Message? What message? Dr Curt told Rebus what he’d always told him. I can’t be rushed . . . delicate business, deciding an actual drowning from mere immersion . . . professional reputation . . . daren’t make mistakes . . . more haste, less speed . . . patience is a virtue . . . many a mickle maks a muckle . . .

All of this delivered between appointments in the doctor’s Teviot Place office. The Department of Pathology’s Forensic Medicine Unit, divided in loyalties between the Faculty of Medicine and the Faculty of Law, had its offices within the University Medical School in Teviot Place. Which seemed, to Rebus, natural enough. You didn’t want your Commercial Law students mixing with people who keened over cadavers . . .

‘Diatoms . . .’ Dr Curt was saying. ‘Washerwoman’s skin . . . blood-tinged froth . . . distended lungs . . .’ Almost a litany now, and none of it got them any further. Tests on tissue . . . examination . . . diatoms . . . toxicology . . . fractures . . . diatoms. Curt really did have a thing about those tiny algae.

‘Unicellular algae,’ he corrected.

Rebus bowed his head to the correction. ‘Well,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘fast as you can, eh, Doctor? If you can’t catch me in the office, you can always try me by unicellular phone.’

‘Fast as I can,’ agreed Doctor Curt, chuckling. He too got to his feet. ‘Oh, one thing I can tell you straight away.’ He opened his office door for Rebus.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Jack was depilated. There’d be no getting her by the short-and-curlies . . .’

Because Teviot Place wasn’t far from Buccleuch Street, Rebus thought he’d wander along to Suey Books. Not that he was expecting to catch Ronald Steele, for Ronald Steele was a hard man to catch. Busy behind the scenes, busy out of sight. The shop itself was open, the rickety bicycle chained up outside. Rebus pushed the door open warily.

‘It’s okay,’ called a voice from the back of the shop. ‘Rasputin’s gone out for a wander.’

Rebus closed the door and approached the desk. The same girl was sitting there, and her duties still seemed to entail the pricing of books. There wasn’t any room for any more books on the shelves. Rebus wondered where these new titles were headed . . .

‘How did you know it was me?’ he asked.

‘That window.’ She nodded towards the front-of-shop. ‘It might look filthy from the outside, but you can see out of it all right. Like one of those two-way mirrors.’

Rebus looked. Yes, because the shop’s interior was darker than the street, you could see out all right, you just couldn’t see in.

‘No sign of your books, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

Rebus nodded slowly. It was not what he was wondering . . .

‘And Ronald’s not here.’ She checked the oversized face of her wristwatch. ‘Should have been in half an hour ago. Must have got held up.’