‘Your husband went to school in Kirkcaldy, didn’t he?’

And then she’d said: ‘No, people are always making that mistake. I think because of Gregor Jack. You know, the MP.’ She placed the tray on a coffee table. Rebus had turned from the window and was studying the room. There were framed photographs of Rab Kinnoul on the walls, stills from his movies. There were also photos of actors and actresses Rebus supposed he should know. The photos were signed. The room seemed to be dominated by a thirty-eight-inch television, atop which sat a video recorder. To either side of the TV, piled high on the floor, were videotapes.

‘Sit down, Inspector. Sugar?’

‘Just milk, please. You were saying about your husband and Gregor Jack . . .?’

‘Oh yes. Well, I suppose because they’re both in the media, on television I mean, people tend to think they must know one another.’

‘And don’t they?’

She laughed. ‘Oh yes, yes, they know one another. But only through me. People get their stories mixed up, I suppose, so it started to appear in the papers and magazines that Rab and Gregor went to school together, which is nonsense. Rab went to school in Dundee. It was me that went to school with Gregor. And we went to university together, too.’

So not even the cream of young Scottish reporters always got it right. Rebus accepted the china cup and saucer with a nod of thanks.

‘I was plain Catherine Gow then, of course. I met Rab later, when he was already working in television. He was doing a play in Edinburgh. I bumped into him in the bar after a performance.’

She was stirring her tea absent-mindedly. ‘I’m Cath Kinnoul now, Rab Kinnoul’s wife. Hardly anyone calls me Gowk any more.’

‘Gowk?’ Rebus thought he’d misheard. She looked up at him.

‘That was my nickname. We all had nicknames. Gregor was Beggar . . .’

‘And Ronald Steele was Suey.’

She stopped stirring, and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. ‘That’s right. But how . . .?’

‘It’s what his shop’s called,’ Rebus explained, this being the truth.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Well, anyway, about these books . . .’

Three things struck Rebus. One was that there seemed precious few books around, for someone who was supposedly a collector. The second was that he’d rather talk some more about Gregor Jack. The third was that Cath Kinnoul was on drugs, tranquillizers of some kind. It was taking a second too long for her lips to form each word, and her eyelids had a droop to them. Valium? Moggies even?

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the books.’ Then he looked around him. Any actor would have known it for a cheap effect. ‘Mr Kinnoul’s not at home just now?’

She smiled. ‘Most people just call him Rab. They think if they’ve seen him on television, they know him, and knowing him gives them the right to call him Rab. Mr Kinnoul . . . I can see you’re a policeman.’ She almost wagged a finger at him, but thought better of it and drank her tea instead. She held the delicate cup by its body rather than by the awkward handle, drained it absolutely dry, and exhaled.