Nothing. He hauled himself back over the wall. A taxi driver looked at him in disgust and pressed harder on the accelerator. He’d seen a drunk, a tramp, a loser.

Last year’s man.

Rebus limped across the road into the hotel. The woman behind the reception desk was reaching for the phone, ready to summon back-up, but then recognised him from earlier.

‘Whatever happened to you?’

‘Fell down some steps.’

‘Do you want a doctor?’

‘Just my key, please.’

‘We’ve a first aid kit.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Have it sent up to my room.’

He took a bath, a good long soak, then towelled off and examined the damage. His temple was swollen where the butt had connected, and he had a headache worse than half a dozen hangovers. Some thorns had lodged in his side, but he was able to pick them out with his fingernails. He cleaned the graze, no need for plasters. He might ache in the morning, but he’d probably sleep, so long as the ticking noise didn’t come back. A double brandy had arrived with the first aid; he sipped it, hand trembling. He lay on his bed and phoned home, checking the machine. Ancram, Ancram, Ancram. It was too late to phone Mairie, but he tried Brian Holmes’s number. A lot of rings later, Holmes picked up.

‘Aye?’

‘Brian, it’s me.’

‘What can I do you for?’

Rebus had his eyes screwed shut; difficult to think past the pain. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Nell had walked out?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I came by your house. I know a batch pad when I see one. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Is it the same problem as before?’

‘She wants me to leave the force.’

‘And?’

‘And maybe she’s right. But I’ve tried before, and it’s hard.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, there’s more than one way of leaving.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ And he wouldn’t say any more about it. He wanted to talk about the Spaven case. The bottom line from his reading of the notes: Ancram would smell collusion, a certain economy with the truth; which wasn’t to say there was anything he could do about it.

‘I also notice you interviewed one of Spaven’s friends at the time, Fergus McLure. He’s just died, you know.’

‘Dearie me.’

‘Drowned in the canal, out Ratho way.’

‘What did the post mortem say?’

‘He received a nasty bump to the head some time before entering the water. It’s being treated as suspicious, so …’

‘So?’

‘So if I were you, I’d steer clear. Don’t want to hand Ancram any more ammo.’

‘Speaking of Ancram …’

‘He’s looking for you.’

‘I sort of missed our first interview.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Laying low.’ With his eyes closed and three paracetamol in his stomach.

‘I don’t think he went for your flu story.’

‘That’s his problem.’

‘Maybe.’

‘So you’re finished on Spaven?’

‘Looks like.’

‘What about that prisoner? The one who was the last to speak to Spaven?’