‘Excuse me, sir, you shouldn’t be in here.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s this gentleman -’ ‘John? John, what is it?’

Her earrings had been removed. Three tiny pin-pricks, one of them redder than its neighbours. The face above the sheet: puffy blackened eyes, a broken nose, abrasions on both cheeks. Split lip, a graze on the chin, eyelids which didn’t even flutter. He saw a hit and run victim. And beneath it all, he saw his daughter.

And he screamed.

Clarke and Redpath had to drag him out, helped by Claverhouse who’d heard the noise.

‘Leave the door open! I’ll kill you if you close that door!’ They tried to sit him down. Redpath rescued his book from the chair. Rebus tore it from him and threw it down the hall.

‘How could you read a fucking book?’ he spat. ‘That’s Sammy in there! And you’re out here reading a book!’ Clarke’s cup of coffee had been kicked over, the floor slippy, Redpath going down as Rebus pushed at him.

‘Can you jam that door open?’ Claverhouse was asking the doctor. ‘And what about a sedative?’

Rebus was clawing his hands through his hair, bawling dry-eyed, his voice hoarse and uncomprehending. Staring down at himself, he saw the ludicrous t-shirt and knew that’s what he’d take away from this night: the image of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and its grinning bright-eyed demon. He hauled off his jacket and started tearing at the shirt.

She was behind that door, he thought, and I was out here chatting as casual as you like. She’d been in there all the time he’d been here. Two things clicked: a hit and run; the car speeding away from Flint Street.

He grabbed at Redpath. ‘Top of Minto Street. You’re sure?’

‘What?’

‘Sammy ... top of Minto Street?’

Redpath nodded. Clarke knew straight away what Rebus was thinking.

‘I don’t think so, John. They were headed the opposite way.’

‘Could have doubled back.’

Claverhouse had caught some of the exchange. ‘I just got off the phone. The guys who did Danny Simpson, we picked up the car. White Escort abandoned in Argyle Place.’

Rebus looked at Redpath. ‘White Escort?’

Redpath was shaking his head. ‘Witnesses say dark-coloured.’

Rebus turned to the wall, stood there with his palms pressed to it. Staring at the paintwork, it was like he could see inside the paint.

Claverhouse put a hand on his shoulder. ‘John, I’m sure she’s going to be fine. The doctor’s gone to fetch you a couple of tablets, but meantime what about one of these?’

Claverhouse with Rebus’s jacket folded in the crook of his arm, the quarter-bottle in his hand.

The little suicide bomb.

He took the bottle from Claverhouse. Unscrewed its top, his eyes on the open doorway. Lifted the bottle to his lips.

Drank.

Book Two

‘In the Hanging Garden/No one sleeps’

A seaside holiday: caravan park, long walks and sandcastles. He sat in a deck-chair, trying to read. Cold mind blowing, despite the sun. Rhona rubbed suntan lotion on Sammy, said you couldn’t be too careful. Told him to keep an eye open, she was going back to the caravan for her book. Sammy was burying her father’s feet in the sand.