“Is he dropping you at yours, or is it back to his?”

She didn’t rise to it, just walked out of the room. Rebus stayed by the window, watching her exit the tenement and head towards the car. Its lights came on as she approached, picking her out as though she were an actor making her entrance. The passenger-side door opened and closed, the BMW remaining motionless as a dialogue took place. Then it began to crawl down Arden Street’s gentle slope towards the junction, passing Rebus’s building in the process, driver and passenger staring straight ahead. He willed Clarke to look up, but she didn’t.

“Played that with your usual charm and grace,” he muttered to himself. Siobhan Clarke was stuck somewhere between Page and Fox and he could see how much it was hurting her.

How much he was hurting her.

Good at her job, ready for the next step up, life on an even keel—and then in walks John Rebus, not even bothering to wipe his shoes, leaving bits of muck everywhere without even noticing.

Aye, nicely played, John.

He lit a cigarette and poured himself a whisky, stopping when the liquid was halfway to the top of the glass. He sat himself at the dining table, eyes focused on the road map. After a while, the glass needed refilling and the ashtray emptying. Without music, he realized how empty the room felt, but he couldn’t find an album to match his mood. He thought of calling Siobhan Clarke, apologizing for everything. Or maybe a text—keep it short and sweet. Instead of which he ended up in his armchair with the book Nina Hazlitt had given him. There were no serpents buried beneath Edinburgh, and no monster swimming in Loch Ness. It was all just superstition and the basic human hunger for explanations, answers, reasons.

When his eyelids began to droop, he decided that was fine. Just one more night when he wouldn’t quite make it as far as the bedroom.

23

23

The guardian of the front desk at Gayfield Square still showed reluctance to allow Rebus entry. Each morning she printed him a fresh visitor’s pass, and at the end of each day she needed him to return it.

“Be easier doing me one for a week,” Rebus suggested, trying to remember her name.

“You might not be here a week,” she countered.

“Think of the environmental damage you’re doing.”

“I recycle them.” She handed him that day’s pass. “Needs to be worn at all times, remember.”

“Absolutely.”

As he climbed to the first floor, he unclipped the badge and stuffed it into his jacket. The office had just started work for the day. He nodded towards Ronnie Ogilvie and, passing Christine Esson’s desk, asked her if she had any new wonders to show him.

“Just these,” she said.

He took the sheets of paper from her.