‘What happened?’

‘He committed suicide. Apparently he’d been suffering from depression since his wife died. He shot himself.’

‘Aw, Christ.’ Rebus swivelled from the door, legs heavy as he made for the living room, the whiskey bottle. She followed him, placed her bag on the coffee table. He motioned with the bottle and she nodded. They chinked glasses.

‘When did Etta die?’

‘About a year ago. Heart attack, I think. There’s a daughter, lives in London.’

Rebus remembered her: a cheeky-faced pre-teen with braces. Her name was Aileen.

‘Did you hound Geddes the way you’ve hounded me?’

‘We don’t “hound”, Inspector. We just want everyone to have their say. It’s important to the programme.’

‘The programme.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve not got a programme now, have you?’

The drink had brought colour to her face. ‘On the contrary, Mr Geddes’ suicide could be construed as an admission of guilt. It makes a hell of a punch-line.’ She’d recovered well; Rebus wondered how much of her earlier timidity had been an act. He realised she was standing in his living room: records, CDs, empty bottles, books piled high on the floor. He couldn’t let her see the kitchen: Johnny Bible and Bible John spread across the table, evidence of an obsession. ‘That’s why I’m here … partly. I could have given you the news over the telephone, but I thought it was the sort of thing best done face to face. And now that you’re alone, the only living witness so to speak …’ She reached into the bag, produced a professional-looking tape deck and microphone. Rebus put down his glass and walked over to her, hands out.

‘May I?’

She hesitated, then handed over the equipment. Rebus walked down the hall with it. The front door was still open. He stepped into the stairwell, reached a hand over the guard-rail, and let go the recorder. It fell two flights, case splintering on impact with the stone floor. She was right behind him.

‘You’ll pay for that!’

‘Send me the bill and we’ll see.’

He walked back inside and closed the door after him, put the chain on as a hint, and watched through the spy-hole till she’d gone.

He sat in his chair by the window, thinking of Lawson Geddes. Typical Scot, he couldn’t cry about it. Crying was for football defeats, animal bravery stories, ‘Flower of Scotland’ after closing time. He cried about stupid things, but tonight his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

He knew he was in shit. They only had him now, and they’d redouble their efforts to salvage a programme. Besides, Burgess was right: prisoner suicide, policeman suicide – it was a hell of a punch-line. But Rebus didn’t want to be the man to feed them it. Like them, he wanted to know the truth – but not for the same reasons. He couldn’t even say why he wanted to know. One course of action: start his own investigation. The only problem was, the further he dug, the more he might be creating a pit for his own reputation – what was left of it – and, more importantly, that of his one-time mentor, partner, friend. Problem connected to the first: he wasn’t objective enough; he couldn’t investigate himself. He needed a stand-in, an understudy.