With the pews and side aisles being crammed, the police officers present kept their own distance, to the back of the crowd at the church doors. Assistant Chief Constable Colin Carswell stood with hands clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed. Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer was next to Detective Inspector Bill Pryde, just behind Carswell. Other officers were further off still, patrolling what grounds there were. Flip’s killer was still out there, and so, if the two could be differentiated, was Ranald Marr. Inside the church, John Balfour kept turning his head, examining each face as if looking for someone. Only those who knew the workings of Balfour’s Bank guessed who this missing face belonged to …

John Rebus was standing by the far wall, dressed in his good suit and a long green raincoat, its collar up. He kept thinking how bleak the surroundings were: typical bare hillside dotted with sheep; dull yellow gorse bushes. He’d read the noticeboard just inside the churchyard gate. It told him the building dated back to the seventeenth century, and that local farmers had raised the contributions necessary for its construction. At least one Templar grave had been found inside the low stone wall, leading historians to believe that a former chapel and burying place must have rested on this site.

‘The headstone from this Templar grave,’ he’d read, ‘can now be seen in the Museum of Scotland.’

He’d thought then of Jean, who, walking in a place like this, would notice things he couldn’t see, telltale signs from the past. But then Gill had come towards him, face set, hands deep in pockets, and had asked what he thought he was doing there.

‘Paying my respects.’

He’d noticed Carswell move his head slightly, noting Rebus’s presence.

‘Unless there’s a law against it,’ he’d added, walking away.

Siobhan was about fifty yards from him, but so far had acknowledged his presence only with a wave of her gloved hand. Her eyes were on the hillside, as if she thought the killer might suddenly reveal himself there. Rebus had his doubts. As the service ended, the coffin was carried out, and the cameras began their short work. The journalists present were studying the scene carefully, jotting mental paragraphs, or else speaking very quietly into mobile phones. Idly, Rebus wondered which service they were using: he still couldn’t get a signal out here on his.

The TV cameras, which had recorded the exit of the pall-bearers from the church, switched off and hung from their cameramen’s arms. There was silence outside the churchyard walls as within, broken only by the slow crunching of feet over gravel and the occasional sob from a mourner.