`Well, you're right,' Claverhouse said. `Billy Tennant worked for Telford. He controlled the traffic in and out of Megan's.’

`Traffic as in dope?’

`The footballer's friend, the one who got wounded, he's a known dealer. Works out of Paisley.’

`Therefore connected to Telford, too.’

`We're speculating he was the target, Tennant just got in the way.’

`Leaving only one question: who was behind it?’

`Come on, John. It was Cafferty, obviously.’

`Not Cafferty's style,' Rebus said, unlocking his door.

`Maybe he's learned a thing or two from the Young Pretender.’

`Make yourself at home,' Rebus said, walking down the hall. The breakfast things were still on the dining table. Siobhan's bag of goodies was down the side of a chair.

`A guest.’

Claverhouse had noticed the two mugs, two plates. He looked around. `She's not here now though?’

`She wasn't here for breakfast either.’

`Because she's at your daughter's.’

Rebus froze.

`I went to settle up with the hotel. They said a police car had come and taken all her things away. So then I asked around, and the driver gave me Samantha's address as the drop-off.’

Claverhouse sat down on the sofa, crossed one leg over the other. `So what's the game, John, and how come you've seen fit to leave me on the bench?’

He sounded calm now, but Rebus could tell there'd been a storm.

`Do you want a drink?’

`I want an answer.’

`When she walked out… she waited beside my car. I couldn't think where to take her, so I brought her here. But she recognised the street. Telford had been watching my flat.’

Claverhouse looked interested. `Why?’

`Maybe because I know Cafferty. I couldn't let Candice stay here, so I took her to Sammy's.’

`Is she still there?’

Rebus nodded. `So what happens now?’

`There's a place she can go, the refugee family.’

`For how long?’

`What do you mean?’

Claverhouse sighed. `John, she's… the only life she's known here is prostitution.’

Rebus went over to the hi-fi for something to do, looked through his tapes. He needed to do something.

`What's she going to do for money? Are you going to provide? What does that make you?’

Rebus dropped a CD, turned on his heels. `Nothing like that,' he spat.

Claverhouse had his hands up, palms showing. `Come on, John, you know yourself there's -'

`I don't know anything.’

`John…’

`Look, get out, will you?’

It wasn't just that it had been a long day, more that it felt like the day would never end. He could feel the evening stretch to infinity, no rest available to him. In his head, bodies were swaying gently from trees while smoke engulfed a church. Telford was on his arcade motorbike, cannoning off spectators. Abernethy was touching an old man's shoulder. Soldiers were rifle-butting civilians. And John Rebus… John Rebus was in every frame, trying hard to remain an onlooker.

He put Van Morrison on the hi-fi: Hardnose the Highway. He'd played this music on East Neuk beaches and tenement stakeouts. It always seemed to heal him, or at least patch the wounds. When he turned back into the room, Claverhouse was gone. He looked out of his window. Two kids lived in the second-Moor flat across from his. He'd watched them often from this window, and they never once saw him, for the simple reason that they never so much as glanced outside. Their world was complete and all-absorbing, anything outside their window an irrelevance. They were in bed now, their mother closing the shutters. Quiet city. Abernethy was right about that. There were large chunks of Edinburgh where you could live your whole life and never encounter a spot of bother. Yet the murder rate in Scotland was double that of its southern neighbour, and half those murders took place in the two main cities.

Not that the statistics mattered. A death was a death. Something unique had disappeared from the world. One murder or several hundred… they all meant something to the survivors. Rebus thought of Villefranche's sole existing survivor. He hadn't met her, probably never would. Another reason it was hard to get passionate about a historical case. In a contemporary one, you had many of the facts to hand, and could talk to witnesses. You could gather forensic evidence, question people's stories. You could measure guilt and grief. You became part of the whole story. This was what interested Rebus. The people interested him; their stories fascinated him. When part of their lives, he could forget his own.

He noticed the answering-machine was flashing: one message.

`Oh, hello there. I'm… um, I don't know how to put this…’

Placed the voice: Kirstin Mede. She sighed. `Look, I can't do this any more. So please don't… I'm sorry, I just can't. There are other people who can help you. I'm sure one of them…’

End of message. Rebus stared down at the machine. He didn't blame her. I can't do this any more. That makes two of us, Rebus thought. The only thing was, he had to keep going. He sat down at his table and pulled the Villefranche paperwork towards him: lists of names and occupations, ages and dates of birth. Picat, Mesplede, Rousseau, Deschamps. Wine merchant, china painter, cartwright, housemaid. What did any of it mean to a middle-aged Scot? He pushed it aside and lifted Siobhan's paperwork on to the table.

Off with Van the Man; on with side one of Wish You Were Here. Scratched to hell. He remembered it had come in a black polythene wrapper. When opened, there'd been this smell, which afterwards he'd learned was supposed to be burning flesh…

`I need a drink,' he said to himself, sitting forward in his chair. `I want a drink. A few beers, maybe with whiskies attached.’

Something to smooth the edges…

He looked at his watch; not even near to closing time. Not that it mattered much in Edinburgh, the land that closing time forgot. Could he make it to the Ox before they shut up shop? Yes, too easily. It was nicer to have a challenge. Wait an hour or so and then repeat the debate.

Or call Jack Morton.

Or go out, right now.

The telephone rang. He picked it up.

`Hello?’

`John?’

Making it sound like `Sean'.

`Hello, Candice. What's up?’

'Up?’

`Is there a problem?’

`Problem, no. I just wanting… I say to you, see you tomorrow.’

He smiled. `Yes, see you tomorrow. You speak very good English.’

`I was chained to a razor blade.’

`What?’

`Line from song.’

`Oh, right. But you're not chained to it now?’

She didn't seem to understand. `I'm… uh…’

`It's okay, Candice. See you tomorrow.’

`Yes, see you.’

Rebus put down the receiver. Chained to a razor blade… Suddenly he didn't want a drink any more.

He picked Candice up the next afternoon. She had two carrier bags, her worldly belongings. She gave Sammy as much of a hug as her bandaged arms would allow.

`See you again, Candice,' Sammy said.

`Yes, see you. Thanks…’

Lost for an ending to the sentence, Candice opened her arms wide, bags swinging.

They stopped off at McDonald's (her choice) for something to eat. Zappa and the Mothers: `Cruising for Burgers'. The day was bright and crisp, just right for crossing the Forth Bridge. Rebus took it slowly, so Candice could take in the view. He was heading towards Fife's East Neuk, a cluster of fishing villages popular with artists and holidaymakers. Out of season, Lower Largo seemed practically deserted. Though Rebus had an address, he stopped to ask directions. Finally, he parked in front of a small terraced house. Candice stared at the red door until he gestured for her to follow him. He hadn't been able to make her understand what they were doing here. Hoped Mr and Mrs Petrec would make a better job of it.

The door was opened by a woman in her early-forties. She had long black hair, and peered at him over half-moon glasses. Then her attention shifted to Candice, and she said something in a language both women understood. Candice replied, looking a little shy, not sure what was going on.