at the heart of the Moche’s mysterious religion, was one of the great puzzles of north Peruvian archaeology.
And maybe the solution was coming into reach.
Jessica started the truck and pulled away. Above her, unseen, the turkey vulture had won the day; with a flap of grimy wings it swung across the sky, carrying its prize.
5
Braid Hills, Edinburgh
The hotel was overheated, and reeked of beer from last night’s raucous wedding, which had kept him awake until three.
As he packed his bag, Adam wasn’t sad to be leaving. He’d done his job here in dark, wintry and rather depressing Edinburgh. The Guardian had run his Rosslyn Chapel story, with a gratifying double-page spread and some nice quirky photos by Jason. The paper had also taken a small but judicious personal addition, by Adam, to its unsigned obituary of Dr Archibald McLintock, expert and author in medieval history – ‘in his last days I met Professor McLintock once again, and he was as courteous and enlightening as ever …’
Yet even as he stuffed his dirty shirts into his suitcase, Adam felt a nagging sense of unease. Of course the suicide of Archie McLintock had been upsetting, but it was also those last words the professor had used, in the chapel.
It’s all true, Rosslyn is the key.
Adam had, with some reluctance, omitted their brief and eccentric encounter from his article on Rosslyn. The professor had obviously been mentally unbalanced at the end, and Adam had not wanted to trash McLintock’s memory by using those uncharacteristic quotes, which made the man look a fool. Not so close to his death. But the unanswered questions were still out there.
Frowning, Adam gazed through the bay windows of his second-floor bedroom. The hotel was a converted Victorian villa, with creaky corridors, wilting pot plants, a conservatory where old ladies ate scones; and a very decent view across the medieval skyline of Edinburgh Old Town, down towards the docklands of Leith.
That view was already darkening. Two o’clock in the afternoon and the onset of night was palpable, enshrouding the city like a sort of dread. Down there, on the Firth of Forth, vast swathes of winter rain, great theatre curtains of it, were sweeping westwards – past Prestonpans and Musselburgh, past Seafield and Restalrig.
A Nordic doominess prevailed even in the names. Alicia Hagen. Norwegian.
Adam hastened his packing, zipping up the suitcase with a rush of vigour, sealing any morbid thoughts inside, with his dirty washing. Jobless now, he could not waste time. He had done his last article for the Guardian, his pay-off was being wired into his account, now he really should bog off to Afghanistan. Or at least go right back to London, and look for more work.
He turned to the phone on the bedside table, and picked up. The receptionist greeted him cheerily, and gave him the number for a taxi. He re-dialled the cab firm. ‘Yes, Waverley Station. Straight away?’
Straight away turned out to be impossible: he’d have to wait twenty minutes. But that was OK: his train wasn’t leaving until four thirty.
Strolling to the window, he lingered. Edinburgh Castle brooded on the skyline, dour and clichéd and impressive. The dark Scottish streets glistened in the smirr.
Then his own phone rang. Adam took the call, though he didn’t recognize the number. An Edinburgh prefix … ‘Hello.’
The answering voice was young, and female, and rich with Scottish vowels. ‘Hello, is that Adam Blackwood of … the Guardian?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wrote the piece about my father?’
‘Sorry?’
A short, distinctive pause. Then, ‘My name is Nina McLintock. Archibald McLintock was my father. I’m sorry to bother you but …’
‘Go on. Please.’
‘Ach, it’s just …’
She sounded distracted, maybe even distraught. Adam felt a sudden rush of sympathy. He blurted, ‘I’m so sorry for what happened, Miss McLintock, it’s so shocking. I mean I was there, I spoke to your father just moments before, before the suicide, I actually saw the crash …’ Even as he said this Adam chastened himself. It felt like a silly boast, or something presumptuous, and using the word suicide was just graceless. But the girl seemed encouraged by his words, rather than offended.
‘Call me Nina. Please call me Nina. I want to talk with you. You saw it all. The police told me, you spoke to my dad just before.’
‘Yes, but I—’
Nina McLintock was not for pausing. ‘So you know! My father was not in any way depressed. He was happy. These last weeks he was really happy. I know my dad. He wasn’t suicidal. Just wasn’t.’
The first raindrops rattled on the window.
‘I think he was murdered.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Murdered. He was killed. I’m sure of it, but meet me and I’ll tell you why. Tell you everything.’
6
The Hinnie Tavern, Edinburgh Old Town
The Hinnie was one of those Edinburgh pubs that seemed to contain a slightly rancid, off-putting darkness, in the heart of the Old Town, under the louring stone bulwarks of the castle, down a tiny medieval wynd so obscured and sooted by history that only the initiated knew those ancient, uninviting steps led down to an equally ancient, uninviting pub.
Glum drinkers stared into glasses of The Famous Grouse. Old men ignored each other at the bar, drinking pints of 80 Shilling. Another young man gazed aggressively at Adam, with the stare of an antlered male stag on a hillside in the rutting season: fuck you.
Adam raised his glass and toasted him, staring right back, making the boy visibly seethe. Come on then, Adam thought, I am descended from some of the worst English criminals in the history of transportation. My grandfather killed dingoes with his bare hands. You think you’re harder than me?
Adam felt guilty about his temper, but he also had a pleasing confidence in his physical capabilities, which sometimes came in handy. He recalled the day they beat up the Lebanese boys in Cronulla, gave them a hiding for nearly gang-raping his sister’s friend when the police wouldn’t do anything. Too racially sensitive, mate.
His father, of course, was – or at least had been in his prime – exactly the same. A bit of a drinker, a bit of a bruiser. Almost liked a fight; he and Adam used to wrestle and box when Adam was a lad. So the propensity must’ve come from Dad.
Don’t let anyone push you around, son, unless they have a gun. Then go get a gun. That was what his dad used to say. Dad was a real larrikin, a true Aussie, albeit descended from centuries of English cutpurses and highwaymen. Mum had been very different.
‘Hello?’
Startled from his thoughts, he looked up – to see a young woman, standing directly opposite, extending a delicate white hand.
Nina McLintock.
She didn’t look anything like he had expected; she had remarkable pale skin, and lush dark hair. She was also petite and slim and wearing dark clothes and a white shirt or blouse: she looked like a figure in a monochrome photo. The only thing that told him this was sandy-haired Archie McLintock’s daughter was the eyes, they were the same intelligent grey-green. The sad eyes he had seen in Rosslyn Chapel.
‘Recognize you from the paper. I’m sorry I’m so late.’
He lifted hands as if to say no worries.
She hastily explained,