He had money in the bank himself now: did very little with his monthly salary. The flat was paid off; neither Rhona nor Samantha ever seemed to want anything from him. Food and drink, and garage bills for the Saab. He never went on holiday, probably bought a couple of LPs or CDs a week. A couple of months back, he’d thought of buying a Linn hi-fi system, but the shop had knocked him back, told him they’d nothing in stock and would phone him when they had. They’d never phoned. The Lou Reed tickets hadn’t exactly stretched him: Jean had insisted on paying for hers … and cooked him breakfast next morning to boot.

‘It’s the Laughing Policeman!’ Siobhan called across the office. She was seated at her desk next to Brains from Fettes. Rebus realised he had a big grin on his face. He got up and crossed the room.

‘I withdraw that remark,’ Siobhan said quickly, holding up her hands in surrender.

‘Hello, Brains,’ Rebus said.

‘His name’s Bain,’ Siobhan corrected him. ‘He likes to be called Eric.’

Rebus ignored this. ‘It’s like the deck of the Starship Enterprise in here.’ He was looking at the array of computers and connections: two laptops, two PCs. He knew one of the PCs was Siobhan’s, the other Flip Balfour’s. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what do we know about Philippa’s early life in London?’

She wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Not much. Why?’

‘Because the boyfriend says she was having these nightmares, running up and down the London house being chased by something.’

‘Sure it was the London house?’

‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Just that Junipers gave me the heebies: suits of armour and dusty old billiard rooms … imagine growing up with that.’

‘David Costello said the London house.’

‘Transference?’ Bain suggested. They both looked at him. ‘Just a thought,’ he said.

‘So really it was Junipers she was scared of ?’ Rebus asked.

‘Let’s get out the ouija board and ask her.’ Siobhan realised what she’d said and winced. ‘Worst possible taste, sorry.’

‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rebus said. He had, too. At the murder scene, one of the woolly-suits helping with the cordon had been overheard telling a mate: ‘I bet she hadn’t banked on that. Get it?’

‘It’s kind of sub-Hitchcock, isn’t it?’ Bain said now. ‘You know, Marnie, that sort of thing …’

Rebus thought of the book of poems in David Costello’s flat: I Dream of Alfred Hitchcock.

You do not die for being bad, you die

For being available …

‘You’re probably right,’ he said.

Siobhan read his tone. ‘All the same, you still want the low-down on Flip’s London years?’

He began to nod, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right … it’s too far-fetched.’

As he moved away, Siobhan turned to Bain. ‘That’s usually right up his street,’ she murmured. ‘The more far-fetched it is, the better he likes it.’