He picked up the telephone, pressed seven numbers. A sleepy response.

‘Yeah, hello?’

‘Brian, it’s John. Sorry to phone so late, I need that favour repaid.’

They met in the car park at Newcraighall. Lights were on in the UCI cinema complex, some late showing. The Mega Bowl was closed; so was McDonald’s. Holmes and Nell Stapleton had moved into a house just off Duddingston Park, looking across Portobello Golf Course and the Freightliner Terminal. Holmes said the freight traffic didn’t keep him awake through the night. They could have met at the golf course, but it was too close to Nell for Rebus’s liking. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, not even at social functions – each had a gift for knowing when the other would or wouldn’t be in attendance. Old scrapes; Nell picking at the scabs, obsessive.

So they met a couple of miles away, in a gully, surrounded by closed shops – DIY store, shoe emporium, Toys R Us – still cops, even off duty.

Especially off duty.

Their eyes darted, using wing mirrors and rearview, looking for shadows. Nobody in sight, they still talked in an undertone. Rebus explained exactly what he wanted.

‘This TV programme, I need some ammo before I talk to them. But it’s too personal with me. I need you to go back over the Spaven case – case notes, trial proceedings. Just read through them, see what you think.’

Holmes sat in the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab. He looked what he was: a man who’d got undressed and gone to bed, only to have to get up too shortly thereafter and put dayshift clothes on again. His hair was ruffled, shirt open two buttons, shoes but no socks. He stifled a yawn, shaking his head.

‘I don’t get it. What am I looking for?’

‘Just see if anything jars. Just … I don’t know.’

‘You’re taking this seriously then?’

‘Lawson Geddes just killed himself.’

‘Christ.’ But Holmes didn’t even blink; beyond compassion for men he didn’t know, figures from history. He had too much on his own mind.

‘Something else,’ Rebus said. ‘You might track down an ex-con who says he was the last person to talk to Spaven. I forget the name, but it was reported in all the papers at the time.’

‘One question: do you think Geddes framed Lenny Spaven?’

Rebus made a show of thinking it over, then shrugged. ‘Let me tell you the story. Not the story you’ll find in my written notes on the case.’

Rebus began to talk: Geddes turning up at his door, the too-easy finding of the bag, Geddes frantic before, unnaturally calm after. The story they manufactured, anonymous tip-off. Holmes listened in silence. The cinema began to empty, young couples hugging, air-hopping towards their cars, walking like they’d rather be lying down. A gathering of engine-noise, exhaust fumes and headlights, tall shadows on the canyon walls, the car park emptying. Rebus finished his version.

‘Another question.’