‘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.’

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.