It was one of those cool, crepuscular days that could have belonged to any of at least three Scottish seasons; a sky like slate roofing and a wind that Rebus’s father would have called ‘snell’. His father had told a story once – many times actually – about walking into a grocer’s in Lochgelly one freezing winter’s morning. The grocer had been standing by the electric fire. Rebus’s father had pointed to the cold cabinet and asked, ‘Is that your Ayrshire bacon?’ to which the grocer had replied, ‘No, it’s my hands I’m heating.’ He’d sworn it was a true story, and Rebus – maybe seven or eight years old – had believed him at the time. But now it seemed an old chestnut of a joke, something he’d heard elsewhere and twisted to his own use.

‘Not often I see you smiling,’ his barista said as she made him a double latte. Those were her words: barista, latte. The first time she’d described her job, she’d pronounced it ‘barrister’, which had led a confused Rebus to ask if she was moonlighting. She worked from a converted police-box at the corner of the Meadows, and Rebus stopped there most mornings on his way to work. ‘Milky coffee’ was his order, which she always corrected to ‘latte’. Then he’d add ‘double shot’. He didn’t need to – she knew the order by heart – but he liked the feel of the words.

‘Smiling’s not illegal, is it?’ he said now, as she spooned froth on to the coffee.

‘You’d know better than me.’

‘And your boss would know better than either of us.’ Rebus paid up, punted the change into the marge tub left for tips, and headed for St Leonard’s. He didn’t think she knew he was a cop: you’d know better than me … it had been said casually, no meaning behind it other than to continue their banter. In turn, he’d made his remark about her boss because the owner of the chain of kiosks had once been a solicitor. But she hadn’t seemed to understand.

At St Leonard’s, Rebus stayed in his car, enjoying a last cigarette with his drink. A couple of vans sat at the station’s back door, waiting for anyone who was being taken to court. Rebus had given evidence in a case a few days ago. He kept meaning to find out what the result had been. When the station door opened, he expected to see the custody line, but it was Siobhan Clarke. She saw his car and smiled, shaking her head at the inevitability of the scene. As she came forwards, Rebus lowered the window.

‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ she said.

‘And a good morning to you too.’

‘Boss wants to see you.’

‘He sent the right sniffer dog.’