Then he’d joined the army, where women were by turns fantasy figures and untouchables: slags and madonnas, there seemed no middle ground. Released from the army, he’d joined the police. Married by then, but his job had proved more seductive, more all-consuming than the relationship – than any relationship. Since then, his affairs had lasted months, weeks, mere days sometimes. Too late now, he felt, for anything more permanent. Women seemed to like him – that wasn’t the problem. The problem lay somewhere inside him, and it hadn’t been eased by things like the Johnny Bible case, by women abused and then killed. Rape was all about power; killing, too, in its way. And wasn’t power the ultimate male fantasy? And didn’t he sometimes dream of it, too?

He’d seen the post mortem photos of Angie Riddell, and the first thought that had come to him, the thought he’d had to push past, was: good body. It had bothered him, because in that instant she’d been just another object. Then the pathologist had got to work, and she had stopped being even that.

He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. His prayer, as every night, was that there would be no dreams. He woke up in darkness, his back drenched in sweat, and to a ticking noise. It wasn’t a clock, not even his watch. His watch was on the cabinet. This was closer, much more intimate. Was it coming from the wall? The headboard? He switched the light on, but the sound had stopped. Woodworm maybe? He couldn’t find any holes in the headboard’s wooden surround. He switched the lamp off and closed his eyes. There it was again: more geiger counter than metronome. He tried to ignore it, but it was too close. It was inescapable. It was the pillow, his feather pillow. There was something inside, something alive. Would it want to crawl into his ear? Lay its eggs there? Mutate or pupate or just enjoy a snack of wax and eardrum? Sweat cooled on his back and on the sheet beneath him. There was no air in the room. He was too tired to get up, too nervy to sleep. He did what he had to do – tossed the pillow towards the door.

No more ticking, but still he couldn’t sleep. The ringing phone came as a relief. Maybe it was the woman from the bar. He’d tell her, I’m an alcoholic, a fuck-up, I’m no good for any other human being.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Ludo here, sorry to wake you.’

‘I wasn’t asleep. What’s the problem?’

‘A patrol car’s coming to pick you up.’ Rebus grimaced: had Ancram tracked him down already?

‘What for?’

‘A suicide in Stonehaven. Thought you might be interested. The name appears to be Anthony Ellis Kane.’

Rebus shot out of bed. ‘Tony El? Suicide?’

‘Looks like. The car should be there in five minutes.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

Now that John Rebus was in Aberdeen, things were more dangerous.