‘Where did you meet?’

‘In a restaurant. He bought me lunch.’

The young woman ... ‘Told me he’d tried killing himself and couldn’t do it. He kept saying he’d proved himself a “moral coward”, whatever that means.’

‘So what did he want?’

Pretty-Boy stared up at Rebus. ‘He needed someone to help him.’

‘You?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged.

‘And the price was right?’

‘No haggling necessary. He wanted it done in Warriston Cemetery.’

‘Did you ask him why?’

‘I knew he liked the place. We met at his house, really early. I drove him down there. He seemed the same as ever, except he kept thanking me for my “resolve”. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. To me, Resolve is something you take after a hard night.’

Rebus smiled, as was expected. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Not much more to tell, is there? He put the noose over his head. He told me to pull on the rope. I had a last go at talking him out of it, but the bugger was determined. It’s not murder, is it? Assisted suicide: a lot of places, it’s legal.’

‘How did the dent get on his head?’

‘He was heavier than I thought. First time I hauled him up, the rope slipped and he fell, thumped himself on the ground.’

Bobby Hogan cleared his throat. ‘Brian, did he say anything ... right at the end?’

‘Famous last words and all that?’

Pretty-Boy shook his head. ‘All he said was “thank you”. Poor old sod. One thing: he wrote it all down.’

‘What?’

‘About me helping him. A sort of insurance, in case anyone ever linked us. Letter says he paid me, begged me to help.’

‘Where is this?’

‘In a safe. I can get it for you.’

Rebus nodded, stretched his back. ‘Did you ever talk about Villefranche?’

‘A little bit, mostly about the way the papers and TV were hounding him, how difficult it made it when he wanted ... company.’

‘But not the massacre itself?’

Pretty-Boy shook his head. ‘Know something else? Even if he had told me, I wouldn’t tell you.’

Rebus tapped his pen against the desk. He knew the Lintz story was as closed as it was ever going to be. Bobby Hogan knew it, too. They had the secret at last, the story of how Lintz had died. They knew he’d been helped by the Rat Line, but they’d never know whether he’d been Josef Linzstek or not. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, but so was the evidence that Lintz had been hounded to death. He’d started putting the escorts into nooses only after the accusations had been made.

Hogan caught Rebus’s eye and shrugged, as if to say: what does it matter? Rebus nodded back. Part of him wanted to take a break, but now that Pretty-Boy was rolling it was important to keep up the steam.

‘Thanks for that, Mr Summers. We may come back to Mr Lintz if we think of any more questions. But meantime, let’s move on to the relationship between Thomas Telford and Jake Tarawicz.’