‘Old Town versus New, Catholic/Protestant, east coast/west … Things can be a mite more complicated than that.’

‘Attraction of opposites, that’s all I was getting at.’ There was another silence between them. Rebus scanned the room.

‘Didn’t make a mess then?’

‘Who?’

‘The search party.’

‘Could have been worse.’

Rebus took a sip of coffee, pretended to savour it. ‘You wouldn’t have left the body here though, would you? I mean, only perverts do that sort of thing.’ Costello looked at him. ‘Sorry, I’m being … I mean, it’s just theoretical. I’m not trying to say anything. But the forensics, they weren’t looking for a body. They deal in things you and me can’t even see. Flecks of blood, fibres, a single hair.’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Juries eat that stuff up. The old idea of policing, it’s going out the window.’ He put down the gloss-black mug, reached into a pocket for his cigarette packet. ‘Mind if I … ?’

Costello hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ll take one from you if that’s all right.’

‘Be my guest.’ Rebus took one out of the packet, lit it, then tossed both packet and lighter to the younger man. ‘Roll yourself a joint if you like,’ he added. ‘I mean, if that’s your thing.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Student life must be a bit different these days.’

Costello exhaled, studying the cigarette as if it was something alien to him. ‘I’d assume it is,’ he said.

Rebus smiled. Just two grown-ups having a smoke and a chat. The wee sma’ hours and all that. A time for honesty, the outside world asleep, no one eavesdropping. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves. ‘How did you and Flip meet?’ he asked, picking a book at random and flipping through it.

‘Dinner party. We clicked straight away. Next morning, after breakfast, we took a walk through Warriston Cemetery. That was when I first felt that I loved her … I mean, that it wasn’t just going to be a one-night stand.’

‘You like films?’ Rebus said. He was noticing that one shelf seemed to be all books about movies.

Costello looked over towards him. ‘I’d like to try writing a script some day.’

‘Good for you.’ Rebus had opened another book. It seemed to be a sequence of poems about Alfred Hitchcock. ‘You didn’t go to the hotel?’ he asked after a pause.

‘No.’

‘But you’ve seen your parents?’