‘What have you done with your life, John Rebus?’ The answer was: Not much. Gregor Jack was younger than him, and more successful. Barney Byars was younger than him, and more successful. Who did he know who was older than him and less successful? Not a single soul, discounting the beggars in the city centre, the ones he’d spent the afternoon with – without a result, but with a certain uncomfortable sense of belonging . . .

What was he thinking about? ‘You’re becoming a morbid old bugger.’ Self-pity wasn’t the answer. Moving in with Patience was the answer . . . so why didn’t it feel like one? Why did it feel like just another problem?

He rested his head against the back of the chair. I’m caught, he thought, between a cushion and a soft place. He sat there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark outside, and foggy, too, a haar drifting in across the city from the North Sea. In a haar, Edinburgh seemed to shift backwards through time. You half expected to see press-gangs on the streets of Leith, hear coaches clattering over cobblestones and cries of gardy-loo in the High Street.

If he sold the flat, he could buy himself a new car, send some money to Samantha. If he sold the flat . . . if he moved in with Patience . . .

‘If shit was gold,’ his father used to say, ‘you’d have a tyke at yer erse.’ The old bugger had never explained exactly what a tyke was . . .

Jesus, what made him think of that?

It was no good. He couldn’t think straight, not here. Perhaps it was that his flat held too many memories, good and bad. Perhaps it was just the mood of the evening.

Or perhaps it was that the image of Gill Templer’s face kept appearing unbidden (he told himself unbidden) in his mind . . .

5
Up the River

Burglary with violent assault: just the thing for a dreich Thursday morning. The victim was in hospital, head bandaged and face bruised. Rebus had been to talk with her, and was at the house in Jock’s Lodge, overseeing the dusting for prints and the taking of statements, when word reached him from Great London Road. The call came from Brian Holmes.

‘Yes, Brian?’

‘There’s been another drowning.’

‘Drowning?’

‘Another body in the river.’

‘Oh Christ. Whereabouts this time?’

‘Out of town, up towards Queensferry. Another woman. She was found this morning by someone out for a walk.’ He paused while someone handed him something. Rebus heard a muted ‘thanks’ as the person moved away. ‘It could be our Mr Glass, couldn’t it?’ Holmes said now, pausing again to slurp coffee. ‘We expected him to stick around the city, but he could as easily have headed north. Queensferry’s an easy walk, and mostly across open land, well away from roads where he might be spotted. If I was on the run, that’s the way I’d do it . . .’