Rebus looked up at the Slavic Studies building. ‘Have you tracked down David Levy?’

‘Daughter still hasn’t heard from him.’

‘How long has that been?’

‘Long enough to seem suspicious in itself, only she doesn’t seem too bothered.’

‘How do you want to play this?’

Rebus asked.

‘Depends what he’s like.’

‘You ask your questions. Me, I just want to be there.’

Hogan looked at him, then shrugged and pushed open the door. They started to climb the worn stone steps. ‘Hope they haven’t put him in the penthouse.’

Colquhoun’s name was on a piece of card stuck to a door on the second floor. They pushed it open, and were confronted with a short hallway and another five or six doors. Colquhoun’s office was first on the right, and he was already standing in the doorway.

‘Thought I heard you. Sound carries in this place. Come in, come in.’

He wasn’t expecting Hogan to have company. His words dried up when he saw Rebus. He walked back into his office, motioned for both officers to sit, then fussed about moving their chairs around so they’d be facing his desk.

‘Terrible muddle,’ he said, kicking over a pile of books.

‘Know the feeling, sir,’ Hogan said.

Colquhoun peered in Rebus’s direction. ‘My secretary says you used the library.’

‘Filling in some of the gaps, sir.’

Rebus kept his voice level.

‘Yes, Candice ...’

Colquhoun was thoughtful. ‘Is she ... ? I mean, did she ... ?’

‘But today, sir,’ Hogan interrupted, ‘we want to talk to you about Joseph Lintz.’

Colquhoun sat down heavily in his wooden chair, which creaked under the weight. Then he sprang to his feet again. ‘Tea, coffee? You must excuse the mess. Not normally this disorganised ...’

‘Not for us, sir,’ Hogan said. ‘If you’d just take a seat?’

‘Of course, of course.’

Again, Colquhoun collapsed on to his chair.

‘Joseph Lintz, sir,’ Hogan prompted.

‘Terrible tragedy ... terrible. They think it’s murder, you know.’

‘Yes, sir, we do know.’

‘Of course you do. Apologies.’

The desk in front of Colquhoun was venerable and spotted with woodworm. The shelves were bowed under the weight of textbooks. There were old framed prints on the walls, and a blackboard with the single word CHARACTER on it. University paperwork was piled on the window ledge, all but blacking out the bottom two panes. The smell in the room was that of intellect gone awry.

‘It’s just that Mr Lintz had your name in his address book, sir,’ Hogan continued. ‘And we’re talking to all his friends.’

‘Friends?’

Colquhoun looked up. ‘I wouldn’t call us “friends” exactly. We were colleagues, but I don’t think I met him socially more than three or four times in twenty-odd years.’

‘Funny, he seems to have taken an interest in you, sir.’

Hogan flipped open his notebook. ‘Starting with your address in Warrender Park Terrace.’

‘I haven’t lived there since the seventies.’

‘He also has your telephone number there. After that, it’s Currie.’