Hand on the doorhandle, she half turned towards him. ‘At least they didn’t accuse me of being a crank, Inspector.’

He wanted to say, but they will, but the damage was already done.

The reporter’s name was Steve Holly, and he worked for the Edinburgh office of a Glasgow tabloid. He was young, early twenties, which was good: maybe he’d take a telling. If they’d sent one of the old pros out, Rebus wouldn’t even have bothered trying.

Holly was short and a bit overweight, his hair gelled into a jagged line, reminding Rebus of the single strand of barbed wire you got at the top of a farmer’s fence. He had a notebook and pen in one hand, and shook Rebus’s with the other.

‘Don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, in a way that made Rebus suspect his name was not unknown to the reporter. ‘This is Tony, my glamorous assistant.’ The photographer snorted. He was hefting a camera bag over one shoulder. ‘What we thought, Bev, is if we take you to the waterfall, have you picking the coffin up off the ground.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Saves the hassle of setting up an interior shot,’ Holly went on. ‘Not that Tony would mind. But stick him in a room and he comes over all creative and arty.’

‘Oh?’ She looked appraisingly at the photographer. Rebus repressed a smile: the words ‘creative’ and ‘arty’ had different connotations for the reporter and Bev. But Holly was quick to pick up on it, too. ‘I could send him back later, if you like. Do a nice portrait of you, maybe in your studio.’

‘It’s hardly a studio,’ Bev countered, stroking a finger down her neck, enjoying the thought. ‘Just the spare bedroom with my wheel and some drawings. I pinned white sheets to the walls to help with the light.’

‘Speaking of light,’ Holly broke in, staring at the sky meaningfully, ‘we’d better get a move on, eh?’

‘Perfect just now,’ the photographer explained to Bev. ‘Won’t stay that way for long.’

Bev looked up too, nodding agreement, one artist to another. Rebus had to admit: Holly was good.

‘Do you want to stay here, mind the fort?’ he was now asking Rebus. ‘We’ll only be fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ve got to get back to Edinburgh. Any chance I can have your number, Mr Holly?’

‘Should have my card somewhere.’ The reporter began searching his pockets, produced a wallet and from it a business card.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, taking it. ‘And if I could have a quick word … ?’

As he led Holly a few steps away, he saw that Bev was standing close beside the photographer, asking him if her clothes were suitable. He got the feeling she missed the presence of another artist in the village. Rebus turned his back on them, the better to mask what he was about to say.