She didn’t think Rebus was a secret drinker in that way. He just liked to drink. If he did it alone, that was because he didn’t have many friends. She’d asked Bill once why he drank, and he hadn’t been able to answer her. She thought probably John Rebus had answers, though he would be reluctant to give them. They’d be to do with washing away the world, scouring his mind of the problems and questions he kept stored there.

None of which would make him a more attractive drunk than Bill had been, but then so far she hadn’t seen Rebus drunk. She got the feeling he’d be a sleeper: however many drinks it took, and then crashing into unconsciousness wherever he happened to be.

When her phone rang, she was slow to pick it up.

‘Jean?’ It was Rebus’s voice.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Thought you’d have left by now.’

‘I’m working late.’

‘I was just wondering if you …’

‘Not tonight, John. I’ve a lot I want to get done.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘Fair enough.’ He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

‘What about this weekend: any plans?’

‘Well, that was something I wanted to tell you …’

‘What?’

‘Lou Reed at the Playhouse tomorrow night. I’ve got two tickets.’

‘Lou Reed?’

‘He could be great, could be mince. Only one way to find out.’

‘I haven’t listened to him in years.’

‘Don’t suppose he’s learned how to sing in the interim.’

‘No, probably not. All right then, let’s do it.’

‘Where shall we meet?’

‘I’ve some shopping to do in the morning … how about lunch?’

‘Great.’

‘If you’ve nothing else on, we could make a weekend of it.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Me too. I’m shopping in town … wonder if we can get a table at Café St Honore?’

‘Is that just along from the Oxford Bar?’

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. She thought of Edinburgh in terms of restaurants, Rebus pubs.

‘I’ll phone and book.’

‘Make it one o’clock. If they can’t fit us in, call me back.’

‘They’ll fit us in. The chef’s a regular at the Ox.’

She asked him how the case was progressing. He was reticent, until he remembered something.

‘You know Professor Devlin’s anatomist?’

‘Who? Kennet Lovell?’

‘That’s the one. I had to interview a medical student, friend of Philippa’s. Turns out she’s a descendant.’

‘Really?’ Jean tried not to sound too intrigued. ‘Same name?’

‘No: Claire Benzie. She’s related on her mother’s side.’

They chatted for another couple of minutes. When Jean put the phone down, she looked around her. Her ‘office’ was a small cubicle with desk and chair, filing cabinet and bookshelves. She’d stuck some postcards on the back of the door, including one from the Museum shop: the Arthur’s Seat coffins. Secretarial and support staff shared a larger outer office just outside her door, but they’d all gone home. There would be cleaners busy elsewhere in the building, and a security guard doing the rounds. She’d wandered all through the Museum at night, never in the least spooked by it. Even the old museum, with its displays of stuffed animals, calmed her. Friday night, she knew the restaurant at the top of the Museum would be busy. It had its own lift, and someone on the door to make sure diners headed straight for it and didn’t wander into the Museum instead.