‘Sir,’ Grant Hood said, taking a half-step forward and folding his hands behind his back, ‘as liaison officer it should have been my job to damp the story down. I’d just like to publicly apologise for—’

‘Yes, yes, son, I got all that from you last night. What I want now is a simple confession.’

‘With respect, sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘we’re not criminals here. We’ve had to ask questions, put out feelers. Steve Holly could just have been putting two and two together …’

Carswell just stared at her, then said: ‘DCS Templer?’

‘Steve Holly,’ Templer began, ‘doesn’t work that way if he can possibly help it. He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he’s as sneaky as they come, and ruthless with it.’ The way she spoke was telling Clarke something, was saying to her that this had all been gone over already. ‘Some of the other journos, yes, I think they could take what’s out there in the public domain and make something of it, but not Holly.’

‘But he did work the case of the German student,’ Clarke persisted.

‘And shouldn’t have known about the gaming connection,’ Templer said, almost by rote: another argument that the senior officers had tried out between themselves.

‘It was a long night,’ Carswell told them, ‘trust me. We’ve been over it time and again. And it still seems to come down to the four of you.’

‘There’s been outside assistance,’ Grant Hood argued. ‘A museum curator, a retired pathologist …’

Rebus laid a hand on Hood’s arm, silencing him. ‘It was me,’ he said. Heads turned towards him. ‘I think it might have been me.’

He concentrated on not looking in Ellen Wylie’s direction, but was aware of her eyes burning into him.

‘Early on, I was out at Falls talking to a woman called Bev Dodds. She’d found the coffin by the waterfall. Steve Holly had already been sniffing around, and she’d given him the story …’

‘And?’

‘And I let it slip that there’d been more coffins … let slip to her, I mean.’ He was remembering the slip – a slip Jean had in fact made. ‘If she yapped to Holly, he’d have been on a flyer. I had Jean Burchill with me – she’s the curator. That might have given him the Arthur’s Seat connection …’

Carswell was staring at him coldly. ‘And the Internet game?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That one I can’t explain, but it’s not exactly a well-kept secret. We’ve been shoving the clues at all the victim’s friends, asking if she’d asked them for help … any one of them could have told Holly.’

Carswell was still staring. ‘You’re taking the fall for this?’