A journalist got in the first question.

‘Inspector, any comment on the Spaven inquiry?’

‘Is it true the case is being reopened?’

‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’

At that question, Rebus glanced towards Kayleigh Burgess, who had the grace to look down at the pavement. He was halfway up the path now, only feet from the tenement’s main door, but surrounded by reporters. It was like wading through broth. He stopped and turned to face them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement I’d like to make.’

They looked at each other, eyes registering surprise, then held out their tape recorders. A couple of older hacks near the back, who’d been here too often to raise any enthusiasm, were using pen and notepad.

The noise died down. Rebus held his wrapped package aloft.

‘On behalf of the chip-eaters of Scotland, I’d like to thank you for providing our nightly wrappings.’

He was inside the door before they could think of anything to say.

In the flat, he left the lights off and walked over to the living-room window, peering down on to the scene outside. A few of the reporters were shaking their heads, calling in on mobile phones to see if they’d be allowed home. One or two were already making for their cars. Eamonn Breen was talking to camera, looking full of himself as usual. One of the younger journalists raised two fingers above Breen’s head, turning them into rabbit’s ears.

Looking across the road, Rebus saw a man standing against a parked car, arms folded. He was gazing up at Rebus’s window, a smile on his face. He unfolded his arms long enough to give Rebus a silent round of applause, then got into his car and started the engine.

Jim Stevens.

Rebus turned back into the room, switched on an Anglepoise lamp, sat down in his chair to eat the chips. But he still didn’t have much of an appetite. He was wondering who had leaked the story to the vultures. The CC Rider had only told him this afternoon, and he’d told no one except Brian Holmes and Gill Templer. The answering machine was blinking furiously: four messages. He managed to work the machine without recourse to the manual, and was feeling pleased until he heard the Glaswegian accent.

‘Inspector Rebus, it’s CI Ancram here.’ Brisk and businesslike. ‘Just to let you know I’ll probably arrive in Edinburgh tomorrow to get the inquiry underway, sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over with. Best for all concerned, eh? I did leave a message at Craigmillar for you to phone me, but you don’t seem to have been around to act on it.’

‘Thank you and good night,’ Rebus growled.

Beep. Message two.

‘Inspector, it’s me again. It would be very useful to know your planned movements for the next week or so, just to maximise my time effectively. If you could type out as full a breakdown as possible, I’d appreciate it.’