She shook her head slowly. Suddenly Siobhan knew where he was: he was on Arthur’s Seat … while Wylie, who was supposed to be his partner, wasn’t. She thought of Gill Templer, telling Rebus he was needed there. He’d have gone like a shot, leaving Wylie behind. It looked to Siobhan like a calculated snub by Templer. She would know exactly how Wylie would feel.

‘Sorry, no idea,’ Silvers said into the phone. Then: ‘Hang on a sec.’ He held the receiver out towards Siobhan.

‘Lady wants to speak to you.’

Siobhan crossed the floor, mouthing the word ‘who?’, but Silvers just shrugged, handed her the phone.

‘Hello, DC Clarke speaking?’

‘Siobhan, it’s Jean Burchill.’

‘Hi, Jean, what can I do for you?’

‘Have you identified her yet?’

‘Not a hundred per cent. How did you know?’

‘John told me, then he rushed off.’

Siobhan’s lips formed a silent O. John Rebus and Jean Burchill … well, well. ‘Do you want me to tell him you called?’

‘I tried his mobile.’

‘He might have it turned off: you don’t always want interruptions at the locus.’

‘The what?’

‘The crime scene.’

‘Arthur’s Seat, isn’t it? We were there only yesterday morning.’

Siobhan looked across to Silvers. It seemed like every other person had been on Arthur’s Seat recently. When her eyes moved to Grant, she saw that he was staring at his notepad, as if mesmerised by something there.

‘Do you know where on Arthur’s Seat?’ Jean was asking.

‘Across the road from Dunsapie Loch and a bit further around towards the east.’

Siobhan was watching Grant. His eyes were on her as he got up from his chair, picking up the notebook.

‘Where’s that … ?’ The question was rhetorical, Jean trying to picture the location. Grant was holding the notebook out in front of him, but still too far away for her to make out much: jumbles of letters, and then a couple of words circled. Siobhan narrowed her eyes.

‘Oh,’ Jean said suddenly, ‘I know where you mean. Hellbank, I think it’s called.’

‘Hellbank?’ Siobhan made sure Grant could hear her, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

‘Quite a steep slope,’ Jean was saying, ‘which might explain the name, though of course the folklore prefers witches and devilry.’

‘Yes,’ Siobhan said, dragging the word out. ‘Look, Jean, I’ve got to go.’ She was staring at the words circled on Grant’s notepad. He’d worked out the anagram. ‘That’s a surer’ had become ‘Arthur’s Seat’.

Siobhan put down the phone.

‘He was leading us to her,’ Grant said quietly.

‘Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, “maybe”?’

‘You’re saying he knew Flip was dead. We can’t know that for certain. All he was doing was taking us to the places Flip went.’

‘She turned up dead at this one. And who apart from Quizmaster knew she’d be there?’