Nell didn’t say anything for a while. They headed for Potterrow, crossed the road at the lights. They were headed for Greyfriars, plenty of bus stops there.

‘I know what you’re saying,’ she said at last. ‘You’re saying it’s a no-win situation.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Please, just listen to me.’ Her eyes were glistening in the sodium light. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the phone call, the one that tells me there’s bad news. I don’t want to plan weekends off and holidays away only to have them cancelled because some case or court appearance takes precedence. That’s asking too much.’

‘It’s asking a hell of a lot,’ Rebus conceded. ‘It’s a high-wire act without the safety net. But all the same …’

‘What?’

‘You can make it work. A lot of people do. Maybe you can’t plan things too far in advance, maybe there’ll be cancellations and tears. When the chances come, you take them.’

‘Have I wandered into a Dr Ruth show by mistake?’ Rebus sighed, and she stopped walking, took his hand. ‘Look, John, I know why you’re doing this. Brian’s hurting, and you don’t like to see it. I don’t like it either.’ A distant siren wailed, down towards the High Street, and Nell shivered. Rebus saw it, looked into her eyes, and found himself nodding. He knew she was right; his own wife had said the same things. And the way Jack was standing, the look on his face, he’d been here before, too. Nell started walking again.

‘He’ll leave the force, Nell. He’ll make them dump him. But for the rest of his life …’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same. He won’t be the same.’

She nodded. ‘I can live with that.’

‘You don’t know for sure.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You’ll take that risk, but you won’t risk him staying put?’ Her face hardened, but Rebus didn’t give her time for a comeback. ‘Here’s your bus. Just think about it, Nell.’

He turned and walked back towards the Meadows.

They’d made up a bed for Jack in the spare room – Sammy’s old bedroom, complete with Duran Duran and Michael Jackson posters. They’d washed themselves and shared a pot of tea – no alcohol, no ciggies. Rebus lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, knew sleep wouldn’t come for ages, and that when it did his dreams would be fierce. He got up and tiptoed through to the living room, keeping the lights off. The room was cool, they’d kept the windows open late, but the fresh paint and the old scorched paint from the door left a nice smell. Rebus uncovered his chair and dragged it over to the bay window. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him, felt himself relax. There were lights on across the way and he concentrated on them. I’m a peeper, he thought, a voyeur. All cops are. But he knew he was more than that: he liked to get involved in the lives around him. He had a need to know which went beyond voyeurism. It was a drug. And the thing was, when he had all this knowledge, he then had to use booze to blank it out. He saw his reflection in the window, two-dimensional, ghostly.