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'It's true,' said Rebus. They were in the Murder Room at St Leonard's. 'He was working on something that might well be connected to Billy Cunningham.’

'So what now, sir?’

'We need to talk to Millie and Murdock again.’

'We've talked to them.’

'That's why I said "again". Don't you listen? And after that, let's fix up a little chat with some of the Jaffas.’

'Jaffas?’

Rebus tutted at Siobhan Clarke. 'How long have you lived here? Jaffas are Orangemen.’

'The Orange Lodge?’ said Holmes. 'What can they tell us?’

'The date of the Battle of the Boyne for a start.’

'1690, Inspector.’

'Yes, sir.’

'The date, of course, means more than a mere annus mirabilis. One-six-nine-o. One and six make seven, nine plus nought equals nine, seven and nine being crucial numbers.’

He paused. 'Do you know anything of numerology, Inspector?’

'No, sir.’

'What about the lassie?’

Siobhan Clarke bristled visibly. 'It's sort of a crank science, isn't it?’ she offered. Rebus gave her a cooling look. Humour him, the look ordered: 'Not crank, no. It's ancient, with the ring of truth. Can I get you something to drink?’

'No, thanks, Mr Gowrie.’

They were seated in Arch Gowrie's 'front room', a parlour kept for visitors and special occasions. The real living room, with comfortable sofa, TV and video, drinks cabinet, was elsewhere on this sprawling ground floor. The house was at least three storeys high, and probably boasted an attic conversion too. It was sited in The Grange, a leafy backwater of the city's southern side. The Grange got few visitors; few strangers, and never much traffic, since it was not a wellknown route between any two other areas of the city. A lot of the huge detached houses, one-time merchants' houses with walled grounds and high wooden or metal gates, had been bought by the Church of Scotland or other religious denominations. There was a retirement home to one side of Gowrie's own residence, and what Rebus thought was a convent on the other side.

Archibald Gowrie liked to be called 'Arch'. Everyone knew him as Arch. He was the public face of the Orange Lodge, an eloquent enough apologist (not that he thought there was anything to apologise for), but by no means that organisation's most senior figure. However, he was high enough, and he was easy to find – unlike Millie and Murdock, who weren't home.

Gowrie had agreed readily to a meeting, saying he'd be free between seven and quarter to eight.

'Plenty of time, sir,' Rebus had said.

He studied Arch Gowrie now. The man was big and fiftyish and probably attractive to women in that way older men could be. (Though Rebus noticed Siobhan Clarke didn't seem too enthralled.) Though his hair – thinning nicely was silver, his thick moustache was black. He wore his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing darkly haired arms. He was always ready for business. In fact, 'open for business' had been his public motto, and he worked tirelessly whenever he got his teeth into a new development.

From what Rebus knew, Gowrie, had made his money initially as director of a company which had nippily shifted its expertise from ships and pipelines to building exploration platforms and oil rigs for the North Sea. That was back in the early ' 70s. The company had been sold at vast profit, and Gowrie had disappeared for several years before reappearing in the guise of property developer and investment guru. He was still a property developer, his name on several projects around the city as well as further afield. But he had diversified into wildly different areas: film production, hi-fi design, edible algae, forestry, two country house hotels, a woollen mill, and the Eyrie restaurant in the New Town. Probably Arch was best known for his part ownership of the Eyrie, the city's best restaurant, certainly its most exclusive, by far its most expensive. You wouldn't find nutritious Hebridean Blue Algae, on its menu, not even written in French, Rebus knew of only one large loss Gowrie had taken, as money man behind a film set predominantly in Scotland. Even boasting Rab Kinnoul as its star, the film had been an Easter turkey. Still, Gowrie wasn't shy: there was a framed poster for the film hanging in the entrance hall.

'Annul mirabilis,' Rebus mused. 'That's Latin, isn't it?’

Gowrie was horrified. 'Of course it's Latin! Don't tell me you never studied Latin at school? I though we Scots were an educated bunch. Miraculous year, that's what it means. Sure about that drink?’

'Maybe a small whisky, sir.’ Kill or cure.

'Nothing for me, sir,' said Siobhan Clarke, her voice coming from the high moral ground.

'I won't be a minute,' said Gowrie. When he'd left the room, Rebus turned to her.

'Don't piss him off!' he hissed. 'Just keep your gob shut and your ears open.’

'Sorry, sir. Have you noticed?’

'What?’

'There's nothing green in this room, nothing at all.’

He nodded again. 'The inventor of red, white and blue grass will make a fortune.’