‘I’m saying it could be my fault. Just that one slip …’ He turned to the others. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I let all of us down.’ His gaze skirted Wylie’s face, concentrating on her hair.

‘Sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘what DI Rebus has just admitted could go for any one of us. I’m sure I may have said a little more than I should on occasion …’

Carswell wafted his hand in front of him, quieting her.

‘DI Rebus,’ he said, ‘I’m suspending you from active duty, pending further inquiries.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Ellen Wylie blurted out.

‘Shut up, Wylie!’ Gill Templer hissed.

‘DI Rebus knows the consequences,’ Carswell was saying.

Rebus nodded. ‘Someone needs to be punished.’ He paused. ‘For the sake of the team.’

‘That’s right,’ Carswell said, nodding. ‘Otherwise mistrust begins its corrosive influence. I don’t think any of us wants that, do we?’

‘No, sir.’ Grant Hood’s voice proved a lone one.

‘Go home, DI Rebus,’ Carswell said. ‘Write your version down, leaving nothing out. We’ll talk again later.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said, turning and opening the door. Linford was directly outside, and smiling with one side of his face. Rebus didn’t doubt he’d been listening. It struck him suddenly that Carswell and Linford might well conspire to make the case against him look as black as possible.

He’d just given them the perfect excuse for getting rid of him for good.

His flat was ready to be put on the market, and he called the selling solicitor and told her so.

‘Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons for viewing?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so.’ He was sitting in his chair, staring out of the window. ‘Is there any way I can … not be here?’

‘You want someone to show the flat for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have people who’ll do that for a small fee.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t want to be around when strangers were opening doors, touching things … He didn’t think he’d make the best salesman for the place.

‘We already have a photograph,’ the solicitor was saying. ‘So the ad could go in the ESPC guide as early as Thursday next.’

‘Not the day after tomorrow?’

‘I’m afraid not …’

When he’d finished the call, he walked into the hall. New light switches, new sockets. The place was a lot brighter, the fresh coats of paint helping. Not much clutter – he’d made three trips to the dump-site on Old Dalkeith Road: a coat-rack he’d inherited from somewhere; boxes of old magazines and newspapers; a two-bar electric fire with frayed cable; the chest of drawers from Samantha’s old room, still decorated with stickers of eighties pop stars … The carpets were back down. A drinking acquaintance from Swany’s Bar had lent a hand, asking if he wanted them nailed at the edges. Rebus hadn’t seen the point.