Yes, there were connections between those coffins and the ones Jean had identified. Rebus was wary of adding the Falls coffin to the list, but he felt a connection there, too – a looser connection, to be sure, but still powerful.

He’d checked his answering machine, just the one message: his solicitor, concerning a retired couple who would show the flat to potential buyers, relieving him of the burden. He knew he’d have to take his little collage down before then, hide everything away, do some tidying …

He tried Jean’s number again, but there was still no answer. Stuck a Steve Earle album on: The Hard Way.

Rebus didn’t know of any other …

‘You’re lucky I didn’t change my name,’ Jan Benzie said. Jean had just explained how she’d called every Benzie in the phone book. ‘I’m married to Jack McCoist these days.’

They were sitting in the drawing room of a three-storey townhouse in the city’s west end, just off Palmerston Place. Jan Benzie was tall and thin, and wore a knee-length black dress with a sparkling brooch just above her right breast. The room reflected her elegance: antiques and polished surfaces, thick walls and floors muffling any sound.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘There’s not much I can add to what I told you on the phone.’ Jan Benzie sounded distracted, as if part of her was elsewhere. Maybe that was why she’d agreed to the appointment in the first place … ‘It’s been rather a strange day, Miss Burchill,’ she said now.

‘Oh?’

But Jan Benzie just shrugged one shoulder and asked again if Jean would like something to drink.

‘I don’t want to keep you. You said Patricia Lovell was a relation?’

‘Great-great-grandmother … something like that.’

‘She died very young, didn’t she?’

‘You probably know more about her than I do. I’d no idea she was buried at Calton Hill.’

‘How many children did she have?’

‘Just the one, a girl.’

‘Do you know if she died in childbirth?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Jan Benzie laughed at the absurdity of the question.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jean said, ‘I know this must all sound a bit ghoulish …’

‘A bit. You say you’re researching Kennet Lovell?’

Jean nodded. ‘Would your family have any of his papers?’

Jan Benzie shook her head. ‘None.’

‘You’ve no relatives who might … ?’

‘I really don’t think so, no.’ She moved an arm towards the occasional table next to her chair, lifted her cigarette packet and eased one out. ‘Do you … ?’

Jean shook her head and watched Jan Benzie light the cigarette with a slim gold lighter. The woman seemed to do everything in slow motion. It was like watching a film at the wrong speed.

‘It’s just that I’m looking for some correspondence between Dr Lovell and his benefactor.’

‘I didn’t even know there was one.’