Rebus spent the rest of the late afternoon in the Central Library on George IV Bridge. A librarian showed him how to use the microfilm reader in the Edinburgh Room. He was interested in the local daily and evening papers for the four weeks leading up to Billy Saunders’s attack on Douglas Merchant. Having been through the police logs, he’d found nothing surprising or out of place—excepting that torn page from the custody ledger. As he spooled each day’s news across the large screen in front of him, he tried not to become distracted; difficult when there were so many reports and stories that triggered memories. Margaret Thatcher was planning a June general election, and Jimmy Savile was fronting an advertising campaign for train travel. Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen beat Real Madrid in extra time to lift the Cup Winners’ Cup. British Leyland was in trouble, as were Timex and Ravenscraig. There were moves to ban smoking from the upper decks of buses, and Annie was showing at the Playhouse—Rebus remembered Rhona and Sammy dragging him along so he could sleep through it. An ad for a Kensitas gift book reminded him that some of Sammy’s Christmas presents would have come from his cigarette coupons. Meantime, the Balmoral Hotel was still the North British and pirate videos were being seized. He thought he could recall a stash of them doing the rounds at Summerhall—Gandhi a popular choice. A business computer cost almost the same as a new car, and Bowie was due to play Murrayfield. Stefan Gilmour had blagged the Saints into the eventual gig, Rebus watching and listening through a haze of alcohol on a wet, gray June evening…

On the verge of taking a break and stepping outside for a cigarette, he noticed that the room was emptying, the students unplugging their laptops and packing their bags. Rebus walked across to the desk, and asked what time the place closed.

“Five,” he was told.

Giving him only another ten minutes. Instead of the break, he speeded up his reading. He had been doing little more than glancing at each day’s obituaries, concentrating instead on news stories. But then he saw a name he recognized.

Philip Kennedy.

Suddenly but peacefully at home…Funeral service…Family flowers only, please…