Curt was tugging at one of his shirt sleeves, making sure it came an inch below the jacket, exposing a hallmarked silver cuff-link. His suit was dark blue, the shirt white, his tie plain black. His black brogues had been given a polish. Always immaculately dressed. Rebus knew his own suit, though the best, the most formal he possessed, was shabby by comparison. He’d had it six, seven years, had sucked his gut in to get the trousers fastened. Hadn’t even bothered trying to button the jacket. Austin Reed he’d got it from; maybe it was time for another visit. He got few invites these days to weddings and christenings, but funerals were another matter. Colleagues, drinkers he knew … they were falling off the perch. Only three weeks back, he’d been to the crematorium, a woolly-suit from St Leonard’s who’d died less than a year after retiring. The white shirt and black tie had gone back on to the hanger afterwards. He’d checked the shirt collar this afternoon, before putting the shirt back on.

‘Shall we go in then?’ Curt said.

Rebus nodded. ‘You go ahead.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’m just not sure …’ He took his hands from his pockets, busied himself with another cigarette. Offered one to Curt, who nodded and took it.

‘Not sure of what?’ the pathologist asked, as Rebus lit the cigarette for him. Rebus waited until he had his own one lit. A couple of puffs and then a loud exhaling of smoke.

‘I want to remember him the way he was to me,’ he said. ‘If I go in there, it’ll be speeches and other people’s memories. It won’t be the Conor I knew.’

‘The pair of you were pretty close at one time,’ Curt agreed. ‘I didn’t really know him that well.’

‘Is Gates coming?’ Rebus asked.

Curt shook his head. ‘Prior commitment.’

‘Did the pair of you do the autopsy?’

‘It was a brain haemorrhage.’

More mourners were arriving, some on foot, others by car. Another taxi drew up, and Donald Devlin got out. Rebus thought he spotted a grey cardigan beneath the suit jacket. Devlin took the church steps at a brisk pace and disappeared inside.

‘Was he able to help you?’ Curt asked.

‘Who?’

Curt nodded towards the departing taxi. ‘The old-timer.’

‘Not really. He gave it his best shot though.’

‘Then he did as much as Gates or I could have.’

‘I suppose so.’ Rebus was thinking of Devlin, picturing him at the desk, poring over details, Ellen Wylie keeping her distance. ‘He was married, wasn’t he?’ he asked.

Curt nodded again. ‘Widower. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, really.’

Curt looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stamped the cigarette out on the pavement. ‘Are you coming?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What about the cemetery?’

‘I think I’ll give that a miss too.’ Rebus looked up at the clouds. ‘What the Americans would call a rain-check.’