‘What did you think you were up to?’

‘Keeping her mind off Spaven.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘She’s trying to make a programme about Spaven, Jack. She’s not doing one on policemen being nasty to other policemen, and she’s not doing one on Johnny Bible.’

‘So?’

‘So now her head’s swimming with everything I told her – and not a jot of it has to do with Spaven. It’ll keep her … what’s the word?’

‘Preoccupied?’

‘Good enough.’ Rebus nodded, looked at his watch. Five-twenty. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Those pictures!’

Traffic was at a crawl as they detoured into the centre of town. Rush-hour Edinburgh was a nightmare these days. Red lights and chugging exhausts, frayed nerves and drumming fingers. By the time they reached the shop it had closed for the night. Rebus checked the opening hours: nine tomorrow. He could pick up the photos on his way to Fettes and only be a little late for Ancram. Ancram: the very thought of the man was like voltage passing through him.

‘Let’s go home,’ he told Jack. Then he remembered the traffic. ‘No, second thoughts: we’ll stop off at the Ox.’ Jack smiled. ‘Did you think you’d cured me?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I sometimes come off for a couple of days at a stretch, it’s no big thing.’

‘It could be though.’

‘Another sermon, Jack?’

Jack shook his head. ‘What about the ciggies?’

‘I’ll buy a packet from the machine.’

He stood at the bar, resting one shoe on the foot-rail, one elbow on the polished wood. In front of him sat four objects: a packet of cigarettes with seal unbroken; a box of Scottish Bluebell matches; a thirty-five millilitre measure of Teacher’s whisky; and a pint of Belhaven Best. He was staring at them with the concentration of a psychic willing them to move.

‘Three minutes dead,’ a regular commented from along the bar, like he’d been timing Rebus’s resistance. A profound question was running through Rebus’s mind: did he want them, or did they want him? He wondered how David Hume would have got on with that. He picked the beer up. No wonder you called it ‘heavy’: that’s just what it was. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell too enticing; he knew it would taste OK, but other things tasted better. The aroma of the whisky was fine though – smoky, filling nostrils and lungs. It would sear his mouth, burn going down, and melt through him, the effect lasting not long.

And the nicotine? He knew himself that when he took a few days off the ciggies, he could sense how bad they made you smell – your skin, clothes, hair. Disgusting habit really: if you didn’t give yourself cancer, chances were you were giving it to some poor bastard whose only misfortune was in getting too close to you. Harry the barman was waiting for Rebus to act. The whole bar was. They knew something was happening; it was written on Rebus’s face – there was almost pain there. Jack stood beside him, holding his breath.