Carswell hadn’t said anything at all to Rebus. Gill said not to worry: ‘He’s ignoring you because he hates making apologies.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve just seen a doctor,’ he told her.

She looked at him. ‘So?’

‘Does that count as my check-up … ?’

David Costello was in custody at Gayfield Square. Rebus didn’t go near. He knew they’d be cracking open a few bottles of whisky and cans of beer, sounds of celebration drifting into the room where Costello was being questioned. He thought of the time he’d asked Donald Devlin whether his young neighbour was capable of killing: not cerebral enough for David. Well, Costello had found his method all the same, and Devlin had protected him … the old man sheltering the young.

When Rebus went home, he took a tour of his flat. It represented, he realised, the only fixed point of his life. All the cases he’d worked, the monsters he’d encountered … he dealt with them here, seated in his chair, staring out of his window. He found room for them in the bestiary of his mind, and there they stayed.

If he gave this up, what would be left? No still centre to his world, no cage for his demons …

Tomorrow he’d call the solicitor, tell her he wasn’t moving.

Tomorrow.

For tonight, he had new cages to fill …

14

It was a Sunday afternoon of sharp, low sunlight, the shadows impossibly long and skewed into an elastic geometry. Trees bowed by the wind, clouds moving like oiled machines. Falls, twinned with Anguish … Rebus drove past the signpost, glanced towards Jean, quiet in the passenger seat. She’d been quiet all week; slow to answer her phone or come to the door. The doctor’s words: nothing time can’t heal …

He’d given her the option, but she’d decided to come with him. They parked next to a sparkling BMW. There were traces of soapy water in the gutters. Rebus pulled on the hand-brake and turned to Jean.

‘I’ll only be a minute. You want to wait here?’

She thought about it, then nodded. He reached into the back for the coffin. It was wrapped in newspaper, a frontpage headline by Steven Holly. He got out of the car, leaving his door open. Knocked on the door of Wheel Cottage.

Bev Dodds answered. She had a smile fixed to her face and a frilly apron tied across her chest.

‘Sorry, not a tourist,’ Rebus said. Her smile faded. ‘Doing a roaring trade in tea and buns?’

‘What can I do for you?’

He lifted up the parcel. ‘Thought you might like this back. It’s yours, after all, isn’t it?’

She parted the sheets of newsprint. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said.

‘It really is yours, isn’t it?’

She wouldn’t look at him. ‘Finders keepers, I suppose …’

But he was shaking his head. ‘I mean, you made it, Ms Dodds. This new sign of yours …’ He nodded in its direction. ‘Care to tell me who made it? I’m willing to bet you did it yourself. Nice piece of wood … I’m guessing you’ve a few chisels and such-like.’