‘Fine, Rab.’

Kinnoul looked at Rebus again. The grin had disappeared. ‘Maybe you’d like to see the library, Inspector? Cath and you can have a chat in there.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Rebus took the back roads on his way into Edinburgh. They were nicer, certainly quieter. He’d learned very little in the Kinnoul’s library, except that Kinnoul felt protective towards his wife, so protective that he’d felt unable to leave Rebus alone with her. What was he afraid of? He had stalked the library, had pretended to browse, and sat down with a book, all the time listening as Rebus asked his simple questions and left the simple list and asked Cath Kinnoul to be on the lookout. And she’d nodded, fingering the xeroxed sheet of paper.

The ‘library’ in fact was an upper room of the house, probably intended at one time as a bedroom. Two walls had been fitted with shelves, most of them sheeted with sliding glass doors. And behind these sheets of glass sat a dull collection of books – dull to Rebus’s eyes, but they seemed enough to bring Cath Kinnoul out of her daydreams. She pointed out some of the exhibits to Rebus.

‘Fine first edition . . . rebound in calfskin . . . some pages still uncut. Just think, that book was printed in 1789, but if I cut open those pages I’d be the first person ever to read them. Oh, and that’s a Creech edition of Burns . . . first time Burns was published in Edinburgh. And I’ve some modern books, too. There’s Muriel Spark . . . Midnight’s Children . . . George Orwell . . .’

‘Have you read them all?’

She looked at Rebus as though he’d asked her about her sexual preferences. Kinnoul interrupted.

‘Cath’s a collector, Inspector.’ He came over and put his arm around her. ‘It could have been stamps or porcelain or old china dolls, couldn’t it, love? But it’s books. She collects books.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘She doesn’t read them. She collects them.’

Rebus shook his head now, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He’d shoved a Rolling Stones tape into the car’s cassette player. An aid to constructive thought. On the one hand, you had Professor Costello, with his marvellous library, the books read and reread, worth a fortune but still there for the borrowing . . . for the reading. And on the other hand there was Cath Kinnoul. He didn’t quite know why he felt so sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy being married to . . . well, she’d said it herself, hadn’t she? Except that she’d been talking about Elizabeth Jack. Rebus was intrigued by Mrs Jack. More, he was becoming fascinated by her. He hoped he would meet her soon . . .

The call from Dufftown came just as he got into the office. On the stairs, he’d been told of another rumour. By the middle of next week, there would be official notification that Great London Road was to close. Then back I go to Marchmont, Rebus thought.