Back at his desk, Rebus watched them leave the room, then picked up the first of the cuttings. There was a conversation going on nearby, something about another press conference. The consensus was, if DCS Templer wanted you to front it, it meant she had the knives out. Rebus’s eyes narrowed. There was a sentence he must have missed first time round. It was the 1995 clipping: Huntingtower Hotel near Perth, a dog finding the coffin and scrap of cloth. Three-quarters of the way through the story, an anonymous member of the hotel staff was quoted as saying, ‘If we’re not careful, Huntingtower’s going to get itself a reputation.’ Rebus wondered what was meant by that. He picked up the phone, thinking maybe Jean Burchill would know. But he didn’t make the call, didn’t want her to think he was … well, what exactly? He’d enjoyed yesterday, and thought she had too. He’d dropped her at her home in Portobello, but had declined the offer of coffee.

‘I’ve taken up too much of your day as it is,’ he’d said. She hadn’t denied it.

‘Maybe another time then,’ was all she’d said.

Driving back to Marchmont, he’d felt that something had been lost between them. He’d almost called her that evening, but had switched on the TV instead, losing himself in a nature programme, unable afterwards to recall anything about it. Until he’d remembered about the reconstruction and headed out to watch it …

His hand was still resting on the receiver. He picked it up and got a number for the Huntingtower Hotel, asked to speak to the manager.

‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said. ‘He’s in a meeting at the moment. Can I take a message?’

Rebus explained who he was. ‘I want to speak to someone who was working at the hotel in nineteen ninety-five.

‘What’s their name?’

He smiled at her mistake. ‘No, I mean, anyone will do.’

‘Well, I’ve been here since ninety-three.’

‘Then you might remember the little coffin that was found.’

‘Vaguely, yes.’

‘Only I’ve got a cutting from a newspaper at the time. It says that the hotel might be getting a reputation.’

‘Yes.’

‘And why would that have been?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe it was that American tourist.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one who disappeared.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he did it was to ask her to repeat what she’d just said.