The day was turning sunny. Rebus waited while Steele closed and double locked the door.

‘Just one more thing . . .?’

‘Yes, Inspector?’

‘Would you mind if I took a look in the boot of your car?’

‘What?’ Steele stared at Rebus, but saw that the policeman was not about to explain. He sighed. ‘Why not?’ he said.

Steele unlocked the boot and Rebus peered inside, peered at a pair of mud-crusted wellingtons. There was muck on the floor, too.

‘Tell you what, sir,’ said Rebus, closing the boot. ‘Maybe it’d be best if you came down to the station just now. Sooner we get everything cleared up the better, eh?’

Steele stood up very straight. Two women were walking past, gossiping. ‘Am I under arrest, Inspector?’

‘I just want to make sure we get your side of things, Mr Steele. That’s all.’

But Rebus was wondering: Were there any forensics people left spare? Or had he tied each and every one of them up already? If so, Steele’s car might have to wait. If not, well, here was another little job for them. It really was turning into Guinness Book of Records stuff, wasn’t it? How many forensic scientists can one detective squeeze into a case?

‘What case?’

‘I’ve just told you, sir.’

Lauderdale looked unimpressed. ‘You haven’t told me anything about the murder of Mrs Jack. You’ve told me about mysterious lovers, alibis for assignations, a whole barrel-load of mixed-up yuppies but not a blind thing about murder.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘I’ve got someone downstairs who swears he committed both murders.’

‘Yes sir,’ Rebus said calmly, ‘and you’ve also got a psychiatrist who says Glass could just as easily admit the murders of Gandhi or Rudolf Hess.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘What?’

‘About the psychiatric report?’

‘Call it an inspired guess, sir.’

Lauderdale began to look a little dispirited. He licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Go through it one more time for me.’

So Rebus went through it one more time. It was like a giant collage to him now: different textures but the same theme. But it was also like a kind of artist’s trick: the closer he moved towards it, the further away it seemed. He was just finishing, and Lauderdale was still looking sceptical, when the telephone rang. Lauderdale picked it up, listened and sighed.

‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding the receiver towards Rebus.

‘Yes?’ Rebus said.

‘Woman for you,’ explained the switchboard operator. ‘Says it’s urgent.’

‘Put her through.’ He waited till the connection was made. ‘Rebus here,’ he said.

He could hear background noise, announcements. A railway station. Then: ‘About bleedin’ time. I’m at Waverley. My train goes in forty-five minutes. Get here before it leaves and I’ll tell you something.’ The line went dead. Short and sour, but intriguing for all that. Rebus checked his watch.

‘I’ve got to go to Waverley Station,’ he told Lauderdale. ‘Why don’t you talk to Steele yourself meantime, sir? See what you make of him?’