‘All the time you’re coming and going,’ he’d told Rebus, ‘the suspect’s sweating that bit more, wondering what’s up, what’s happened that’s new.’

‘What’s up?’ Rebus asked now. Lauderdale smiled and went to splash water on his face, patting his temples and the back of his neck. He looked pleased with himself. More worrying, he didn’t smell.

‘Looks like our Chief Super may have got it right for once,’ Lauderdale admitted. ‘He said we should be concentrating on Glass.’

‘He’s confessed?’

‘As good as. Looks as though he’s sorting his defence out first.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘The media,’ said Lauderdale, drying himself. ‘The media pushed him into doing it. I mean, killing again. He says it was expected of him.’

‘Sounds to me like he’s one domino shy of a set.’

‘I’m not putting any words into his mouth, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s all on tape.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘No, no, I mean, if he says he did it, then fair enough. That’s fine. And by the way, it was me that shot JFK.’

Lauderdale was examining himself in the spattered mirror. He still looked triumphal, his neck rising from his shirt collar so that his head sat on it like a golf ball on its tee.

‘A confession, John,’ he was saying, ‘it’s a powerful thing is a confession.’

‘Even when the guy’s been sleeping rough for nights on end? Strung out on Brasso and hunted by Edinburgh’s finest? Confession might be good for the soul, sir, but sometimes all it’s worth is a bowl of soup and some hot tea.’

Lauderdale tidied himself, then turned towards Rebus. ‘You’re just a pessimist, John.’

‘Think of all the questions Glass can’t answer. Ask him some of them. How did Mrs Jack get to Queensferry? How come he dumped her there? Just ask him, sir. I’ll be interested to read the transcript. I think you’ll find the conversation’s all one way.’

Exit the Inspector Rebus, leaving behind the Chief Inspector Lauderdale, brushing himself down like a statue examining itself for chips. He seems to find one, too, for he frowns suddenly, and spends longer in the washroom than intended . . .

‘I need just a little bit more, John.’

They were lying in bed together, just the three of them: Rebus, Patience, and Lucky the cat. Rebus affected an American accent.

‘I gave ya everything I got, baby.’

Patience smiled, but wasn’t to be placated. She thumped her pillows and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chin. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘I need to know what you’re going to do . . . what we’re going to do. I can’t decide whether you’re moving in with me, or else moving out.’

‘In and out,’ he said, a final attempt at humour and escape. She punched him on the shoulder. Punched him hard. He sucked in his breath. ‘I bruise easily,’ he said.

‘So do I!’ There were almost tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. ‘Is there anybody else?’