Curt nodded. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘Next time there’s a homicide,’ Rebus confirmed. Then he turned and walked away. His head was filling with images of the mortuary, the post-mortem examination. The wooden blocks they laid the deceased’s head on. The little channels on the table which drained away the body fluids. The instruments and specimen jars … He thought of the jars he’d seen in the Black Museum, the way horror had mixed with fascination. One day, maybe not too far away, he knew it would be him on that table, maybe Curt and Gates preparing their day’s routine. That was what he would be to them: part of the routine, just as another routine was being played out in the church behind him. He hoped some of it would be in Latin: Leary had been a great fan of the Latin mass, would recite whole passages to Rebus, knowing he couldn’t understand.

‘Surely in your day they taught Latin?’ he’d asked one time.

‘Maybe at the posh school,’ Rebus had replied. ‘Where I went, it was woodwork and metalwork.’

‘Turning out workers for the religion of heavy industry?’ And Leary had chuckled, the sound booming from deep within his chest. Those sounds were what Rebus would remember: the clucking of his tongue whenever he felt Rebus had said anything wantonly idiotic; the exaggerated groan whenever he rose to fetch more Guinness from the fridge.

‘Ah, Conor,’ Rebus said now, bowing his head so no passers-by would see the tears forming.

Siobhan was on the phone to the Farmer.

‘It’s good to hear from you, Siobhan.’

‘Actually, I’m after a favour, sir. Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet.’

‘There’s such a thing as too much peace and quiet, you know.’ The Farmer laughed, so she would assume he was joking, but she detected something behind his words.

‘It’s important to stay active.’ She almost winced: it sounded like something from an agony column.

‘That’s what they say all right.’ He laughed again: it sounded even more forced this time. ‘Which new hobby are you suggesting?’

‘I don’t know.’ Siobhan squirmed in her chair. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d expected. Grant Hood was sitting the other side of the desk. He’d borrowed John Rebus’s chair, which looked like the one from the Farmer’s old office. ‘Maybe golf ?’

Now Grant frowned, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

‘I’ve always said golf spoils a good walk,’ the Farmer said.

‘Well, walking’s good for you.’

‘Is it? Thanks for reminding me.’ The Farmer definitely sounded tetchy; she didn’t know quite why or how she’d hit a nerve.

‘About this favour … ?’ she began.

‘Yes, better ask it quick, before I get my jogging shoes on.’

‘It’s sort of a clue to a puzzle.’

‘You mean a crossword?’

‘No, sir. It’s something we’re working on. Philippa Balfour was trying to solve all these clues, so we’re doing the same.’

‘And how can I help?’ He’d calmed a little; sounded interested.