward, unsure if he'd suddenly be expelled again. 'Two coffees,' Rebus told him. The man made a little bow and moved off.

'Not sure,' Siobhan admitted.

'Night before the funeral, could be awkward.'

'High-speed car chase ... stop and arrest ...' Siobhan was imagining the scenario. 'Grieving parents wondering why their best friend is suddenly in custody 'If Carswell's thinking straight, he'll do nothing till the funeral's over. Could be Marr will turn up there anyway.'

'A fond farewell to his secret lover?'

'If Claire Benzie's telling the truth.'

341 'Why else would he run?'

Rebus stared at her. 'I think you know the answer to that one.'

You mean if Marr killed her?'

'I thought you had him in the frame.'

She was thoughtful. 'That was before this happened. I don't think Quizmaster would run.'

'Maybe Quizmaster didn't kill Flip Balfour.'

Siobhan nodded. 'That's my point. I had Marr in the frame for Quizmaster.'

'Meaning she was killed by someone else?'

The coffees arrived, and with them the ubiquitous mints. Siobhan dunked hers in the hot liquid, quickly hoisting it into her mouth. Without being asked, the waiter had brought the bill with their coffees.

'Split it down the middle?' Siobhan suggested. Rebus nodded, took three fivers from his pocket.

Outside, he asked how she was getting home.

'My car's at St Leonard's: need a lift?'

'Nice night for a walk,' he said, looking up at the clouds. 'Just promise me you will go home, take a break ...'

'Promise, Mum.'

'And now that you've convinced yourself that Quizmaster didn't kill Flip ...

Yes?'

'Well, you don't have to bother with the game any more, do you?' She blinked, told him she supposed he was right. But he could see she didn't believe it. The game was her part of the case. She couldn't just let it go ... He knew he'd have felt the same way.

They parted on the pavement, Rebus heading back to the fiat. When he got in, he called Jean, but she wasn't at home. Maybe another late night at the Museum, but she wasn't answering there either. He stood in front of his dining table, staring at the' case notes there. He'd pinned some sheets to the wall, detailing the four women - Jesperson, Gibbs, Gearing and Farmer. He was trying to answer a question: why would the killer leave the coffins? Okay, they were his 'signature', but that signature had not been recog nised. It had taken the best part of thirty years for someone to realize that there even was a signature. If the killer had hoped to be identified with his crimes, wouldn't he have repeated the exercise, or tried some other method: a note to the media or the police? So say they weren't a signature as such; say his motive had been ... what? Rebus saw them as little memorials, holding 342 meaning only for the person who'd left them there. And couldn't the same be said for the Arthur's Seat coffins? Why had the person responsible not come forward in some form? Answer: because once found, the coffins had ceased to have meaning for their creator. They'd been memorials, never meant to be found or associated with the Burke and Hare killings ...

Yes, there were connections between those coffins and the ones Jean had identified. Rebus was wary of adding the Falls coffin to the list, but he felt a connection there, too - a looser connection, to be sure, but still p~wefful.

He'd checked his answering-machine, just the one message: his solicitor, concerning a retired couple who would show the fiat to potential buyers, relieving him ofthe burden. He knew he'd have to take his little collage down before then, hide everything away, do some tidying...

He tried Jean's number again, but there was still no answer. Stuck a Steve Earle album on: The Hard Way.

Rebus didn't know of any other ...

You're lucky I didn't change my name,' Jan Benzie said. Jean had just explained how she'd called every Benzie in the phone book. 'I'm married to Jack McCoist these days.'

They were sitting in the drawing room of a three-storey townhouse in the city's west end, just off Palmerston Place. Jan Benzie was tall and thin, and wore a knee-length black dress with a sparkling brooch just above her right breast. The room reflected her elegance: antiques and polished surfaces, thick walls and floors muffling any sound.

'Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.'

'There's not much I can add to what I told you on the phone.' Jan Benzie sounded distracted, as if part of her was elsewhere. Maybe that was why she'd agreed to the appointment in the first place... It's been rather a strange day, Miss Burchill,' she said now.

'Oh?'

But Jan Benzie just shrugged one shoulder and asked again if Jean would like something to drink.

'I don't want to keep you. You said Patricia Lovell was a relation?'

'Great-great-grandmother ... something like that.'

'She died very young, didn't she?'

You probably know more about her than I do. I'd no idea she was buried at Calton Hill.'

'How many children did she have?'

343 'Just the one, a girl.'

'Do you know if she died in childbirth?'

'I've no idea.' Jan Benzie laughed at the absurdity of the question.

'I'm sorry,' Jean said, 'I know this must all sound a bit ghoulish...'

'A bit. You say you're researching Kennet Lovell?' Jean nodded. 'Would your family have any of his papers?' Jan Benzie shook her head. 'None.'

You've no relatives who might . 9'

'I really don't think so, no.' She moved an arm towards the occasional table next to her chair, lifted her cigarette packet and eased one out. 'Do you . 9'

Jean shook her head and watched Jan Benzie light the cigarette with a slim gold lighter. The woman seemed to do everything in slow motion. It was like watching a film at the wrong speed.

'It's just that I'm looking for some correspondence between Dr Lovell and his benefactor.'

'I didn't even know there was one.'

'A kirk minister back in Ayrshire.'

'Really?' Jan Benzie said, but Jean could tell she wasn't interested. Right now, the cigarette between her fingers meant more to her than anything else.

Jean decided to plough on. 'There's a portrait of Dr Lovell in Surgeons' Hall. I think maybe it was executed at the minister's behest.'

'Is that so?'

'Have you ever seen it?'

'Can't say that I have.'

'He had several wives, Dr Lovell, did you know that?' 'Three, wasn't it? Not so many, really, in the scheme of things.' Benzie seemed to grow thoughtful. 'I'm on my second ... who's to say it'll stop there?' She examined the ash at the end of her cigarette. 'My first committed suicide, you know.'

'I didn't.'

'No reason why you should.' She paused. 'Don't suppose I can expect the same of Jack.'

Jean wasn't sure what she meant, but Jan Benzie was studying her, seeming to expect some reply. 'I suppose,' Jean said, 'it would look a bit suspicious, losing two husbands.'

'And yet Kennet Lovell can lose three wives . ..?' Jean's thinking exactly ...

344 Jan Benzie had risen to her feet, walked over to the window. Jean took another look around the room. Al~ the artefacts, the paintings and framed photographs, candlesticks and crystal ash trays she got the feeling none of it belonged to Benzie. It had come with her marriage to Jack McCoist, part of the baggage he brought.

'Well,' she said, 'I'd better be going. Sorry again to have 'No trouble,' Benzie said. 'I hope you find what you're looking for.' Suddenly there were voices out in the hall, and the sound of the front door being closed. The voices began ascending the staircase, coming closer.

'Claire and my husband,' Jan said, sitting back down again, arranging herself the way an artist's model might. The door burst open and Claire Benzie stormed into the room. To Jean's eye, she bore no physical resemblance to her mother, but perhaps that was partly down to her entrance, the way she crackled with energy.

'I don't bloody care,' she was saying. 'They can lock me up if they want, throw away the bloody key!' She was pacing the room as Jack McCoist walked in. He had his wife's slow movements, but they seemed merely the result of fatigue.

'Claire, all I'm saying is .. .' He leaned down to peck his wife's cheek. 'What a bloody awful time we've had,' he informed her. 'Cops crawling over Claire like lice. Is there any way you can control your daughter, darling?' His words died as he straightened and saw they had a visitor. Jean was rising to her feet.

'I really should be going,' she said.

'Who the hell's this?' Claire snarled.

'Ms Burchill is from the Museum,' Jan explained. 'We've been talking about Kennet Lovell.'

'Christ, not her as well!' Claire tossed her head back, then dropped on to one of the room's two sofas.

'I'm researching his life,' Jean explained for McCoist's benefit. He was pouring himself a whisky at the drinks cabinet.

'At this time of night?' was all he said.

'His portrait's hanging in some hall somewhere,' Jan Benzie told her daughter. 'Did you know that?'

'Of course I bloody did! It's in the museum at Surgeons' Hall.' She looked at Jean. 'Is that where you're from?'

'No, actually . .

'Well, wherever you're from, why don't you piss off back there? I'm just out of police custody and~'

345 'Just the one, a girl.'

'Do you know if she died in childbirth?'

'I've no idea.' Jan Benzie laughed at the absurdity of the question.

'I'm sorry,' Jean said, 'I know this must all sound a bit ghoulish...'

'A bit. You say you're researching Kennet Lovell?' Jean nodded. 'Would your family have any of his papers?' Jan Benzie shook her head. 'None.'

~ou've no relatives who might ...?'

'I really don't think so, no.' She moved an arm towards the occasional table next to her chair, lifted her cigarette packet and eased one out. 'Do you ...?'

Jean shook her head and watched Jan Benzie light the cigarette with a slim gold lighter. The woman seemed to do everything in slow motion. It was like watching a film at the wrong speed.

'It's just that I'm looking for some correspondence between Dr Lovell and his benefactor.'

'I didn't even know there was one.'

'A kirk minister back in Ayrshire.'