`It's a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’

She closed the window. `Now go on, get out of here.’

He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn't leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.

So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.

Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a 'mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn't know how many days it had been since he'd had a drink. He wasn't counting.

He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She'd be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and saw a beauty his cynicism couldn't touch. Someone in a bar recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He'd seen too much of love's obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.

Not that he'd voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.

`Define romance,' had been the challenge. And Rebus's response? He'd picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.

He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.

`She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she'd see you again.’

`So what's the plan?’

`Shopping – one quick swoop on The Gyle. After that, Fettes. Dr Colquhoun's coming in at noon for an hour. We'll see what we get.’

Rebus was at his window, looking down on a damp Arden Street. `Take care of her, Siobhan.’

`No problem.’

Rebus knew there'd be no problem, not with Siobhan. This was her first real action with the Crime Squad, she'd be doing her damnedest to make it a success. He was in the kitchen when the phone rang.

`Is that Inspector Rebus?’

`Who's speaking?’

A voice he didn't recognise.

`Inspector, my name is David Levy. We've never met. I apologise for calling you at home. I was given this number by Matthew Vanderhyde.’

Old man Vanderhyde: Rebus hadn't seen him in a while.

`Yes?’

`I must say, I was astonished when it transpired he knew you.’

The voice was tinged with a dry humour. `But by now nothing about Matthew should surprise me. I went to him because he knows Edinburgh.’

`Yes?’

Laughter on the line. `I'm sorry, Inspector. I can't blame you for being suspicious when I've made such a mess of the introductions. I am a historian by profession. I've been contacted by Solomon Mayerlink to see if I might offer assistance.’

Mayerlink… Rebus knew the name. Placed it: Mayerlink ran the Holocaust Investigation Bureau.

`And exactly what "assistance" does Mr Mayerlink think I need?’

`Perhaps we could discuss it in person, Inspector. I'm staying in a hotel on Charlotte Square.’

`The Roxburghe?’

`Could we meet there? This morning, ideally.’

Rebus looked at his watch. `An hour?’

he suggested.

`Perfect. Goodbye, Inspector.’

Rebus called into the office, told them where he'd be.

They sat in the Roxburghe's lounge, Levy pouring coffee. An elderly couple in the far corner, beside the window, pored over sections of newspaper. David Levy was elderly, too. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small silver beard. His hair was a silver halo around a scalp the colour of tanned leather. His eyes seemed constantly moist, as if he'd just chewed on an onion. He sported a dun-coloured safari suit with blue shirt and tie beneath. His walking-stick rested against his chair. Now retired, he'd worked in Oxford, New York State, Tel Aviv itself, and several other locations around the globe.

`I never came into contact with Joseph Lintz, however. No reason why I should, our interests being different.’

`So why does Mr Mayerlink think you can help me?’

Levy put the coffee pot back on its tray. `Milk? Sugar?’

Rebus shook his head to both, then repeated his question.

`Well, Inspector,' Levy said, tipping two spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup, `it's more a matter of moral support.’

`Moral support?’

`You see, many people before you have been in the same position in which you now find yourself. I'm talking about objective people, professionals with no axe to grind, and no real stake in the investigation.’

Rebus bristled. `If you're suggesting I'm not doing my job…’

A pained look crossed Levy's face. `Please, Inspector, I'm not making a very good job of this, am I? What I mean is that there will be times when you will doubt the validity of what you are doing. You'll doubt its worth.’

His eyes gleamed. `Perhaps you've already had doubts?’

Rebus said nothing. He had a drawerful of doubts, especially now that he had a real, living, breathing case – Candice. Candice, who might lead to Tommy Telford.

`You could say I'm here as your conscience, Inspector.’

Levy winced again. `No, I didn't put that right, either. You already have a conscience, that's not under debate.’

He sighed. `The question you've no doubt been pondering is the same one I've asked myself on occasions: can time wash away responsibility? For me, the answer would have to be no. The thing is this, Inspector.’

Levy leaned forward. `You are not investigating the crimes of an old man, but those of a young man who now happens to be old. Focus your mind on that. There have been investigations before, halfhearted affairs. Governments wait for these men to die rather than have to try them. But each investigation is an act of remembrance, and remembrance is never wasted. Remembrance is the only way we learn.’

`Like we've learned with Bosnia?’

`You're right, Inspector, as a race we've always been slow to take in lessons. Sometimes they have to be hammered home.’

`And you think I'm your carpenter? Were there Jews in Villefranche?’

Rebus couldn't remember reading of any.

`Does it matter?’

`I'm just wondering, why the interest?’

`To be honest, Inspector, there is a slight ulterior motive.’

Levy sipped coffee, considering his words. `The Rat Line. We'd like to show that it existed, that it operated to save Nazis from possible tormentors.’

He paused. `That it worked with the tacit approval the more than tacit approval – of several western governments and even the Vatican. It's a question of general complicity.’

`What you want is for everyone to feel guilty?’

`We want recognition, Inspector. We want the truth. Isn't that what you want? Matthew Vanderhyde would have me believe it is your guiding principle.’

`He doesn't know me very well.’

`I wouldn't be so sure of that. Meantime, there are people out there who want the truth to stay hidden.’

`The truth being…?’

'That known war criminals were brought back to Britain – and elsewhere – and offered new lives, new identities.’

`In exchange for what?’

`The Cold War was starting, Inspector. You know the old saying: My enemy's enemy is my friend. These murderers were protected by the secret services. Military Intelligence offered them jobs. There are people who would rather this did not become general knowledge.’