Rebus stood up. The man in front of him was in his mid-forties, hands in the pockets of a three-quarter-length black woollen overcoat. The man opened his stance a little, filling the doorway.

‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.

The man slid a hand from his pocket, angled it towards his ear. He was holding a mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.

‘I’m a police officer.’ Rebus reached into his own pocket, brought out his warrant card. ‘DI Rebus.’

The man studied the card and handed it back. ‘I’m John Balfour,’ he said, his voice losing a little of its edge. Rebus nodded; he’d already figured as much.

‘Sorry if I …’ Rebus didn’t finish the sentence. As he put the warrant card away, his left knee unlocked for a second.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ Balfour said.

‘Sorry, yes. Retirement do. Not on duty or anything, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then might I ask what you’re doing in my daughter’s flat?’

‘You might,’ Rebus agreed. He looked around. ‘Just wanted to … well, I suppose I …’ But he couldn’t find the words.

‘Will you leave, please?’

Rebus bowed his head a little. ‘Of course.’ Balfour moved so that Rebus could pass him without any contact. Rebus stopped in the hallway, half turned, ready with a further apology, but Philippa Balfour’s father had walked over to the drawing-room window and was staring out at the night, hands gripping the shutters at either side.

He walked downstairs quietly, halfway sober now, closed the main door after him, not looking back, not looking up at the first-floor window. The streets were deserted, pavements glistening from an earlier downpour, street light reflected in them. Rebus’s shoes were the only noise to be heard as he started the climb back up the slope: Queen Street, George Street, Princes Street, and then North Bridge. People were heading home from pubs, seeking taxis and lost friends. Rebus took a left at the Tron Kirk and headed down the Canongate. A patrol car was parked kerbside, two bodies inside: one awake, the other asleep. They were detective constables from Gayfield, and had either drawn the short straw or were disliked by their boss: no other way to explain this thankless night-shift. Rebus was just another passer-by to the one who was awake. He had a newspaper folded in front of him, angled towards what light there was. When Rebus thumped the roof of the patrol car, the paper flew, landing on the head of the sleeper, who jerked awake and clawed at the smothering sheets.

As the passenger-side window was wound down, Rebus leaned on the sill. ‘Your one o’clock alarm call, gentlemen.’