Rebus drove, and then sat in the drawing-room while Lintz busied himself in the kitchen. Started flicking through a pile of books on a desk.

‘Ancient History, Inspector,’ Lintz said, bringing in the tray - he always refused offers of help. ‘Another hobby of mine. I’m fascinated by that intersection at which history and fiction meet.’

The books were all about Babylonia. ‘Babylon is an historical fact, you see, but what about the Tower of Babel?’

‘A song by Elton John?’ Rebus offered.

‘Always making jokes.’ Lintz looked up. ‘What is it you’re afraid of?’

Rebus took one of the cups. ‘I’ve heard of the Gardens of Babylon,’ he admitted, putting the book down. ‘What other hobbies do you have?’

‘Astrology, hauntings, the unknown.’

‘Have you ever been haunted?’

Lintz seemed amused. ‘No.’

‘Would you like to be?’

‘By seven hundred French villagers? No, Inspector, I wouldn’t like that at all. It was astrology that first brought me to the Chaldeans. They came from Babylonia. Have you ever heard of Babylonian numbers ...?’

Lintz had a way of turning conversations in directions he wanted them to take. Rebus wasn’t going to be deflected this time. He waited till Lintz had the cup to his lips.

‘Did you try to kill my daughter?’

Lintz paused, then sipped, swallowed.

‘No, Inspector,’ he said quietly.

Which left Telford, Tarawicz and Cafferty. Rebus thought of Telford, surrounded by his Family but wanting to play with the big boys. How different was a gang war from any other kind? You had soldiers, and orders given to them. They had to prove themselves, or lose face, show themselves cowards. Shoot a civilian, run down a pedestrian. Rebus realised that he didn’t want the driver as such he wanted the person who’d driven them to do it. Lintz’s defence of Linzstek was that the young lieutenant had been under orders, that war itself was the real culprit, as though humans had no say in the matter ...

‘Inspector,’ the old man was saying, ‘do you think I’m Linzstek?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I know you are.’

A wry smile. ‘Then arrest me.’

‘Here comes the blue-nose,’ Father Conor Leary said. ‘Out to steal Ireland’s God-given Guinness.’

He paused, eyes narrowing. ‘Or are you still on that abstention kick?’

‘I’m trying,’ Rebus said.

‘Well, I won’t tempt you then.’

Leary smiled. ‘But you know me, John. I’m not one to judge, but a wee drop never harmed a soul.’

‘Problem is, you put lots of wee drops together and you get a bloody big fall.’

Father Leary laughed. ‘But aren’t we all the fallen? Come away in.’

Father Leary was priest of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Years back, someone had defaced the board outside to turn ‘Help’ into ‘Hell’. The board had been corrected many times, but Rebus always thought of the place as ‘Perpetual Hell’: it was what the followers of Knox and Calvin would have believed. Father Leary took him through to the kitchen.

‘Here, man, sit yourself down. I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you’d renounced me.’