Do I stay or do I go?

Again she waited. The second cup of coffee was weaker than the first. The jar was empty now. If she wanted anything else to drink, it would have to be camomile tea. She wondered if Quizmaster could have gone somewhere. She got the feeling he would take a laptop and mobile with him wherever he went. Maybe he’d even run it twenty-four/ seven, just like she’d been doing. He’d want to know when messages came through.

So what was he playing at?

‘Can’t risk it,’ she said out loud. One final message: I’m going to the chapel. Then she went to get dressed.

She got into her car, placed the laptop on the passenger seat. She thought again about calling Grant, but decided against it. She’d be all right; she could take any flak he threw at her …

… you don’t want to share. And if that doesn’t sound like Rebus, I don’t know what does.

Grant’s words to her. Yet here she was heading off to Roslin on her own. No back-up, and having alerted Quizmaster that she was coming. Before she’d reached the top of Leith Walk she’d made up her mind. She turned the car in the direction of Grant’s flat.

It was just gone eight-fifteen when the phone woke Rebus up. It was his mobile. He’d plugged it into a wall socket last thing, charged it overnight. He slid from the bed and got his feet caught in the clothes strewn across the carpet. Down on hands and knees, he fumbled for the phone, held it to his ear.

‘Rebus,’ he said. ‘And this had better be good.’

‘You’re late,’ the voice said. Gill Templer.

‘Late for what?’

‘The big story.’

Still on hands and knees, Rebus glanced towards the bed. No sign of Jean. He wondered if she’d gone to work.

‘What big story?’

‘Your presence is requested in Holyrood Park. A body’s been found on Arthur’s Seat.’

‘Is it her?’ Rebus felt his skin suddenly go clammy.

‘Hard to judge at this stage.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ He angled his neck, eyes to the ceiling. ‘How did she die?’

‘Body’s been there a while.’

‘Are Gates and Curt on the scene?’

‘Expected shortly.’

‘I’ll go straight there.’

‘Sorry to have disturbed you. Not at Jean’s by any chance?’

‘Is that a wild guess?’

‘Maybe call it woman’s intuition.’

‘Bye, Gill.’

‘Bye, John.’

As he was switching off the phone, the door swung open and Jean Burchill walked in. She was wearing a towelling robe and carrying a tray: orange juice and toast, a cafetière full of coffee.

‘My,’ she said, ‘don’t you look fetching?’

Then she saw the look on his face and her smile vanished. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

So he told her.

Grant yawned. They’d picked up a couple of beakers of coffee from a newsagent’s, but even so he wasn’t fully awake yet. His hair was standing up at the back, and he seemed conscious of it, kept trying to press it flat with his hand.