The shelves, a few of them glass-fronted, were crammed, and the smell was of old relatives’ houses, of attics and the insides of school desks. The aisles were narrow. Hardly enough room to swing a . . . There was a thump somewhere behind him, and he feared one of the books had fallen, but when he turned he saw that it was the cat. It swerved past him and made for the desk situated to the rear of the shop, the desk with a bare lightbulb dangling above it.

‘Anything in particular you’re looking for?’

She was seated at the desk, a pile of books in front of her. She held a pencil in one hand and appeared to be writing prices on the inside leaves of the books. From a distance, it was a scene out of Dickens. Close up was a different story. Still in her teens, she had hennaed her short spiked hair. The eyes behind the circular tinted glasses were themselves round and dark, and she sported three earrings in either ear, with another curling from her left nostril. Rebus didn’t doubt she’d have a pale boyfriend with lank dreadlocks and a whippet on a length of clothes-rope.

‘I’m looking for the manager,’ he said.

‘He’s not here. Can I help?’

Rebus shrugged, his eyes on the cat. It had leapt silently on to the desk and was now rubbing itself against the books. The girl held her pencil out towards it, and the cat brushed the tip with its jaw.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ said Rebus. ‘I’m interested in some stolen books. I was wondering if anyone had been in trying to sell them.’

‘Do you have a list?’

Rebus did. He drew it out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘You can keep it,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

She glanced down the typed list of titles and editions, her lips pursed.

‘I don’t think Ronald could afford them, even if he was tempted.’

‘Ronald being the manager?’

‘That’s right. Where were they stolen from?’

‘Round the corner in Buccleuch Place.’

‘Round the corner? They’d hardly be likely to bring them here then, would they?’

Rebus smiled. ‘True,’ he said, ‘but we have to check.’

‘Well, I’ll hang on to this anyway,’ she said, folding the list. As she pushed it into a desk drawer, Rebus reached out a hand and stroked the cat. Like lightning, a paw flicked up and caught his wrist. He drew back his hand with a sharp intake of breath.

‘Oh dear,’ said the girl. ‘Rasputin’s not very good with strangers.’

‘So I see.’ Rebus studied his wrist. There were inch-long claw marks there, three of them. Whitened scratches, they were already rising, the skin swelling and breaking. Beads of blood appeared. ‘Jesus,’ he said, sucking on the damaged wrist. He glared at the cat. It glared back, then dropped from the desk and was gone.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Just about. You should keep that thing on a chain.’