‘But?’

She didn’t answer, but Rebus knew what she’d meant: but they were just going through the motions with him. Neither Ancram nor anyone else was expecting the expensive tests to yield any positive result. The only result would be a nettled, unsettled Rebus. That’s what the whole thing was about. Forensics knew it; Rebus knew it.

Blood sample – the need for a warrant had been waived – and fingerprints next, plus they wanted some strands and threads from his clothes. I’m going on the computer, Rebus thought. For all that I’m not guilty, I’ll still be a suspect in the eyes of history. Anyone digging the files out in twenty years’ time will see that a policeman was interviewed, and gave samples … It was a grim feeling. And once they had his DNA on record … well, that was him on the register. The Scottish DNA database was just beginning to be compiled. Rebus started to wish he’d insisted on a warrant.

Throughout each process Jack Morton stood by, averting his face. And afterwards, Rebus got his shoes back. It felt like the forensic science staff were staring at him; maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Pete Hewitt wandered past – he hadn’t been present at the fingerprinting – and made a crack about the biter bit. Jack grabbed Rebus’s arm, stopped him from swinging. Hewitt shuffled off double quick.

‘We’re due at Fettes,’ Jack reminded Rebus.

‘I’m ready.’

Jack looked at him. ‘Maybe we’ll stop off somewhere first, get another coffee.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Afraid I’ll take a swing at Ancram?’

‘If you do, bear in mind he’s a southpaw.’

‘Inspector, do you have any objections to this interview being recorded?’

‘What happens to the recording?’

‘It’ll be dated and timed, copies made: one for you. Transcripts ditto.’

‘No objections.’

Ancram nodded to Jack Morton, who set the machine running. They were in an office on the third floor of Fettes. It was cramped, and looked like it had hastily been vacated by a disgruntled tenant. There was a wastepaper-bin by the desk, waiting to be emptied. Paper-clips littered the floor. The walls still bore marks where Sellotaped pictures had been yanked down. Ancram sat behind the scratched desk, the Spaven casenotes piled to one side. He was wearing a formal dark-blue pinstripe with pale blue shirt and tie, and looked like he’d been for a haircut first thing. There were two pens in front of him on the desk – a blue fine-nib Bic with yellow casing, and an expensive-looking lacquered rollerball. His buffed and filed nails tapped against a clean pad of A4 paper. A typed list of notes, queries and points to be raised sat to the right of the pad.

‘So, doctor,’ Rebus said, ‘what are my chances?’

Ancram merely smiled. When he spoke, it was for the benefit of the tape machine.

‘DCI Charles Ancram, Strathclyde CID. It’s –’ he consulted a thin wristwatch – ‘ten forty-five on Monday the twenty-fourth of June. Preliminary interview with Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. This interview is taking place in office C25, Lothian Police Headquarters, Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh. Also present is —’