‘We don’t seem to have any record,’ he told her as they sat in his office, ‘of how the Lovell portrait came into the College’s possession. I’d presume it was a gift, perhaps to defer death duties.’ He was short but distinguished-looking, well dressed and with a face shining with good health. He’d offered her tea, which she’d accepted. It was Darjeeling, each cup coming with its own silver tea-strainer.

‘I’m also interested in Lovell’s correspondence.’

‘Yes, well, we would be, too.’

‘You don’t have anything?’ She was surprised.

The bursar shook his head. ‘Either Dr Lovell wasn’t a great man for the pen, or else they’ve perished or ended up in some obscure collection.’ He sighed. ‘A great pity. We know so little about his time in Africa …’

‘Or in Edinburgh, come to that.’

‘He’s buried here. Don’t suppose his grave’s of much interest to you … ?’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Calton cemetery. His plot’s not far from David Hume’s.’

‘I might as well take a look.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’ He thought for a moment, and his face brightened. ‘Donald Devlin’s supposed to have some table made by Lovell.’

‘Yes, I know, though there’s nothing in the literature about an interest in carpentry.’

‘I’m sure it’s mentioned somewhere; I seem to recall reading something …’ But try as he might, Major Cawdor couldn’t remember what or where.

That evening, she sat with John Rebus in her Portobello home. They ate Chinese takeaway, washed down with cold Chardonnay for her, bottled beer for him. Music on the hi-fi: Nick Drake, Janis Ian, Pink Floyd’s Meddle. He seemed wrapped up in his thoughts, but she could hardly complain. After the food, they walked down to the promenade. Kids on skateboards, looking American but sounding pure Porty, swearing like troopers. One chip shop open, that childhood smell of hot fat and vinegar. They still didn’t say much, which didn’t make them so very different from the other couples they passed. Reticence was an Edinburgh tradition. You kept your feelings hidden and your business your own. Some people put it down to the influence of the Church and figures like John Knox – she’d heard the city called ‘Fort Knox’ by outsiders. But to Jean, it was more to do with Edinburgh’s geography, its louring rock-faces and dark skies, the wind whipping in from the North Sea, hurtling through the canyon-like streets. At every turn you felt overwhelmed and pummelled by your surroundings. Just travelling into town from Portobello, she felt it: the bruising and bruised nature of the place.