‘In which case you’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Except my reputation.’

‘When you’re exonerated, we’ll take care of that.’

Rebus was listening closely. None of this sounded like Abernethy. The hostile graveside tone had been replaced by something much more ambiguous.

‘And meantime?’

Lintz seemed to be picking up whatever the Londoner was saying between the lines. Rebus felt deliberately excluded from the conversation, which was why Abernethy had got into the back seat in the first place. He’d placed a physical barrier between himself and the officer investigating Joseph Lintz. There was something going on.

‘Meantime,’ Abernethy said, ‘cooperate as fully as you can with my colleague. The sooner he’s able to reach his conclusions, the sooner this will all be over.’

‘The problem with conclusions is that they should be conclusive, and I have so little proof. This was wartime, Inspector Abernethy, a lot of records destroyed ...’

‘Without proof either way, there’s no case to answer.’

Lintz was nodding. ‘I see,’ he said.

Abernethy hadn’t voiced anything Rebus himself didn’t feel; the problem was, he’d voiced it to the suspect.

‘It would help if your memory improved,’ Rebus felt obliged to add.

‘Well, Mr Lintz,’ Abernethy was saying, ‘thanks for your time.’

His hand was on the elderly man’s shoulder: protective, comforting. ‘Can we drop you somewhere?’

‘I’ll stay here a little longer,’ Lintz said, opening the door and easing himself out. Abernethy handed the bag of tools to him.

‘Take care now,’ he said.

Lintz nodded, gave a small bow to Rebus, and shuffled back towards the gate. Abernethy climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Rum little bugger, isn’t he?’

‘You as good as told him he was off the hook.’

‘Bollocks,’ Abernethy said. ‘I told him where he stands, let him know the score. That’s all.’

He saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Come on, do you really want to see him in court? An old professor who keeps cemeteries tidy?’

‘It doesn’t make it any easier if you sound like you’re on his side.’

‘Even supposing he did order that massacre - you think a trial and a couple of years in clink till he snuffs it is the answer? Better to just give them all a bloody good scare, stuff the trial, and save the taxpayer millions.’

‘That’s not our job,’ Rebus said, starting the engine.

He took Abernethy back to Arden Street. They shook hands, Abernethy trying to sound like he wanted to stay a little longer.

‘One of these days,’ he said. And then he was gone. As his Sierra drew away, another car pulled into the space he’d just vacated. Siobhan Clarke got out, bringing with her a supermarket carrier bag.

‘For you,’ she said. ‘And I think I’m owed a coffee.’

She wasn’t as fussy as Abernethy, accepted the mug of instant with thanks and ate a spare croissant. There was a message on the answering machine, Dr Colquhoun telling him the refugee family could take Candice tomorrow. Rebus jotted down the details, then turned his attention to the contents of Siobhan’s carrier-bag. Maybe two hundred sheets of paper, photocopies.