Not that the statistics mattered. A death was a death. Something unique had disappeared from the world. One murder or several hundred ... they all meant something to the survivors. Rebus thought of Villefranche’s sole existing survivor. He hadn’t met her, probably never would. Another reason it was hard to get passionate about a historical case. In a contemporary one, you had many of the facts to hand, and could talk to witnesses. You could gather forensic evidence, question people’s stories. You could measure guilt and grief. You became part of the whole story. This was what interested Rebus. The people interested him; their stories fascinated him. When part of their lives, he could forget his own.

He noticed the answering-machine was flashing: one message.

‘Oh, hello there. I’m ... um, I don’t know how to put this ...’

Placed the voice: Kirstin Mede. She sighed. ‘Look, I can’t do this any more. So please don’t ... I’m sorry, I just can’t. There are other people who can help you. I’m sure one of them ...’

End of message. Rebus stared down at the machine. He didn’t blame her. I can’t do this any more. That makes two of us, Rebus thought. The only thing was, he had to keep going. He sat down at his table and pulled the Villefranche paperwork towards him: lists of names and occupations, ages and dates of birth. Picat, Mesplede, Rousseau, Deschamps. Wine merchant, china painter, cartwright, housemaid. What did any of it mean to a middle-aged Scot? He pushed it aside and lifted Siobhan’s paperwork on to the table.

Off with Van the Man; on with side one of Wish You Were Here. Scratched to hell. He remembered it had come in a black polythene wrapper. When opened, there’d been this smell, which afterwards he’d learned was supposed to be burning flesh ...

‘I need a drink,’ he said to himself, sitting forward in his chair. ‘I want a drink. A few beers, maybe with whiskies attached.’

Something to smooth the edges ...

He looked at his watch; not even near to closing time. Not that it mattered much in Edinburgh, the land that closing time forgot. Could he make it to the Ox before they shut up shop? Yes, too easily. It was nicer to have a challenge. Wait an hour or so and then repeat the debate.

Or call Jack Morton.

Or go out, right now.

The telephone rang. He picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘John?’

Making it sound like ‘Sean’.

‘Hello, Candice. What’s up?’

‘Up?’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Problem, no. I just wanting ... I say to you, see you tomorrow.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, see you tomorrow. You speak very good English.’

‘I was chained to a razor blade.’

‘What?’

‘Line from song.’

‘Oh, right. But you’re not chained to it now?’

She didn’t seem to understand. ‘I’m ... uh ...’

‘It’s okay, Candice. See you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, see you.’

Rebus put down the receiver. Chained to a razor blade ... Suddenly he didn’t want a drink any more.