was in a hostel sort of place, Grassmarket. I met him the very next day, and the day after that. It got to be a routine with us, and one I enjoyed very much.'
'What did you talk about?'
'The world, the mess we've made of it. He was interested in Edinburgh, in all the architectural changes. He was very anti.'
'Anti?'
'You know, against all the new buildings. Maybe in the end it got too much for him.'
'He killed himself in protest at ugly architecture?'
'Despair can come from many quarters.' His tone was admonishing.
'I'm sorry if I sounded 'Oh, I'm sure it's not your fault. You're just tired.'
'Is it that obvious?'
'And maybe Chris was tired, too. That's the point I was making.'
'Did he ever talk about himself?'
'A little. He told me about the hostel, about people he'd met...'
'I meant his past. Did he talk about his life before he went on the street?'
Sithing was shaking his head. 'He was more of a good listener, fascinated by Rosslyn.'
Clarke thought she'd misheard. 'Rosalind?'
'Rosslyn. The chapel.'
'What about it?'
Sithing leaned forward. 'My whole life's devoted to the place. You may have heard of the Knights of Rosslyn?'
Clarke was getting a bad feeling. She shook her head. The stems of her eyes ached.
'But you know that in the year 2000, the secret of Rosslyn will reveal itself?'
'Is this some New Age thing?'
Sithing snorted. 'It's very much an ancient thing.'
'You believe Rosslyn's some sort of... special place?'
'It's the reason Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland. Hitler was obsessed with the Ark of the Covenant.'
'I know. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark three times. You're saying Harrison Ford was looking in the wrong place?'
'Laugh all you like,' Sithing sneered.
'And that's what you talked about with Chris Mackie?'
'He was an acolyte!' Sithing slapped the desk. 'He was a believer.'
Clarke was getting to her feet. 'Did you know he had money?'
'He'd have wanted it to go to the Knights!'
'Did you know anything about him?'
'He gave us a hundred pounds to carry on our researches. Beneath the floor of the chapel, that's where it's buried.'
'What?'
'The portal! The gateway!'
Clarke had the door open. She grabbed Sithing's arm. It felt soft, as if there were no bones beneath the flesh.
'Out,' she commanded.
'The money belongs to the Knights! We were his family!'
'Out'
He wasn't resisting, not really. She swung him into the revolving door and gave it a push, propelling him out on to St Leonard's Street, where he turned to glare at her. His face was redder than ever. Strands of hair had fallen forwards over his eyes. He began talking again, but she turned away. The desk sergeant was grinning. 'Don't,' she warned.
'I hear my Uncle Chris passed away,' he said, ignoring her raised finger. As she made for the stairs, she could hear his voice. 'He said he'd leave me a little something when he went. Any chance, Siobhan? Come on, just a few quid from my old Uncle Chris!'
Her phone was ringing when she reached it. She picked up the receiver, rubbing at her temples with her free hand.
'What?' she snapped.
'Hello?' A woman's voice.
'You'll be the mystery tramp's sister then?' Clarke slipped into her chair.
'It's Sandra here. Sandra Carnegie.'
The name meant nothing to her for a moment.
'We went to the Marina that night,' the voice explained.
Clarke screwed her eyes shut. 'Oh, hell, yes. Sorry, Sandra.'
'I was just phoning to see if...'
'It's been a hellish day, that's all,' Clarke was saying.
'... there'd been any progress. Only no one's telling me anything.'
Clarke sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sandra. It's not my case any more. Who's your contact at Sex Crimes?'
Sandra Carnegie mumbled something inaudible.
'I didn't catch that.'
A burst of fury: 'I said you're all the same! You look like you're concerned, but you're not doing anything to catch him! I can't go out now without wondering, is he watching me? Is that him on the bus, or crossing the road?' The anger melting to tears. 'And I thought you... that night we...'
'I'm sorry, Sandra.'
'Stop saying that! Jesus, just stop, will you?'
'Maybe if I talked to the officers at Sex Crimes...' But the phone had gone dead. Siobhan put down the receiver, then lifted it off the hook, sat it on the desktop. She had Sandra's number somewhere, but looking at the chaos of papers on her desk, she knew it might take hours to find.
And her headache was getting worse.
And the frauds and lunatics would keep hammering at her.
And what kind of job was it that could make you feel so bad about yourself...?
The kind of morning just made for a long drive: sky a pale wash of blue, thin strings of clouds, almost no traffic and Page/Plant on the radio-cassette. A long drive might help clear his head. The bonus ball: he was missing the morning briefing. Linford could have the stage all to himself.
Rebus headed out of town against the tide of the rush hour. Crawling queues on Queensferry Road, the usual tailback at the Barnton roundabout. Snow on the roofs of some cars: the gritting lorries had been out at dawn. He stopped for petrol and downed two more paracetamol with a can of Irn-Bru. Crossing the Forth Bridge, he saw that they'd put up the Millennium Clock on the Rail Bridge, providing a reminder he didn't need. He remembered a trip to Paris with his ex-wife... was it twenty years ago? A similar clock was set up outside the Beaubourg, only it had stopped.
And here he was time travelling, back to the haunt of childhood holidays. When he came off the M90, he was surprised to see he still had over twenty miles to go. Was St Andrews really so isolated? A neighbour had usually given the family a lift: Mum and Dad. and Rebus and his brother. Three of them crushed against each other on the back seat, bags squashed by their knees and legs, beach balls and towels resting on their laps. The trip would take all morning. Neighbours would have waved them off, as though an expedition were being undertaken. Into the dark continent of north-east Fife, final destination a caravan site, where their four-berth rental awaited, smelling of mothballs and gas mantles. At night there'd be the toilet block with its skittering insect life, moths and jenny-long-legs casting huge shadows on the whitewashed walls. Then back to the caravan for games of cards and dominoes, their father usually winning except when their mother persuaded him not to cheat.
Two weeks of summer. It was called the Glasgow Fair Fortnight. He was never sure if 'fair' was as in festival or not raining. He never saw a festival in St Andrews and it seemed to rain often, sometimes for a whole week. Plastic macs and long bleak walks. When the sun broke through, it could still be cold; the brothers turning
