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In October ’69, Paddy Meehan had been sentenced at the High Court in Edinburgh and had shouted out, ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake — I’m innocent!’ That made Rebus think of Lenny Spaven; he shook the thought away and turned to a new paper. November 8: gales forced the evacuation of the Staflo oil rig; November 12: a report that the owners of the Torrey Canyon had paid out £3 million in compensation after losing 5,000 tons of Kuwaiti crude into the English Channel. Elsewhere, Dunfermline had decided to allow The Killing of Sister George to be shown in the town, and a brand new Rover three-and-a-half litre would cost you £1,700. Rebus turned to late December. The SNP chairman was predicting that Scotland stood ‘on the threshold of a decade of destiny’. Nice one, sir. December 31: Hogmanay. The Herald wished its readers a happy and prosperous 1970, and led with the story of a shootout in Govanhilclass="underline" one constable dead, three wounded. He put the paper down, the gust blowing some photos off the desk. He picked them up: the three victims, so full of life. Victims one and three shared some facial similarities. All three looked hopeful, like the future just might bring them everything they were dreaming of. It was good to have hope, and never to give up. But Rebus doubted many people managed that. They might smile for the camera, but if caught unawares they’d more likely look bedraggled and exhausted, like the bystanders in the photos.

How many victims were there? Not just Bible John or Johnny Bible, but all the killers, the punished and the never found. The World’s End murders, Cromwell Street, Nilsen, the Yorkshire Ripper... And Elsie Rhind... If Spaven hadn’t killed her, then the murderer must have been hooting with laughter all through the trial. And he was still out there, maybe with other scalps added to his tally, other unsolveds. Elsie Rhind lay in her grave unavenged, a forgotten victim. Spaven had committed suicide because he couldn’t bear the weight of his innocence. And Lawson Geddes... had he killed himself over grief for his wife, or because of Spaven? Had cold realisation finally crept over him?

The bastards were all gone; only John Rebus was left. They wanted to shift their burdens on to him. But he was refusing, and he’d go on refusing, denying. He didn’t know what else he could do. Except drink. He wanted a drink, wanted one desperately. But he wasn’t going to have one, not yet. Maybe later, maybe sometime. People died and you couldn’t bring them back. Some of them died violently, cruelly young, without knowing why they’d been chosen. Rebus felt surrounded by loss. All the ghosts... yelling at him... begging him... shrieking...

‘John?’

He looked up from the desk. Jack was standing there with a mug in one hand and a roll in the other. Rebus blinked, his vision was going: it was like he was looking at Jack through a heat haze.

‘Christ, man, are you all right?’

His nose and lips were wet. He wiped at them. The photos on the desk were wet too. He knew he’d been crying and pulled out a handkerchief. Jack put the mug and roll down and rested an arm along his shoulders, squeezing gently.

‘Don’t know what’s up with me,’ Rebus said, blowing his nose.

‘Yes you do,’ Jack said quietly.

‘Yes, I do,’ Rebus acknowledged. He gathered up the photographs and newspapers and stuffed them all back into their boxes. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

Jack lifted his backside on to a desk. ‘Not many defences left, have you?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Time to get your act together.’

‘Ach, Stanley and Eve won’t be here for a while yet.’

‘You know that’s not —’

‘I know, I know. And you’re right: time to get my act together. Where do I start? No, don’t tell me — the Juice Church?’

Jack just shrugged. ‘Your decision.’

Rebus picked up the roll and bit into it. A mistake: the block in his throat made it hard to swallow. He gulped at the coffee, managed to finish the roll — bland ham and wet tomato. Then remembered he had to make another calclass="underline" a Shetland number.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he told Jack.

In the toilets he washed his face. Tiny red veins had burst in the whites of his eyes; he looked like he’d been on a bender.

‘Stone cold sober,’ he told himself, heading back to the telephone.

Briony, Jake Harley’s girlfriend, picked up.

‘Is Jake there?’ Rebus asked.

‘No, sorry.’

‘Briony, we met the other day, DI Rebus.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Has he been in touch?’

A long pause. ‘Sorry, I missed that. The line’s not great.’

It sounded just fine to Rebus. ‘I said, has he been in touch?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘That’s what I said.’ Edgy now.

‘OK, OK. Aren’t you a bit worried?’

‘What about?’

‘Jake.’

‘Why should I be?’

‘Well, he’s been off on his own longer than intended. Maybe something’s happened.’

‘He’s all right.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do!’ Almost shouting now.

‘Calm down. Look, why don’t I get —’

‘Just leave us alone!’ The phone died on him.

Us. Leave us alone. Rebus stared at the receiver.

‘I could hear her from over here,’ Jack said. ‘Sounds like she’s cracking up.’

‘I think she is.’

‘Boyfriend trouble?’

‘Boyfriend in trouble.’ He put the receiver down. There was an incoming call.

‘DI Rebus.’

It was the front desk, telling him the first of his visitors had arrived.

Eve looked much as she had that night in the bar of Rebus’s hotel — dressed for business in a two-piece suit, conservative blue rather than vamp red, and with the gold jewellery on wrists, fingers and neck, and the same gold clasp pulling back her peroxide hair. She had a handbag with her, and tucked it under her arm as she clipped on her visitor’s pass.

‘Who’s Madeleine Smith?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs.

‘I got her name out of a book, I think she was a murderess.’

She gave Rebus a look which managed to be hard and amused at the same time.

‘This way,’ Rebus said. He led her to the Bible John room, where Jack was waiting. ‘Jack Morton,’ Rebus said, ‘Eve... I don’t know your last name. It’s not Toal, is it?’

‘Cudden,’ she said coldly.

‘Sit down, Ms Cudden.’

She sat down, reached into her bag for the black cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Actually, there’s no smoking allowed,’ Jack said, sounding apologetic. ‘And neither Inspector Rebus nor myself are smokers.’

She looked at Rebus. ‘Since when?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Where’s Stanley?’

‘He’ll be here. We thought it wise to leave separately.’

‘Uncle Joe won’t suspect?’

‘Well, that’s our problem, not yours. As far as Joe knows, Malky’s going out on the ran-dan, and I’m visiting a friend. She’s a good friend, she’ll not let on.’

Her tone told Rebus she’d used the friend before — other times, other assignations.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you arrived first. I wanted to have a private word.’ He rested against a desk, folded his arms to stop his hands shaking. ‘That night in the hotel, you were setting me up, yes?’