‘He can whistle if he does.’ Grant’s chuckle was empty of humour.

Siobhan looked at the book of card games. She’d spent a couple of hours flicking through it, and all the time looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place. She’d only just got to the library in time. Five minutes till closing. Left her car on Victoria Street and prayed she didn’t get a ticket …

‘Victoria Street?’ she said out loud.

‘Take your pick, there are dozens of the buggers.’

‘And some of them are right here,’ she told him.

He looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they are.’

He went down to his car, brought back an Ordnance Survey atlas of East-Central Scotland, opened it at the index and ran his finger down the list.

‘Victoria Gardens … there’s a Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy … Victoria Street and Victoria Terrace in Edinburgh.’ He looked at her. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think there are a couple of restaurants in Victoria Street.’

‘Any statues?’

‘Not on the outside.’

He checked his watch. ‘They won’t be open at this hour, will they?’

She shook her head. ‘First thing tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Breakfast’s on me.’

Rebus and Jean sat in the Palm Court. She was drinking a long vodka, while he nursed a ten-year-old Macallan. The waiter had brought a little glass jug of water, but Rebus hadn’t disturbed it. He hadn’t been inside the Balmoral Hotel in years. Back then it had been the North British. The old place had changed a bit in the interim. Not that Jean seemed interested in her surroundings, not now she’d heard Rebus’s story.

‘So they might all have been murdered?’ she said, her face pale. The lights in the lounge had been turned low, and a pianist was playing. Rebus kept recognising snatches of tunes; he doubted Jean had taken in any of them.

‘It’s possible,’ he admitted.

‘But you’re basing all of it on the dolls?’

Her eyes met his and he nodded. ‘Maybe I’m reading too much into it,’ he said. ‘But it needs to be investigated.’

‘Where on earth will you start?’

‘We’re waiting for the original case notes.’ He paused. ‘What’s the matter?’

There were tears in her eyes. She sniffed and searched her bag for a handkerchief. ‘It’s just the idea of it. All this time, I had those cuttings … Maybe if I’d given them to the police sooner …’

‘Jean.’ He took her hand. ‘All you had were stories about dolls in coffins.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘Meantime, maybe you can help.’

She hadn’t found a handkerchief. Picked up her cocktail napkin and dabbed at her eyes with it. ‘How?’ she said.

‘This whole thing goes back as far as nineteen seventy-two. I need to know who back then might have shown an interest in the Arthur’s Seat exhibits. Can you do some digging for me?’

‘Of course.’

He gave her hand another squeeze. ‘Thanks.’