of them.'
'Yes, sir.'
'You've been too close to John Rebus for too long.'
She'd looked up, frowning. 'Meaning?'
'Meaning you're looking for something here that probably doesn't exist.'
'The money exists. He walked into a building society, all of it in cash. Next thing he's living as a down and out.'
'A rich eccentric; money does strange things to some people.'
'He erased his past. It's like he was in hiding.'
'You think the money was stolen? Then why didn't he spend it?'
'That's just one other question, sir.'
A sigh; a scratch of the nose. 'A few more days, Siobhan. All right?'
She'd nodded. 'Yes, sir,' she'd said...
'Evening all.'
John Rebus was standing in the doorway.
She glanced at her watch. 'How long have you been there?'
'How long have you been staring at that wall?'
She realised she was halfway down the office, and had been gazing at photos of the Grieve locus. 'I was dreaming. What are you doing here?'
'Working, same as you.' He came into the office, leaned against one of the desks with his arms folded.
You've been too close to John Rebus for too long.
'How's the Grieve case?' she asked.
He shrugged. 'Shouldn't your first question be 'How's Derek?''
She half-turned from him, cheeks reddening slightly.
'Sorry,' he said. 'That was bad taste, even for me.'
'We just didn't hit it off,' she told him.
'I'm having the selfsame problem.'
She turned to him. 'Is Derek the problem though, or is it you?'
He feigned a pained look, then winked and walked up the central aisle between the rows of desks. 'Is this your man's stuff?' he asked. She followed him back to her desk. She could smell whisky.
'They're calling him Supertramp.'
'Who are?'
'The media.'
He was smiling. She asked him why.
'Supertramp: I saw them in concert once. Usher Hall. I think it was.'
'Before my time.'
'So what's the story with Mr Supertramp anyway?'
'He had all this money he either couldn't spend or didn't want to. He took on a new identity. My theory is that he was hiding.'
'Maybe.' He was rifling through the scraps on the desk. She folded her arms, gave him a hard look which he failed to notice. He opened the bread bag and shook out the contents: disposable razor, a sliver of soap, toothbrush. An organised mind,' he said. 'Makes himself a washbag. Doesn't like being dirty.'
'It's like he was acting the part,' she said.
He caught her tone, looked up. 'What is it?' he asked.
'Nothing.' She couldn't say the words: my case, my pitch.
Rebus lifted the arrest photograph. 'What did he do?' She told him and he laughed.
'I've tracked him back as far as 1980. That was when 'Chris Mackie' was born.'
'You should talk to Hood and Wylie. They're checking MisPers from 78 and 79.'
'Maybe I'll do that.'
'You sound tired. What if I offered to buy you dinner?'
'And we talk shop all through the meal? Yes, that would be a real break from routine.'
'I happen to have a wide range of conversational topics.'
'Name three.'
'Pubs, progressive rock, and...'
'And you're struggling.'
'Scottish history: I've been reading up on it lately.'
'How thrilling. Besides, pubs are where you have conversations; they're not what you talk about.'
'I talk about them.'
'That's because you're obsessed.'
He was sorting through her messages. 'Who's G. Sithing?'
She rolled her eyes. 'His first name's Gerald. He came to see me this morning: the first of many, no doubt.'
'He's keen to talk to you.'
'Once was enough.'
'Woodwork creaks and out come the freaks, eh?'
'I've a feeling that's a line from a song.'
'Not a song, a classic. So who is he?'
'He runs some bunch of nutters called the Knights of Rosslyn.'
'As in Rosslyn Chapel?'
'The same. He says Supertramp was a member.'
'Sounds unlikely.'
'Oh, I think they knew one another. I just can't see Mackie leaving all that money to Mr Sithing.'
'So who are these Knights of Rosslyn?'
'They think there's something beneath the chapel floor. Come the millennium, up it pops and they're in the vanguard.'
'I was out there the other day.'
'I didn't know you were interested.'
'I'm not. But Lorna Grieve lives out that way.' Rebus had turned his attention to the newspaper which had been in Mackie's carrier. 'Was this folded like this?'
The newspaper looked filthy, as though it had been fished out of a bin. It had been opened to an inside page, and folded into quarters.
'I think so,' she said. 'Yes, it was crumpled like that.'
'Not crumpled, Siobhan. Look what story it's open at.'
She looked: a follow-up article on the 'body in the fireplace'. She took the paper from Rebus and unfolded it. 'Could be one of these other stories.'
'Which one: traffic congestion or the doctor who's prescribing Viagra?'
'Don't forget the advert for New Year in County Kerry.' She gnawed her bottom lip, turned to the paper's front page: the lead was Roddy Grieve's murder. 'Are you seeing something I'm not?' Thinking of the Chief Super's words: you're looking for something here that probably doesn't exist.
Seems to me maybe Supertramp had some interest in Skelly. You should ask the people who knew him.'
Rachel Drew at the hostel; Dezzi, heating burgers by hand-dryer; Gerald Sithing. Siobhan managed not to look thrilled by Rebus's suggestion.
'We've a body in Queensberry House,' Rebus said, 'dates back to late 78 or early 79. A year later, Supertramp is born.' He held up a finger on his right hand. 'Supertramp suddenly decides to top himself, having read in the paper about the find in the fireplace.' He held up a finger on his left hand, touched the two together.
'Careful,' Siobhan said, 'that means something rude in several countries.'
