The only muck that had ever been thrown at Jack seemed to be over the siting of a new electronics factory just inside his constituency. Rumours that his father-in-law had pulled a few strings . . . It had all died down quickly enough. No evidence, and a whiff of writs for libel. How old was Jack? Rebus studied a recent newspaper photograph. He looked younger on paper than he did in real life. People in the media always did. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, something like that. Beautiful wife, plenty of money.

And he ends up caught on a tart’s bed during a brothel raid. Rebus shook his head. It was a cruel world. Then he smiled: serve the bugger right for not sticking to his wife.

Holmes was coming back in. He nodded towards the file. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Not really, Brian. Not really.’

‘Well, finish your whisky and sit at the table. I’m informed by the management that dinner is about to be served.’

It was a good dinner, too. Rebus insisted on making three toasts: one to the couple’s happiness, one to their new home, and one to Holmes’ promotion. By then, they were on to their second bottle of wine and the evening’s main course – roast beef. After that there was cheese, and after the cheese, crannachan. And after all that there was coffee and Laphroaig and drowsiness in the armchair and on the sofa for all concerned. It hadn’t taken long for Rebus to relax – the alcohol had seen to that. But it had been a nervous kind of relaxation, so that he felt he’d said too much, most of it rubbish.

There was some shop talk, of course, and Nell allowed it so long as it was interesting. She thought Farmer Watson’s drinking habit was interesting. (‘Maybe he doesn’t drink at all. Maybe he’s just addicted to strong mints.’) She thought Chief Inspector Lauderdale’s ambition was interesting. And she thought the brothel raid sounded interesting, too. She wanted to know where the fun was in being whipped, or dressed in nappies, or having sex with a scuba-diver. Rebus admitted he’d no answer. ‘Suck it and see,’ was Brian Holmes’ contribution. It earned him a cushion over the head.

By quarter past eleven, Rebus knew two things. One was that he was too drunk to drive. The other was that even if he could drive (or be driven) he’d not know his destination – Oxford Terrace or his own flat in Marchmont? Where, these days, did he live? He imagined himself parking the car on Lothian Road, halfway between the two addresses, and kipping there. But the decision was made for him by Nell.

‘The bed in the spare room’s made up. We need someone to christen it so we can start calling it the guest bedroom. Might as well be you.’

Her quiet authority was not to be challenged. Rebus shrugged his acceptance. A little later, she went to bed herself. Holmes switched on the TV but found nothing there worth watching, so he turned on the hi-fi instead.