He seemed to require an answer, but none was forthcoming. The silence lengthened until Robison broke it.

“We don’t always have the resources,” she countered, “never mind the evidence. Hard to apply DNA tests to anything when the victim’s clothing got lost somewhere down the line.”

“There are plenty of cases where we do have clothing, though, aren’t there?”

“And can we demand that every male in a town gives us a DNA sample so we can try for a match?” Bliss added. “How about the ones who’ve died or moved away in the interim?”

“That positive outlook of yours is why I warm to you, Peter.” Cowan placed the cutting on the desk and folded his arms. “For your own sakes,” he said. “Not mine—I’ll be fine and dandy—but for your sakes.” He paused for effect. “For your sakes, we need to make this work.”

There was silence in the room again, broken only by Bliss’s breathing and a sigh from Robison. Cowan’s eyes were on Rebus, but Rebus was busy draining the last of the coffee from his mug.

iii

Bert Jansch was dead, too. Rebus had seen him play a few solo gigs in Edinburgh down the years. Jansch had been born in the city but made his name in London. After work that evening, alone in his flat, Rebus played a couple of Pentangle albums. He was no expert, but he could tell Jansch’s playing from the other guitarist in the band, John Renbourn. As far as he knew, Renbourn was still around—maybe living in the Borders. Or was that Robin Williamson? He had taken his colleague Siobhan Clarke to a Renbourn/Williamson concert once, driving her all the way to Biggar Folk Club without telling her why. When the two musicians stepped onto the stage—looking as though they’d just roused themselves from armchairs by a roaring fire—he’d leaned in towards her.

“One of them played Woodstock, you know,” he’d whispered.

He still had the ticket to the Biggar gig somewhere. Tended to keep them, though he knew it was just one more thing that would need to be binned when he was no longer around. Next to his record deck lay a plastic guitar pick. He had bought it years back, after wandering through a music shop, telling the young guy behind the till that he might be back later for an actual guitar. The assistant had mentioned that the pick was manufactured by a Scotsman called Jim Dunlop, who also made effects pedals. In the years since, Rebus had rubbed all the writing from the pick, but had never used it on a guitar of any kind.

“Never learned to fly a plane, either,” he said to himself.

He studied the cigarette he was holding. He’d undergone a medical a few months back and received the usual warnings. His dentist, too, was always checking for the first signs of anything nasty. So far so good.

“Every lucky streak comes to an end, John,” his dentist had told him. “Trust me.”