`Religious belief is no defence, you see. Look at Bosnia, plenty of Catholics involved in the fighting, plenty of good Muslims, too. "Good" in that they are believers. And what they believe is that their faith gives them the right to kill.’

Bosnia: Rebus saw a sharp image of Candice escaping the terror, only to end up more terrified still, and more trapped than ever.

Lintz was stuffing the large white handkerchief into the pocket of his baggy brown cord trousers. In the outfit – green rubber overshoes, green woollen jersey, tweed jacket – he did look like a gardener. Little wonder he attracted so little attention in the cemetery. He blended in. Rebus wondered how artful it was, how deeply he'd learned the skill of invisibility. – `You look impatient, Inspector Abernethy. You're not a man for theories, am I right?’

`I wouldn't know about that, sir.’

`In that case, you must not know very much. Now Inspector Rebus, he listens to what I have to say. More than that, he looks interested. Whether he is or not, I can't judge, but his performance if performance it be – is exemplary.’

Lintz always spoke like this, like he'd been rehearsing each line. `Last time he visited my home, we discussed human duality. Would you have any opinion on that, Inspector Abernethy?’

The look on Abernethy's face was cold. `No, sir.’

Lintz shrugged: case against the Londoner proven. `Atrocities, Inspector, occur by an effort of the collective will.’

Spelling it out; sounding like the lecturer he had once been. `Because sometimes all it takes to turn us into devils is the fear of being an outsider.’

Abernethy sniffed, hands in pockets. `Sounds like you're justifying war crimes, sir. Sounds to me like you might even have been there yourself.’

`Do I need to be a spaceman to imagine Mars?’

He turned to Rebus, gave him the fraction of a smile.

`Well, maybe I'm just a bit too simple, sir,' Abernethy said. `I'm also a bit parky. Let's walk back to the car and carry on our discussion there, all right?’

While Lintz packed his few small tools into a canvas bag, Rebus looked around, saw movement in the distance, between headstones. The crouched figure of a man. Split-second glimpse of a face he recognised.

`What is it?’

Abernethy asked.

Rebus shook his head. `Nothing.’

The three men walked in silence back to the Saab. Rebus opened the back door for Lintz. To his surprise, Abernethy got into the back, too. Rebus took the driver's seat, felt warmth returning slowly to his toes. Abernethy had his arm along the back of the seat, his body twisted towards Lintz.

`Now, Herr Lintz, my role in all this is quite straightforward. I'm collating all the information on this latest outbreak of alleged old Nazis. You understand that with allegations such as these, very serious allegations, we have a duty to investigate?’

`Spurious allegations rather than "serious" ones.’

`In which case you've nothing to worry about.’

`Except my reputation.’

`When you're exonerated, we'll take care of that.’

Rebus was listening closely. None of this sounded like Abernethy. The hostile graveside tone had been replaced by something much more ambiguous.

`And meantime?’

Lintz seemed to be picking up whatever the Londoner was saying between the lines. Rebus felt deliberately excluded from the conversation, which was why Abernethy had got into the back seat in the first place. He'd placed a physical barrier between himself and the officer investigating Joseph Lintz. There was something going on.

`Meantime,' Abernethy said, `cooperate as fully as you can with my colleague. The sooner he's able to reach his conclusions, the sooner this will all be over.’

`The problem with conclusions is that they should be conclusive, and I have so little proof. This was wartime, Inspector Abernethy, a lot of records destroyed…’

`Without proof either way, there's no case to answer.’

Lintz was nodding. `I see,' he said.

Abernethy hadn't voiced anything Rebus himself didn't feel; the problem was, he'd voiced it to the suspect.

`It would help if your memory improved,' Rebus felt obliged to add.

`Well, Mr Lintz,' Abernethy was saying, `thanks for your time.’

His hand was on the elderly man's shoulder: protective, comforting. `Can we drop you somewhere?’

`I'll stay here a little longer,' Lintz said, opening the door and easing himself out. Abernethy handed the bag of tools to him.

`Take care now,' he said.

Lintz nodded, gave a small bow to Rebus, and shuffled back towards the gate. Abernethy climbed into the passenger seat.

`Rum little bugger, isn't he?’

`You as good as told him he was off the hook.’

'Bollocks,' Abernethy said. `I told him where he stands, let him know the score. That's all.’

He saw the look on Rebus's face. `Come on, do you really want to see him in court? An old professor who keeps cemeteries tidy?’

`It doesn't make it any easier if you sound like you're on his side.’

`Even supposing he did order that massacre – you think a trial and a couple of years in clink till he snuffs it is the answer? Better to just give them all a bloody good scare, stuff the trial, and save the taxpayer millions.’

`That's not our job,' Rebus said, starting the engine.

He took Abernethy back to Arden Street. They shook hands, Abernethy trying to sound like he wanted to stay a little longer.

`One of these days,' he said. And then he was gone. As his Sierra drew away, another car pulled into the space he'd just vacated. Siobhan Clarke got out, bringing with her a supermarket carrier bag.

`For you,' she said. `And I think I'm owed a coffee.’

She wasn't as fussy as Abernethy, accepted the mug of instant with thanks and ate a spare croissant. There was a message on the answering machine, Dr Colquhoun telling him the refugee family could take Candice tomorrow. Rebus jotted down the details, then turned his attention to the contents of Siobhan's carrier-bag. Maybe two hundred sheets of paper, photocopies.

`Don't get them out of order,' she warned. `I didn't have time to staple them.’

`Fast work.’

`I went back into the office last night. Thought I'd get it done while no one was about. I can summarise, if you like.’

`Just tell me who the main players are.’

She came to the table and pulled a chair over beside him, found a sequence of surveillance shots. Put names to the faces.

`Brian Summers,' she said, `better known as "Pretty-Boy". He runs most of the working girls.’

Pale, angular face, thick black lashes, a pouting mouth. Candice's pimp.

`He's not very pretty.’

Clarke found another picture. `Kenny Houston.’

`From Pretty-Boy to Plug-Ugly.’

`I'm sure his mother loves him.’

Prominent teeth, jaundiced skin. – `What does he do?’

`He runs the doormen. Kenny, Pretty-Boy and Tommy Telford grew up on the same street. They're at the heart of The Family.’

She sifted through more photos. `Malky Jordan… he keeps the drugs flowing. Sean Haddow… bit of a brainbox, runs the finances. Ally Cornwell… he's muscle. Deek McGrain… There's no religious divide in The Family, Prods and Papes working together.’

`A model society.’

`No women though. Telford 's philosophy: relationships get in the way.’

Rebus picked up a sheaf of paper. `So what have we got?’

`Everything but the evidence.’

`And surveillance is supposed to provide that?’

She smiled over the top of her mug. `You don't agree?’

`It's not my problem.’

`And yet you're interested.’

She paused. 'Candice?’

`I don't like what happened to her.’

`Well, just remember: you didn't get this stuff from me.’

`Thanks, Siobhan.’

He paused. `Everything going all right?’

`Fine. I like Crime Squad.’

`Bit livelier than St Leonard 's.’