They sat in silence for a minute or two, then she asked him about police work. Her questions had reverted to the kind you asked of a new acquaintance. Usually Rebus felt awkward talking about the job. He wasn’t sure people were really interested. Even if they were, he knew they didn’t want to hear the unexpurgated version: the suicides and autopsies; the petty grudges and black moods that led people to the cells. Domestics and stabbings, Saturday nights gone wrong, professional thugs and addicts. When he spoke, he was always afraid his voice would betray his passion for the job. He might be dubious about methods and eventual outcomes, but he still got a thrill from the work itself. Someone like Jean Burchill, he felt, could peer beneath the surface of this and watch other things swim into focus. She would realise that his enjoyment of the job was essentially voyeuristic and cowardly. He concentrated on the minutiae of other people’s lives, other people’s problems, to stop him examining his own frailties and failings.

‘Are you planning to smoke that thing?’ Jean sounded amused. Rebus looked down and saw that a cigarette had appeared in his hand. He laughed, took the packet from his pocket and slid the cigarette back in.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Jean told him.

‘Didn’t realise I’d done it,’ he said. Then, to hide his embarrassment: ‘You were going to tell me about these other dolls.’

‘After we’ve eaten,’ she said firmly.

But after they’d eaten, she asked for the bill. They went halves on it, and found themselves outside, the afternoon sun doing its best to remove the chill from the day. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said, sliding her arm through his.

‘Where to?’

‘The Meadows?’ she suggested. So that was where they went.

The sun had brought people out to the tree-lined playing field. Frisbees were being thrown, while joggers and cyclists sped past. Some teenagers were lying with their T-shirts off, cans of cider beside them. Jean was painting some of the area’s history for him.

‘I think there was a pond here,’ she said. ‘There were certainly stone quarries in Bruntsfield, and Marchmont itself was a farm.’

‘More like a zoo these days,’ he said.

She threw him a glance. ‘You work hard on your cynicism, don’t you?’

‘It gets rusty otherwise.’

At Jawbone Walk she decided they should cross the road and start up Marchmont Road. ‘So where exactly is it you live?’ she asked.

‘Arden Street. Just off Warrender Park Road.’

‘Not far then.’

He smiled, trying for eye contact. ‘Are you angling for an invitation?’

‘To be honest, yes.’

‘The place is a tip.’

‘I’d be disappointed if it were anything else. But my bladder says it’ll settle for what’s available …’