‘What, you turn into Mr Hyde?’ She laughed again. ‘I had that with my husband. I doubt you could show me anything new.’ Her voice strained for levity, but there was an edge to it. Maybe she was nervous about asking him: no one liked a rejection. Or maybe there was more to it …

‘I suppose I could take a taxi.’ He studied himself: still in the funeral suit, the tie removed and top two buttons of the shirt undone. ‘Maybe I should go home and change.’

‘If you like.’

He looked across the street. The woman with the shopping was waiting at the bus stop now. She kept glancing into her bag as if checking everything was there. City life: mistrust part of the armour you wore; no such thing as a simple good deed.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.

Back in the pub, Grant was standing next to his empty pint glass. As Rebus came forwards, he raised his hands in a show of surrender.

‘Got to go.’

‘Yes, me too,’ Rebus said.

Grant looked somehow disappointed, as though he’d wanted Rebus to go on drinking, getting drunker. Rebus looked at the empty glass, wondering if the barman had been persuaded to ditch its contents.

‘You all right to drive?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good.’ Rebus slapped Grant’s shoulder. ‘In that case, you can give me a lift to Portobello …’

Siobhan had spent the past hour trying to clear her head of anything and everything to do with the case. It wasn’t working. The bath hadn’t worked; the gin was refusing to kick in. The music on her hi-fi – Mutton Birds, Envy of Angels – wasn’t cocooning her the way it usually did. The latest clue was ricocheting around her skull. And every thirty seconds or so … here it came again! … she watched a replay of Grant pinning her arms, while John Rebus – of all people! – watched from the doorway. She wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t announced his presence. She wondered how long he’d been there, and whether he’d heard any of their argument.

She leaped back up from the sofa and started pacing the room again, glass in hand. No, no, no … as if repeating the word could make everything go away, never have happened. Because that was the problem. You couldn’t unmake something.

‘Stupid bitch,’ she said aloud in a sing-song voice, repeating the phrase until the words lost their meaning.

Stupidbitchstupidbitch …

No no no no no no …

The mason’s dream …

Flip Balfour … Gandalf … Ranald Marr …

Grant Hood.

Stupidbitchstupidbitch …

She was over by the window when the track ended. In the momentary silence, she heard a car turning into the end of her street, and instinct told her who it was. She ran to the lamp and stamped down on the floor-switch, plunging the room into darkness. There was a light on in her hallway, but she doubted it could be seen from outside. She was afraid to move, afraid she would cast a telltale shadow. The car had stopped. The next track was playing. She reached down for the remote and used it to turn off the CD player. Now she could hear the car idling. Her heart was pounding.