He was in a white van today, nicely anonymous. A small van, empty apart from a set of overalls, some everyday tools and a liter-sized pot of paint. Reaching his destination, he found a parking space and got out, climbing into the blue workman’s overalls. He saw the name on the intercom, and pressed one of the other buttons. Someone was home, and they buzzed him in; didn’t even ask his business. That was Edinburgh for you: people kept to themselves, no interest in others. Up the stairs, pausing at the top and listening at the letter box. No hint of life within. It had taken a while to track the place down. The Golf had been registered to an address in London, surname Traynor. But then at the funeral the McCuskey son had been pictured with his girlfriend, named in the media as Jessica Traynor. Simple enough after that, and here he was. He looked around. The skylight above him was covered in protective mesh and bird crap. The interior walls were cream-colored and graffiti-free. And the door was pale green. Pale green was fine. Crouching, he prized the lid from the paint with a screwdriver. The paint was a lighter shade of red than he would have liked—not quite the color of blood. Taking a step back so as to avoid the splash, he made ready to deliver his message.

The same mortuary attendant told Rebus that once again his timing was off.

“They were due to start at quarter to five,” Rebus complained, receiving a shrug in response.

Rather than interrupt proceedings, Rebus took a seat in the viewing area. Glass panels separated him from the action, and there were rows of uncomfortable benches to sit on. He had always meant to ask someone about the benches—it seemed to him that a couple of dozen onlookers could be accommodated, but he’d never seen more than a handful at a time make use of them.

Noticing him, Deborah Quant gave a little wave with one of her instruments. She was dressed in scrubs and a face mask, as was her companion. Rebus guessed the man must be the forensics bod Quant had mentioned. An assistant worked in the background, bagging and labeling. The whole procedure looked painstaking, and was being recorded by a microphone which also transmitted to a speaker in the ceiling above Rebus.

“We had to start a bit early,” Quant said for his benefit. “Professor Thomas here is a forensic anthropologist. He has to be in Glasgow for a professional dinner.”

Without knowing who the visitor was, Professor Thomas gave Rebus a nod of greeting. He looked young—younger even than Quant. He asked a second assistant to take close-up photographs of one patch of skin. The cadaver lay on its front—Rebus could make out the fair hair on its head, and the folds of skin covering the skeleton.