‘Hello, Nell.’

Now she was standing over Holmes, and had lifted the glass out of his hand. There was sweat on her forehead, and she too was dressed casually. She took a swallow of whisky, exhaled noisily, and handed the glass back.

‘Ready in five minutes,’ she announced. ‘Shame your doctor friend couldn’t make it, John.’

He shrugged. ‘Prior engagement. A medical dinner party. I was glad of an excuse to get out of it.’

She gave him rather too fixed a smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave you two to talk about whatever it is boys talk about.’

And then she was gone, the room seeming suddenly empty. Shit, what had he said? Rebus had tried to find words to describe Nell when speaking about her to Patience Aitken. But somehow the words never told the story. Bossy, stroppy, lively, canny, big, bright, a handful . . . like another set of seven dwarves. Certainly, she didn’t fit the stereotype of a university librarian. Which seemed to suit Brian Holmes just fine. He was smiling, studying what was left of his drink. He got up for a refill – Rebus refusing the offer – and came back with a manilla folder.

‘Here,’ he said.

Rebus accepted the folder. ‘What is it?’

‘Take a look.’

Newspaper cuttings mostly, magazine articles, press releases . . . all concerning Gregor Jack MP.

‘Where did you . . .?’

Holmes shrugged. ‘Innate curiosity. When I knew I was moving into his constituency, I thought I’d like to know more.’

‘The papers seem to have kept quiet about last night.’

‘Maybe they’ve been warned off.’ Holmes sounded sceptical. ‘Or maybe they’re just biding their time.’ Having just reseated himself, he now leapt up again. ‘I’ll see if Nell needs a hand.’

Leaving Rebus with little to do but read. There wasn’t much he didn’t already know. Working-class background. Comprehensive school in Fife, then Edinburgh University. Degree in Economics and Accounting. Chartered accountant. Married Elizabeth Ferrie. They’d met at university. She, the daughter of Sir Hugh Ferrie the businessman. She was his only daughter, his only child. He doted on her, could refuse her nothing, all, it was said, because she reminded him of his wife, dead these past twenty-three years. Sir Hugh’s most recent ‘companion’ was an ex-model less than half his age. Maybe she, too, reminded him of his wife . . .

Funny though. Elizabeth Jack was an attractive woman, beautiful even. Yet you never heard much about her. Since when was an attractive wife an asset not to be used by canny politicians? Maybe she wanted her own life. Skiing holidays and health resorts, rather than an MP’s round of factory openings, tea parties, all that.

Rebus recalled now what it was that he liked about Gregor Jack. It was the background – so similar to his own. Born in Fife, and given a comprehensive education. Except that back then they’d been called secondary and high schools. Both Rebus and Gregor Jack had gone to a high school, Rebus because he passed his eleven-plus, the younger Jack because of good grades at his junior high. Rebus’s school had been in Cowdenbeath, Jack’s in Kirkcaldy. No distance at all, really.