Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I’ve heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I’m pleased to say, in your case.’

‘He’s a living legend,’ Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A&E.

There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard’s. He’d been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him ‘The Professor’. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.

‘Science fiction,’ he explained. ‘Always thought I’d grow out of it.’

‘There are a lot of things we don’t grow out of, son. What’s it about?’

‘The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’

Redpath looked up. ‘What do you think, of parallel universes, sir?’

Rebus nodded towards the door. ‘Who’s in there?’

‘Hit and run.’

‘Bad?.’

The Professor shrugged. ‘Where did it happen?’

‘Top of Minto Street.’

‘Did you get the car?’

Redpath shook his head. ‘Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’

‘Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’

Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.

‘Telford doesn’t want Danny talking,’ she said to Rebus.

‘Obviously.’

‘And meantime he’ll want to even the score.’

‘Definitely.’

She caught Rebus’s eyes. ‘I thought he was a bit out of order back there.’

Meaning Claverhouse, but not wanting to name names in front of a uniform.

Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks.’

Meaning: you did right not to say as much at the time. Claverhouse and Clarke were partners now. It wouldn’t do for her to upset him.

A door slid open and a doctor appeared. She was young, and looked exhausted. Behind her in the room, Rebus could see a bed, a figure on the bed, staff milling around the various machines. Then the door slid closed.

‘We’re going to do a brain scan,’ the doctor was telling Redpath. ‘Have you contacted her family?’

‘I don’t have a name.’

‘Her effects are inside.’

The doctor slid open the door again and walked in. There was clothing folded on a chair, a bag beneath it. As the doctor pulled out the bag, Rebus saw something. A flat white cardboard box.

A white cardboard pizza box. Clothes: black denims, black bra, red satin shirt. A black duffel-coat.

‘John?’

And black shoes with two-inch heels, square-toed, new-looking except for the scuff marks, like they’d been dragged along the road.

He was in the room now. They had a mask over her face, feeding her oxygen. Her forehead was cut and bruised, the hair pushed away from it. Her fingers were blistered, the palms scraped raw. The bed she lay on wasn’t really a bed but a wide steel trolley.