‘I know her,’ he said.

‘What?’ Even the forensics men looked up at him in disbelief. The tableau must have alerted Brian Holmes, for he came stumbling down the slope to join them.

‘I said I know her. At least, I think I do. No, I’m sure I do. Her name is Elizabeth Jack. Her friends call her Liz or Lizzie. She’s . . . she was married to Gregor Jack MP.’

‘Good God,’ said Dr Curt. Rebus looked at Holmes, and Holmes stared back at him, and neither seemed to know what to say.

*

There was more to identification than that, of course. Much more. Death was certainly suspicious, but this had to be decided officially by the gentleman from the Procurator Fiscal’s office, the gentleman who now stood talking with Dr Curt, nodding his head gravely while Curt made hand gestures which would not have disgraced an excited Italian. He was explaining – explaining tirelessly, explaining for the thousandth time – about the movement of diatoms within the body, while his listener grew paler still.

The Identification Unit was still busy shooting off photographs and some video film, wiping their camera lenses every thirty seconds or so. The rain had, if anything, grown heavier, the sky an unbroken shading of grey-black. An autopsy was needed, agreed the Procurator Fiscal. The body would be transported to the mortuary in Edinburgh’s Cowgate, and there formal identification would take place, involving two people who knew the deceased in life, and two police officers who had known her in death. If it turned out not to be Elizabeth Jack, Rebus was in a dung-pile of trouble. Watching the body being taken away, Rebus allowed himself a muffled sneeze. Perhaps Dr Curt’s diagnosis of pneumonia was right. He knew where he was headed: the Kinnoul house. With luck, he might find hot tea there. The forensics team squeezed wetly into their car and headed back to police headquarters at Fettes.

‘Come on, Brian,’ said Rebus, ‘let’s see how Mrs Kinnoul’s getting on.’

Cath Kinnoul seemed in a state of shock. A doctor had been to the house, but had left by the time Rebus and Holmes reached the scene. They shed their sodden jackets in the hall, while Rebus had a quiet word with the WPC.

‘No sign of the husband?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How is she?’

‘Comfortably numb.’

Rebus tried to look bedraggled and pathetic. It wasn’t difficult. The WPC read his mind and smiled.

‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’

‘Anything hot would hit the spot, believe me.’

Cath Kinnoul was sitting in one of the living room’s huge armchairs. The chair itself looked like it was in the process of consuming her, while she looked about half the size and a quarter of the age she’d been when Rebus had last seen her.

‘Hello again,’ he said, mock-cheerily.

‘Inspector . . . Rebus?’

‘That’s it. And this is Sergeant Holmes. No jokes, please, he’s heard them all before, haven’t you, Sergeant?’