And saw the carving knife swooping down on him.

And heard the shriek behind it.

‘Bastard!’

Then someone pushed him sideways. It was Holmes, flying through the doorway. The knife fell into space and kept falling floorwards. Cath Kinnoul fell after it, her weight propelling her. Holmes was on her in an instant, pulling her wrist round, twisting it up against her back. He had his knee firmly on her spine, just below the shoulder blades.

‘Christ almighty !’ gasped Rebus. ‘Jesus Christ almighty.’

Holmes was examining the sprawled figure. ‘She took a knock when she fell,’ he said. ‘She’s out cold.’ He prised the knife from her grasp and released her arm. It flopped on to the carpet. Holmes stood up. He seemed wonderfully calm, but his face was unnaturally pale. Rebus, meantime, was shaking like a sick mongrel. He rested against the hallway wall and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. There was a noise at the door.

‘Who the –?’ Rab Kinnoul saw them, then looked down at the unconscious figure of his wife. ‘Oh hell,’ he said. He knelt down beside her, dripping rainwater on to her back, her head. He was drenched.

‘She’s all right, Mr Kinnoul,’ Holmes stated. ‘Knocked herself out, that’s all.’

Kinnoul saw the knife Holmes was holding. ‘She had that?’ he said, his eyes opening wide. ‘Dear God, Cathy.’ He touched a trembling hand to her head. ‘Cathy, Cathy.’

Rebus had recovered a little. He swallowed. ‘She didn’t get those bruises from falling though.’ Yes, there were bruises on her arms, fresh-looking. Kinnoul nodded.

‘We had a bit of a row,’ he said. ‘She went for me, so I . . . I was just trying to push her away. But she was hysterical. I decided to go for a walk until she calmed down.’

Rebus had been looking at Kinnoul’s shoes. They were caked with mud. There were splashes, too, on his trousers. Go for a walk? In that rain? No, he’d run for it, pure and simple. He’d turned tail and run . . .

‘Doesn’t look as though she calmed down,’ Rebus said matter of factly. Matter of factly, she had almost murdered him, mistaking him for her husband, or so incensed by then that any man – any victim – would do. ‘Tell you what, Mr Kinnoul, I could do with a drink.’

‘I’ll see what there is,’ said Kinnoul, rising to his feet.

Holmes phoned for the doctor. Cath Kinnoul was still unconscious. They’d left her lying in the hall, just to be on the safe side. It was best not to move fall victims anyway; and besides, this way they could keep an eye on her through the open door of the living room.

‘She needs treatment,’ Rebus said. He was sitting on the sofa, nursing a whisky and what were left of his nerves.

‘What she needs,’ Kinnoul said quietly, ‘is to be away from me. We’re useless together, Inspector, but then we’re just as useless apart.’ He was standing with his hands resting against the window sill, his head against the glass.