“I’m a cop,” he told her. “CID.” She didn’t seem interested. “You didn’t know the kids who died?”

“I did.” She sounded hurt, not wanting to be left out.

“But you don’t miss them.”

She caught his meaning, nodding as she remembered her own words: I’m not in mourning at all. “If anything, I’m jealous.” Again, her eyes were boring into his. He couldn’t help wondering how she would look without the makeup. Pretty, probably; maybe even fragile. Her painted face was a mask, something she could hide behind.

“Jealous?”

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” She watched him nod, then gave a shrug of her own. Rebus looked down at the cigarette, and she took it from him, placing it in her mouth again.

“You want to die?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all. I want to know what it’s like.” She made an O of her lips and produced a swirling circle of smoke. “You must have seen dead people.”

“Too many.”

“And how many’s that? Ever watched someone die?”

He wasn’t about to answer. “I’ve got to be going.” She made to give him what little was left of the cigarette, but he shook his head. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Teri.”

“Terry?”

She spelled it for him. “But you can call me Miss Teri.”

Rebus smiled. “I’ll assume that’s an assumed name. Maybe I’ll see you around, Miss Teri.”

“You can see me whenever you like, Mr. CID.” She turned and started walking into town, confident in her inch-and-a-half heels, hands brushing her hair back and letting it fall, then giving a little wave of one lace-gloved hand. Knowing he was watching, enjoying playing the role. Rebus reckoned she qualified as a Goth. He’d seen them in town, hanging around outside record shops. For a time, anyone who fitted the description had been banned from entering Princes Street Gardens: a municipal edict, something to do with a trampled flowerbed and the knocking over of a litter bin. When Rebus had read about it, he’d smiled. The line stretched back from punks to teddy boys, teenagers undergoing their rites of passage. He’d been pretty wild himself before he’d joined the army. Too young for the first wave of teddy boys, but growing into a secondhand leather jacket, a sharpened steel comb in the pocket. The jacket hadn’t been right-not biker goods but three-quarter length. He’d cut it shorter with a kitchen knife, threads straggling from it, the lining showing.

Some rebel.

Miss Teri disappeared around the bend, and Rebus headed for the Boatman’s, where Siobhan was waiting with the drinks.

“Thought I was going to have to drink yours,” she said by way of complaint.

“Sorry.” He cupped the glass in both hands and lifted it. Siobhan had found them a corner table, nobody close by. Two piles of paperwork sat in front of her, alongside her lime soda and an open packet of peanuts.

“How are the hands?” she asked.

“I’m worried I may never play the piano again.”

“A tragic loss to the world of popular music.”

“You ever listen to heavy metal, Siobhan?”

“Not if I can help it.” She paused. “Maybe a bit of Motorhead to get the party started.”

“I was thinking of the newer stuff.”

She shook her head. “You really think we’re all right here?”

He looked around. “Locals don’t seem interested. It’s not like we’re going to be flashing autopsy photos or anything.”

“There are pictures of the crime scene, though.”

“Keep them tucked away for now.” Rebus swallowed another mouthful of beer.

“You sure you can drink with those tablets you’re taking?”

He ignored her, nodded towards one of the piles instead. “So,” he said, “what have we got, and how long can we stretch this assignment out for?”

She smiled. “Not keen on another meeting with the boss?”

“Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to it?”

She seemed to give this some thought, then offered a shrug.

“You glad Fairstone’s dead?” Rebus asked.

She glared at him.

“Just curious,” he said, thinking again of Miss Teri. He made a show of trying to slide one of the top sheets towards him, until Siobhan took the hint and did it for him. Then the two of them sat side by side, not noticing the light outside waning as the afternoon slurred towards evening.

Siobhan went to the bar for more drinks. The barman had tried asking her about the paperwork, but she’d deflected the conversation and they’d ended up talking about writers instead. She hadn’t known of the Boatman’s connection with the likes of Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

“You’re not just drinking in a pub,” the barman had explained. “You’re drinking in history.” A line he’d used a hundred times before. It made her feel like a tourist. Ten miles from the city center, but everything felt different. It wasn’t just the murders-about which, she suddenly realized, her barman hadn’t said anything. Denizens of the city tended to lump the outlying settlements together-Portobello, Musselburgh, Currie, South Queensferry… they were regarded as just “bits” of the city. Yet even Leith, connected to the city center by the ugly umbilical cord of Leith Walk, worked hard to preserve a separate identity. She wondered why anywhere else should be different.

Something had brought Lee Herdman here. He’d been born in Wishaw, joined the army at seventeen. Service in Northern Ireland and farther abroad, then SAS training. Eight years in that regiment before finding himself back, as he would probably have put it, “on civvy street.” He abandoned his wife, leaving her with two kids in Hereford, home of the SAS, and headed north. The background information was patchy. No mention of what happened to the wife and kids, or why he broke with them. He’d moved to South Queensferry six years ago. And he’d died here, age thirty-six.

Siobhan looked across to where Rebus was studying another sheet of paper. He’d been in the army, and she’d often heard rumors that he’d trained for the SAS. What did she know about the SAS? Only what she’d read in the report. Special Air Service, based in Hereford, motto: Who Dares Wins. Selected from the best candidates the army could muster. The regiment had been founded during World War II as a long-range reconnaissance unit but had been made famous by the Iranian embassy siege in 1980 and the 1982 Falklands campaign. A penciled footnote to one sheet stated that Herdman’s previous employers had been contacted and asked to provide what information they could. She’d mentioned this to Rebus, who’d just snorted, indicating that he didn’t think they would be very forthcoming.

Sometime after his arrival in South Queensferry, Herdman had started his boat business, towing water-skiers and such. Siobhan didn’t know how much it cost to buy a speedboat. She’d made a note to this effect, one of dozens listed on the pad back at the table.

“You’re not in a hurry, then,” the barman said. She hadn’t noticed him coming back.

“What?”

He lowered his eyes, directing her to the drinks in front of her.

“Oh, right,” she said, trying for a smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Sometimes a dwam’s the best place to be.”

She nodded, knowing that “dwam” meant dream. She seldom used Scots words; they jarred with her English accent. That she’d never tried altering her accent was testament to its usefulness. It could wind people up, which had proved handy in some interviews. And if people occasionally mistook her for a tourist, well, they sometimes dropped their guard, too.

“I’ve figured out who you are,” the barman was saying now. She studied him. Mid-twenties, tall and broad-shouldered with short black hair and a face that would retain its sculpted cheekbones for a few years yet, booze, diet and cigarettes notwithstanding.

“Impress me,” she said, leaning against the bar.

“At first I took you for a pair of reporters, but you’re not asking any questions.”

“You’ve had a few reporters in, then?” she asked.