“I suppose you’d go to DCI Ralph with it anyway? That way your arse is covered if it turns out to be important.”

Fox considered for a moment, then nodded. Rebus turned his attention back to Clarke.

“So maybe that’s what you should do.”

“Saunders is my priority, John.” She checked her watch. “Which means I need to get back and crack the whip.”

“Might want to stop off at a pharmacy first,” Rebus said, indicating her stomach. “Dose of liver salts will see you right.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Siobhan Clarke said.

That evening Rebus drove the full length of Arden Street, seeking a parking space, ending up in Marchmont Crescent. Cursing his luck, he locked the car and crossed Marchmont Road, stopping in at Margiotta’s for provisions before walking home. At the top of Arden Street, he saw a figure slumped in a doorway. Heading towards it, he recognized Forbes McCuskey. The young man was dressed in his funeral suit but was missing his tie. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and something had been spilled on the shirt itself. He had lit a cigarette and it was still wedged between two fingers, reduced to the filter and an inch of ash. Rebus nudged McCuskey’s foot with his own.

“Wakey wakey,” he said.

The eyes, when they blinked open, were glassy and unfocused.

“This where you live?” Rebus asked.

Mustering all his strength, the student turned his head to examine the door behind him.

“Looks like,” he slurred.

“Bit too much wine?” Rebus guessed. “Or have you been sampling the goods?” He leaned down and started to lift McCuskey to his feet. The student was wiry, almost no meat on him. The jacket of his suit was scuffed, as were his shoes.

“How did you get here?” Rebus asked.

“I didn’t drive,” McCuskey protested.

“But you were driving that night, weren’t you?”

“Had to get away.”

“Who from?”

But McCuskey was sagging, eyes closing again.

“Let’s get you inside,” Rebus said, dipping a hand into various pockets in search of a key.

“What’s your game?” Rebus turned his head towards the question. Two men the same age as Forbes McCuskey stood there, carrying grocery bags of their own. “You picking Forbes’s pockets?”

“Is he your flatmate?” Rebus said. “Found him sparked out here. Just getting a key to unlock the door.”

“He’s been to his father’s funeral,” one of the flatmates explained. “Leave him to us.”

“You sure?”

McCuskey’s eyes were blinking open again. “Policeman,” he said.

“You want us to call the police, Forbes?” the same flatmate asked, wary eyes on Rebus.