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?

8

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?’