Rebus kept on nodding. Steele had told him this girl’s name. What was it again . . .? ‘Was he in yesterday?’

She shook her head. ‘We were shut. All day. I was a bit off colour, couldn’t come in. At the start of the university year, we do okay business on a Wednesday, Wednesday being a half-teaching day, but not just now . . .’

Rebus thought of Vaseline . . . vanishing cream . . . Vanessa! That was it.

‘Well, thanks anyway. Keep an eye out for those books . . .’

‘Oh! Here’s Ronald now.’

Rebus turned round, just as the door rattled open. Ronald Steele closed it heavily behind him, started up the central aisle of books, but then almost lost balance and had to rest against a bookcase. His eyes caught a particular spine, and he levered the book out from the others around it.

‘Fish out of Water,’ he said. ‘Out of water . . .’ He threw the book as far as he could – a matter of a yard or so. It crashed into a bookcase and fell open on to the floor. Then he began picking books out at random and throwing them with force, his eyes red with tears.

Vanessa screamed at him and came round from her desk, making towards him, but Steele pushed past her and stumbled past Rebus, past the desk, and through a doorway at the very back of the shop. There was the sound of another door closing.

‘What’s back there?’

‘The loo,’ said Vanessa, stooping to recover a few of the books. ‘What the hell’s the matter with him?’

‘Maybe he’s had a bit of bad news,’ Rebus speculated. He was helping her retrieve books. He stood up and examined the blurb on the back jacket of Fish out of Water. The front cover illustration showed a woman seated more or less demurely on a chaise longue, while a rugged suitor leant over her from behind, his lips just short of her bared shoulder. ‘I think I might buy this,’ he said. ‘Looks like just my sort of thing.’

Vanessa accepted the book, then stared up from it to him, her disbelief not quite showing through the shock of the scene she’d just witnessed. ‘Fifty pence,’ she told him quietly.

‘Fifty pence it is,’ said Rebus.

*

And after the formal identification, while the autopsy took its defined and painstaking course, there were the questions. There were an awful lot of questions.

Cath Kinnoul had to be questioned. Gently questioned, with her husband by her side and a bloodstream dulled by tranqs. No, she hadn’t really taken a close look at the body. She’d known from a good way off what it was. She could see the dress, could see that it was a dress. She’d run back to the house and telephoned for the police. Nine-nine-nine, the way they told you to in emergencies. No, she hadn’t gone back out to the river. She doubted she’d ever go there again.