‘Houses were cheaper back then, Inspector. The fashion was for country properties and bungalows.’

Joseph Lintz: barely five foot tall, bespectacled. Parchment hands with liver spots. One wrist sported a pre-war Ingersoll watch. Glass fronted bookcases lining his drawing-room. Charcoal-coloured suits. An elegant way about him, almost feminine: the way he lifted a cup to his lips; the way he flicked specks from his trousers.

‘I don’t blame the Jews,’ he’d said. ‘They’d implicate everyone if they could. They want the whole world feeling guilty. Maybe they’re right.’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Don’t we all have little secrets, things we’re ashamed of?’

Lintz had smiled. ‘You’re playing their game, and you don’t even know it.’

Rebus had pressed on. ‘The two names are very similar, aren’t they? Lintz, Linzstek.’

‘Naturally, or they’d have absolutely no grounds for their accusations. Think, Inspector: wouldn’t I have changed my name more radically? Do you credit me with a modicum of intelligence?’

‘More than a modicum.’

Framed diplomas on the walls, honorary degrees, photos taken with university chancellors, politicians. When the Farmer had learned a little more about Joseph Lintz, he’d cautioned Rebus to ‘ca’ canny’. Lintz was a patron of the arts opera, museums, galleries - and a great giver to charities. He was a man with friends. But also a solitary man, someone who was happiest when tending graves in Warriston Cemetery. Dark bags under his eyes, pushing down upon the angular cheeks. Did he sleep well? ‘Like a lamb, Inspector.’

Another smile. ‘Of the sacrificial kind. You know, I don’t blame you, you’re only doing your job.’

‘You seem to have no end of forgiveness, Mr Lintz.’

A careful shrug. ‘Do you know Blake’s words, Inspector? “And through all eternity/ I forgive you, you forgive me.” I’m not so sure I can forgive the media.’ This last word voiced with a distaste which manifested itself as a twist of facial muscles.

‘Is that why you’ve set your lawyer on them?’

‘“Set” makes me sound like a hunter, Inspector. This is a newspaper, with a team of expensive lawyers at its beck and call. Can an individual hope to win against such odds?’

‘Then why bother trying?’

Lintz thumped both arms of his chair with clenched fists. ‘For the principle, man!’ Such outbursts were rare and shortlived, but Rebus had experienced enough of them to know that Lintz had a temper ...

‘Hello?’ Kirstin Mede said, angling her head to catch his gaze.

‘What?’

She smiled. ‘You were miles away.’

‘Just across town,’ he replied.

She pointed to the papers. ‘I’ll leave these here, okay? If you’ve any questions ...’

‘Great, thanks.’

Rebus got to his feet.

‘It’s okay, I know my way out.’

But Rebus was insistent. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit . . .’

He waved his hands around his head.

‘As I said, it gets to you after a while.’

As they walked back through the CID office, Rebus could feel eyes following them. Bill Pryde came up, preening, wanting to be introduced. He had curly fair hair and thick blond eyelashes, his nose large and freckled, mouth small and topped with a ginger moustache - a fashion accessory he could well afford to lose.