Part of him could well believe in the existence of a Rat Line.

The book Levy had given him went into the mechanics of how such an operation might have worked. Rebus wondered: was it really possible to disappear completely, to change identity? And again, the recurring question: did any of it matter? There did exist sources of identification, and there had been court cases – Eichmann, Barbie, Demjanjuk with others ongoing. He read about war criminals who, rather than being tried or extradited, were allowed to return home, running businesses, growing rich, dying of old age. But he also read of criminals who served their sentences and became `good people', people who had changed. These men said war itself was the real culprit. Rebus recalled one of his first conversations with Joseph Lintz, in the drawing-room of Lintz's home. The old man's voice was hoarse, a scarf around his throat.

`At my age, Inspector, a simple throat infection can feel like death.’

There didn't seem to be many photographs around. Lintz had explained that a lot had gone missing during the war.

`Along with other mementoes. I do have these photos though.’

He'd shown Rebus half a dozen framed shots, dating back to the 1930s. As he'd explained who the subjects were, Rebus had suddenly thought: what if he's making it up? What if these are just a bunch of old photos he picked up somewhere and had framed? And the names, the identities he now gave to the faces – had he invented them? He'd seen in that instant, for the first time, how easy it might be to construct another life.

And then, later in their conversation that day, Lintz, sipping honeyed tea, had started discussing Villefranche.

`I've been thinking a lot about it, Inspector, as you might imagine. This Lieutenant Linzstek, he was in charge on the day?’

`Yes.’

`But presumably under orders from above. A lieutenant is not so very far up the pecking order.’

`Perhaps.’

`You see, if a soldier is under orders… then they must carry out those orders, no?’

`Even if the order is insane?’

`Nevertheless, I'd say the person was at the very least coerced into committing the crime, and a crime that very many of us would have carried out under similar circumstances. Can't you see the hypocrisy of trying someone, when you'd probably have done the same thing yourself? One soldier standing out from the crowd… saying no to the massacre: would you have made that stand yourself?’

'I hope so.’

Rebus thinking back to Ulster and the `Mean Machine'…

Levy's book didn't prove anything. All Rebus knew was that Josef Linzstek's name was on a list as having used the Rat Line, posing as a Pole. But where had the list originated? In Israel. Again, it was highly speculative. It wasn't proof.

And if Rebus's instincts told him Lintz and Linzstek were one and the same, they were still failing to tell him whether it mattered.

He dropped the book back to the Roxburghe, asked the receptionist to see that Mr Levy got it.

`I think he's in his room, if you'd like to…’

Rebus shook his head. He hadn't left any message with the book, knowing Levy might interpret this as a message in itself. He went home for his car, drove down to Haymarket and along to Shandon. As usual, parking near Sammy's flat was a problem. Everyone was home from work and tucked in front of their televisions. He climbed the stone steps, wondering how treacherous they'd get when the frosts came, and rang the bell. Sammy herself led him into the living room, where Candice was watching a game show.

`Hello, John,' she said. `Are you my wonderwall?’

`I'm nobody's wonderwall, Candice.’

He turned to Sammy. `Everything all right?’

`Just fine.’

At that moment, Ned Farlowe walked in from the kitchen. He was eating soup from a bowl, dunking a folded slice of brown bread into it.

`Mind if I have a word?’ Rebus said.

Farlowe shook his head, then jerked it in the direction of the kitchen.

`Can I eat while we talk? I'm starving.’

He sat down at the foldaway table, got another slice of bread from the packet and spread margarine on it. Sammy put her head round the doorway, saw the look on her father's face, and made a tactical retreat. The kitchen was about seven foot square and too full of pots and appliances. Swinging a cat, you could have done a lot of damage.

`I saw you today,' Rebus said, `skulking in Warriston Cemetery. Coincidence?’

`What do you think?’

`I'm asking you.’

Rebus leaned his back against the sink unit, folded his arms.

'I'm watching Lintz.’

'Why?’

`Because I'm being paid to.’

`By a newspaper?’

'Lintz's lawyer has interim interdicts flying around. Nobody can afford to be seen near him.’

`But they still want him watched?’

`If there's a court case coming, they want to know as much as possible, stands to reason.’

By court case, Farlowe didn't mean any trial of Lintz, but rather of the newspapers themselves, for libel.

`If he catches you…’

`He doesn't know me from Adam. Besides, there'd always be somebody to take my place. Now do I get to ask a question?’

`Let me say something first. You know I'm investigating Lintz?’

Farlowe nodded. `That means we're too close. If you find out anything, people might think it came from me.’

`I haven't told Sammy what I'm doing, specifically so there's no conflict of interests.’

`I'm just saying others might not believe it.’

`A few more days, I'll have enough money to fund the book for another month.’

Farlowe had finished his soup. He carried the empty bowl over to the sink, stood next to Rebus.

`I don't want this to be a problem, but the bottom line is: what can you do about it?’

Rebus stared at him. His instinct was to stuff Farlowe's head into the sink, but how would that look with Sammy? `Now,' Farlowe said, `do I get to ask my question?’

`What is it?’

`Who's Candice?’

`A friend of mine.’

`So what's wrong with your flat?’

Rebus realised he was no longer dealing with his daughter's boyfriend. He was confronted with a journalist, someone with a nose for a story.

`Tell you what,' said Rebus, `say I didn't see you in the cemetery. Say we didn't just have this little chat.’

`And I don't ask about Candice?’

Rebus stayed quiet. Farlowe considered the deal. `Say I get to ask you a few questions for my book.’

`What sort of questions?’

`About Cafferty.’

Rebus shook his head. `I could talk about Tommy Telford though.’

`When?’

`When we've got him behind bars.’

Farlowe smiled. `I could be on the pension by then.’

He waited, saw Rebus was going to give him nothing.

`She's only here till tomorrow anyway,' Rebus said.

`Where's she off to?’

Rebus just winked. Left the kitchen, returned to the living-room. Talked to Sammy while Candice's game show reached its climax. Whenever she heard audience laughter, she joined in. Rebus made arrangements for the following day, then left. There was no sign of Farlowe. He'd either hidden himself in the bedroom or else gone back out. It took Rebus a few moments to remember where he'd parked his car. He drove home carefully; stopped for all the lights. The parking spaces were all taken in Arden Street. He left the Saab on a yellow line. As he approached his tenement door, he heard a car door open and spun towards the sound.

It was Claverhouse. He was on his own. `Mind if I come in?’

Rebus thought of a dozen reasons for saying yes. But he shrugged and made for the door. `Any news of the stabbing at Megan's?’ he asked.

`How did you know we'd be interested?’

`A bouncer gets stabbed, the attacker flees on a waiting motorbike. It was premeditated. And the majority of the bouncers work for Tommy Telford.’

They were climbing the stairs. Rebus's flat was on the second floor.