Both men were laughing as Donald Devlin came alongside. ‘Glad you felt able to join us,’ he told Rebus, before taking the priest’s hand. ‘I think you were the deciding factor, Father,’ he said, explaining about the dinner invitation.

‘The offer of which still stands,’ he added. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to hear the Father’s speech.’ Rebus shook his head.

‘Last thing a heathen like John needs is me telling him what’s good for him,’ Leary said.

‘Too right,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And I’m sure I’ve heard it all before anyway.’ He caught Leary’s eye, and in that moment they shared a memory of the long talks in the priest’s kitchen, fuelled by trips to the fridge and the drinks cabinet. Conversations about Calvin and criminals, faith and the faithless. Even when Rebus agreed with Leary, he’d try to play devil’s advocate, the old priest amused by his stubbornness. Long talks they’d had, and regularly … until Rebus had started finding excuses to stay away. Tonight, if Leary asked why, he knew he couldn’t give a reason. Maybe it was because the priest had begun to offer him certainties, and Rebus had no time for them. They’d played this game, Leary convinced he could convert ‘the heathen’.

‘You’ve got all these questions,’ he’d tell Rebus. ‘Why won’t you let someone supply the answers?’

‘Maybe because I prefer questions to answers,’ Rebus had replied. And the priest had thrown up his hands in despair, before making another foray to the fridge.

Devlin was asking Leary about the theme of his talk. Rebus could see that Devlin had had a drink or two. He stood rosy-faced with hands in pockets, his smile contented but distant. Rebus was getting his OJ topped up when Gates and Curt appeared, the two pathologists dressed almost identically, making them seem more of a double-act than usual.

‘Bloody hell,’ Gates said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ He caught the barman’s attention. ‘Whisky for me, and a glass of tonic water for this fairy here.’

Curt snorted. ‘I’m not the only one.’ He nodded towards Rebus’s drink.

‘Ye Gods, John, tell me there’s vodka in that,’ Gates boomed. Then: ‘What the hell are you doing here anyway?’ Gates was sweating, his shirt collar constricting his throat. His face had turned almost puce. Curt, as usual, looked completely at ease. He’d gained a couple of pounds but still looked slim, though his face was grey.

‘I never see sunlight,’ was the excuse he always gave when asked about his pallor. More than one woolly-suit at St Leonard’s had taken to calling him Dracula.

‘I wanted to catch the pair of you,’ Rebus said now.

‘The answer’s no,’ Gates said.

‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’

‘That tone of voice was enough. You’re going to ask a favour. You’ll say it won’t take long. You’ll be wrong.’

‘Just some old PM results. I need a second opinion.’

‘We’re rushed off our feet,’ Curt said, looking apologetic.

‘Whose are they?’ Gates asked.