Authors: Ian Rankin
He wasn’t like her. He was nothing like her at all. And yet here she was sharing her free time with him. Here she was letting him turn that free time into yet more work.
She picked up another of the map books,
Handy Road Atlas Scotland
. The first page, square B4 was the Isle of Man. This really annoyed her for some reason: the Isle of Man wasn’t even
in
Scotland! The next page, B4 was in the Yorkshire Dales.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said out loud.
‘What is it?’
‘This map, it’s like Bonnie Prince Charlie won the war.’ She flipped to the next page, where B4 was the Mull of Kintyre, but the page after that her eyes fixed on the words ‘Loch Fell’. She studied the square more closely: the M74 motorway and the town of Moffat. She knew Moffat: a picture-postcard place with at least one good hotel, where she’d stopped once for lunch. At the top of square B4 she saw a small triangle, indicating a peak. The peak was called Hart Fell. It was eight hundred and eight metres high. She looked at Hood.
‘A hart’s a kind of deer, isn’t it?’
He got up off the floor, came and sat next to her. ‘Harts and hinds,’ he said. ‘The hart is the male.’
‘Why not a stag?’
‘Harts are older, I think.’ He studied the map, his shoulder touching Siobhan’s arm. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard work. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s the middle of nowhere.’
‘Maybe it’s coincidence,’ she suggested.
He nodded, but she could see he was convinced. ‘Square B4,’ he said. ‘A fell is another name for a law. A hart is a kind of deer …’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘No coincidence.’
Siobhan switched her TV on and pressed for Teletext.
‘What are you doing?’ Hood asked.
‘Checking the weather for tomorrow. No way I’m climbing Hart Fell in a gale.’
Rebus had dropped into St Leonard’s, gathered together the notes on the four cases: Glasgow, Dunfermline, Perth and Nairn.
‘All right, sir?’ one of the uniforms had asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He’d had a few drinks, so what? Didn’t make him incapable. The taxi was waiting for him outside. Five minutes later, he was climbing the stairs to his flat. Another five after that, he was smoking a cigarette, drinking tea, and opening the first file. He sat in his chair by the window, his little oasis in the midst of chaos. He could hear a siren in the distance; sounded like an ambulance, hurtling along Melville Drive. He had photos of the four victims, culled from newspapers. They smiled at him in black and white. The snatch of poetry came back to him, and he knew all four shared the same characteristic.
They’d died because they’d been available.
He started pinning the photos to a large corkboard. He had a postcard, too, bought from the museum shop: three of the Arthur’s Seat coffins in close-up, surrounded by darkness. He turned the postcard over and read: ‘Carved wooden figures, with fabric clothing, in miniature coffins of pine, from a group found in a rocky niche on the north-eastern slopes of Arthur’s Seat, in June 1836.’ It struck him that the police of the time had probably been involved, which meant there might be paperwork somewhere. Then again, just how organised had the force been back then? He doubted there’d been anything like the modern CID. Probably they’d resorted to examining victims’ eyeballs, looking for images of the murderer. Not too far removed from the witchcraft which was one theory behind the dolls. Had witches ever plied their trade on Arthur’s Seat? These days, he suspected they’d get some sort of Enterprise Initiative.
He got up and put some music on. Dr John,
The Night Tripper
. Then back to the table, a fresh cigarette lit from the stub of the old. The smoke stung his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. When he opened them again, his vision was slow to focus. It was as if the photos of the four women were lying behind a layer of muslin. He blinked a couple of times, shook his head, trying to stave off weariness.
When he awoke a couple of hours later, he was still seated at the table, head resting on his arms. The photos were still there, too, restless faces which had invaded his dreams.
‘I wish I could help,’ he told them, getting up to go to the kitchen. He returned with a mug of tea, which he took over to the chair by the window. Here he was, getting through another night. So how come he didn’t feel like celebrating?
Rebus and Jean Burchill were walking on Arthur’s Seat. It was a bright morning, but there was a cold breeze blowing. Some people said Arthur’s Seat looked like a lion about to spring. But to Rebus’s mind it more resembled an elephant or mammoth, with a great bulbous head, a dip towards the neck, and an expanse of torso.
‘It started life as a volcano,’ Jean was explaining, ‘same as Castle Rock. Later on there were farms and quarries, plus chapels.’
‘People used to come here for sanctuary, didn’t they?’ Rebus said, keen to show off what knowledge he had.
She nodded. ‘Debtors were banished here until they’d got their affairs in order. A lot of people think it’s named after King Arthur.’
‘You mean it isn’t?’
She shook her head. ‘More likely it’s Gaelic:
Ard-na-Said
, “Height of the Sorrows”.’
‘That’s a cheery name.’
She smiled. ‘The park’s full of them: Pulpit Rock, Powderhouse Corner.’ She looked at him. ‘Or how about Murder Acre and Hangman’s Crag?’
‘Where are they?’
‘Near Duddingston Loch and the Innocent Railway.’
‘Now that was named because they used horses instead of trains, right?’
She smiled again. ‘Could be. There are other theories.’ She pointed towards the loch. ‘Samson’s Ribs,’ she said. ‘The Romans had a fort there.’ She gave him a sly glance. ‘Maybe you didn’t think they got this far north?’
He shrugged. ‘History’s never been my strong point. Do we know where the coffins were found?’
‘The records from the time are vague. “The north-east range of Arthur’s Seat” is how the
Scotsman
put it. A small opening in a secluded outcrop.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve wandered all over and never found the spot. The other thing the
Scotsman
said was that the coffins were in two tiers, eight in each, and with a third tier just begun.’
‘Like whoever did it had more to add?’
She held her jacket around her; Rebus got the feeling it wasn’t just the wind making her shiver. He was thinking of the Innocent Railway. These days it was a walkway and cycle path. About a month back, someone had been mugged there. He didn’t suppose the story would do much to cheer up his companion. He could tell her about suicides, too, and syringes left by the side of the road. Although they were walking the same path, he knew they were in different places.
‘I’m afraid history’s about all I have to offer,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve asked around, but no one seems to remember anyone showing particular interest in the coffins, except for the occasional student or tourist. They were kept in a private collection for a time, then handed over to the Society of Antiquaries, who gave them to the Museum.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve not been very helpful, have I?’
‘A case like this, Jean, everything’s useful. If it doesn’t rule something in, it can help rule other things out.’
‘I get the feeling you’ve made that speech before.’
It was his turn to smile. ‘Maybe I have; doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. Are you free later on today?’
‘Why?’ She was playing with her new bracelet, the one she’d bought from Bev Dodds.
‘I’m taking our twentieth-century coffins to an expert. A bit of history might come in useful.’ He paused, looked out over Edinburgh. ‘Jesus, it’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?’
She studied him. ‘Are you saying that because you think I want to hear it?’
‘What?’
‘The other night, when I stopped on North Bridge, I got the feeling you weren’t impressed by the view.’
‘I look, but I don’t always see. I’m seeing now.’ They were on the hill’s west face, so not even half the city was spread below them. Climbing higher, Rebus knew he’d have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. But this was enough to be going on with: the spires and chimney-pots, crow-foot gables, with the Pentland Hills to the south and the Firth of Forth to the north, the Fife coastline visible beyond.
‘Maybe you are at that,’ she said. And, smiling, she leaned forward, going up on her toes so she could peck his cheek. ‘Best just to get that out of the way,’ she said quietly. Rebus nodded, couldn’t think of anything to say, until she shivered again and said she was getting cold.
‘There’s a café behind St Leonard’s,’ Rebus told her. ‘And I’m buying. Not out of altruism, you understand, but because I’ve a huge favour to ask.’
She burst out laughing, slapped her hand to her mouth and started apologising.
‘What did I say?’ he asked.
‘It’s just that Gill told me this would happen. She said if I stuck close to you, I’d have to be prepared for “the big favour”.’
‘Did she now?’
‘And she was right, wasn’t she?’
‘Not entirely. It’s a
huge
favour I’m asking for, not just a big one …’
Siobhan was wearing a vest, polo neck and pure wool V-neck jumper. She had an old pair of thick cords on, tucked at the ankles into two pairs of socks. She’d given her old hiking boots a bit of a polish, and they seemed fine. She hadn’t worn the Barbour in years, but couldn’t think of a better chance to use it. Additionally, she was wearing a bobble-hat, and carrying a pack containing an umbrella, her mobile, a bottle of water and a flask of sweetened tea.
‘Sure you’ve got enough gear?’ Hood laughed. He was wearing jeans and trainers. His yellow cagoule looked brand new. He angled his face to the sun, so that the rays reflected off his sunglasses. They’d parked the car in a lay-by. There was a fence to climb, and after that a gently sloping field which then angled abruptly. The steep gradient was barren, except for occasional whin-bushes and rocks.
‘What do you reckon?’ Hood asked. ‘An hour to the top?’
Siobhan slipped the backpack over her shoulders. ‘With a bit of luck.’
Sheep watched them as they climbed the fence. There was a strand of barbed wire running along it, marked with tufts of grey wool. Hood gave Siobhan a foot up, then leaped over, using his hand on the fence-post for purchase.
‘Not a bad day for it,’ he said, as they started to climb. ‘Reckon Flip would have done this on her ownio?’
‘I don’t know,’ Siobhan conceded.
‘I wouldn’t have said she was the type. She’d have taken one look at this climb and got back into her Golf GTi.’
‘Except she didn’t have a car.’
‘Good point. So how would she have got out here in the first place?’
Which was another good point: they really were in the middle of nowhere, with towns few and far between and only the odd cottage or farm giving signs of habitation. They were only forty miles from Edinburgh, but the city seemed already a distant memory. Siobhan guessed that few buses came this route. If Flip had come here, she’d have needed help.
‘Maybe a taxi,’ she said.
‘Not the sort of fare you’d forget.’
‘No.’ Yet despite a public appeal, and plenty of photos of Flip in the papers, no taxi driver had come forward. ‘Maybe a friend then, someone we haven’t traced yet.’
‘Could be.’ But Hood sounded sceptical. She noticed that he was already breathing hard. A couple of minutes later, he’d shed the cagoule and folded it, tucking it beneath his arm.
‘Don’t know how you can wear that lot,’ he complained. She pulled the bobble-hat from her head and unzipped the Barbour.
‘Is that better?’ she said.
He just shrugged.
Eventually, on the steeper climb, they were reduced to scrabbling with their hands while their feet sought purchase, the stony soil crumbling and sliding away beneath them. Siobhan stopped to rest, sitting down with her knees up, heels digging in. She took a swig of water.
‘Is that you wabbit already?’ Hood said, ten or so feet above her. She offered him the bottle, but he shook his head and started climbing again. She could see sweat shining in his hair.
‘It’s not a race, Grant,’ she called out. He didn’t reply. After another half-minute, she turned round and followed him. He was moving away from her. So much for team work, she thought. He was like a lot of men she’d known: driven, and yet probably unable to put the reasons into words. It was more in the way of an instinct, a basic need, going beyond the rational.
The climb was levelling off a little. Hood stood up, hands on his hips, admiring the view as he rested. Siobhan watched as he bent his head and tried to spit, but his saliva was too viscous. It hung in a strand from his mouth, refusing to drop. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away. Catching up with him, she handed him the bottle.
‘Here,’ she said. He looked like he might refuse, but eventually took a mouthful. ‘It’s clouding over.’ Siobhan was interested in the sky rather than the view. The clouds were thick and blackening. Funny how the weather could change so suddenly in Scotland. The temperature must have dropped three or four degrees, perhaps more. ‘Maybe a shower,’ she said. Hood just nodded, handing back the bottle.
She looked at her watch and saw that they’d been climbing for twenty minutes. That meant they were maybe fifteen from the car, reckoning the descent quicker than the climb. Peering upwards, she guessed they had another fifteen or twenty minutes to go. Hood expelled breath noisily.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Good exercise,’ he said hoarsely. Then he began climbing again. There were damp patches on the back of his dark blue sweatshirt. Any minute now he’d probably take it off, and be clad only in a T-shirt as the weather turned. Sure enough, he paused to pull the sweatshirt over his head.
‘It’s getting cold,’ she warned him.
‘But I’m not.’ He tied the arms of the sweatshirt around his waist.
‘At least put your cagoule back on.’
‘I’ll bake.’
‘No you won’t.’
He seemed ready to argue, then changed his mind. Siobhan had already zipped up her Barbour again. The countryside around them was growing less visible, either low cloud or mist. Or maybe showers blowing in.