‘Knock him cold, thump him in the face, then string him up.’

‘Big-time grudge.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Someone with a flair for theatre.’

‘And not afraid to take risks. This place might never get exactly crowded, but it’s a public space and that tree’s in open view. Anyone could have walked past.’

‘What time are we talking about?’

‘Eight, eight-thirty. I’m guessing Mr Lintz would have wanted to do his digging in daylight.’

‘Could have been earlier,’ Rebus suggested. ‘A pre-arranged meeting.’

‘Then why the tools?’

‘Because by the time it got light, the meeting would be over.’

Hogan looked doubtful.

‘And if it was a meeting,’ Rebus said, ‘there might be some record of it at Lintz’s home.’

Hogan looked at him, nodded. ‘My car or yours?’

‘Better get his keys first.’

They started back up the slope.

‘Searching through a dead man’s pockets,’ Hogan said to himself. ‘Why is that never mentioned during recruitment?’

‘I was here yesterday,’ Rebus said. ‘He invited me back for tea.’

‘No family?’

‘None.’

Hogan looked around the hallway. ‘Big place. What happens to the money when it’s sold?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘We could split it two ways.’

‘Or we could just move ourselves in. Basement and ground for me, you can have first and second.’

Hogan smiled, tried one of the doors off the hall. It opened on to an office. ‘This could be my bedroom,’ he said, going in.

‘When I came here before, he always took me upstairs.’

‘On you go. We’ll take a floor each, then swop.’

Rebus headed up the staircase, running his hand over the varnished banister: not a speck of dust. Cleaning ladies could be invaluable informants.

‘If you find a chequebook,’ he called down to Hogan, ‘look for regular payments to a Mrs Mop.’

Four doors led off the first-floor landing. Two were bedrooms, one a bathroom. The last door led into the huge drawingroom, where Rebus had asked his questions and listened to the stories and philosophy that Lintz had used in place of answers.

‘Do you think guilt has a genetic component, Inspector?’ he’d asked one time. ‘Or are we taught it?’

‘Does it matter, so long as it’s there?’

Rebus had said, and Lintz had nodded and smiled, as if the pupil had given some satisfactory answer.

The room was big, not too much furniture. Huge sash windows recently cleaned - looked down on to the street. There were framed prints and paintings on the walls. They could have been priceless originals or junk-store stuff - Rebus was no expert. He liked one painting. It showed a ragged white-haired man seated on a rock, surrounded by a barren plain. He had a book open on his lap, but was staring skywards in horror or awe as a shining light appeared there, picking him out. It had a Biblical look, but Rebus couldn’t quite place it. He knew the look on the man’s face though. He’d seen it before when some suspect’s carefully crafted alibi had suddenly come tumbling down.