‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’

Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’

Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.

‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here …’

‘I want Nell back.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘But I want to be a copper.’

‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’

‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it …’

‘You’ve always written a good, clear report, Brian.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the words aren’t coming out right, try writing them down.’

‘Send her a letter?’

‘Call it that if you like. Just put down what it is you want to say, maybe try explaining why you feel that way.’

‘Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?’

‘Only the problem page.’

They had a laugh at that, though it didn’t really merit one. Brian stretched in his chair. ‘I need a sleep,’ he said.

‘Get an early night, write the letter first thing tomorrow.’

‘Maybe I will, aye.’

Rebus started to get to his feet. Brian watched him rise.

‘Don’t you want to hear about Mick Hine?’

‘Who he?’

‘Ex-con, the last man to speak to Lenny Spaven.’

Rebus sat down again.

‘I had a job tracking him down. Turns out he was here in town all the time, sleeping rough.’

‘And?’

‘And I had a word with him.’ Brian paused. ‘And I think you should, too. You’ll get a very different picture of Lenny Spaven, believe me.’

Rebus believed him, whatever he meant. He didn’t want to, but he did.

Jack was utterly opposed to the idea.

‘Look, John, my boss is going to want to talk to this guy Hine, right?’

‘Right.’

‘How’s it going to look when he finds out not just that your pal Brian’s been there first, but that you’ve followed up?’

‘It’s going to look bad, but he hasn’t told me not to.’

Jack growled his frustration. They’d dropped his car back at the flat, and were now walking down on to Melville Drive. One side of the road was Bruntsfield Links, the other the Meadows, a flat grassy stretch which could be wonderful on a hot summer’s afternoon – a place to relax, to play football or cricket – but scary at night. The paths were lamp-lit, but it was like the wattage had been turned down. Some nights, the walk was positively Victorian. But this was summer, the sky still pink. There were squares of light shining from the Royal Infirmary and a couple of the tall university buildings huddled around George Square. Female students crossed the Meadows in packs, a lesson learned from the animal world. Maybe there were no predators out there tonight, but the fear was just as real. The government had pledged to combat ‘the fear of crime’. It was reported on the TV news just before the latest Hollywood shoot-’em-up.