He spoke like the old man he was, a little tired, a little defeated.

`This is the worst year of my life.’

He stared down at the border he'd been tending. The earth, newly turned, looked dark and rich, like crumbs of chocolate cake. A few worms and wood lice had been disturbed and were still looking for their old homes. `And it's going to get worse, isn't it?’

Rebus shrugged. His feet were cold, the damp seeping in through his shoes. He was standing on the rough roadway, Lintz six inches above him on the grass. And still Lintz didn't reach his height. A little old man: that's what he was. And Rebus could study him, talk with him, go to his home and see what few photographs remained according to Lintz – from the old days.

`What did you mean back there?’ he said. `What was it you said? Something about what I was capable of?’

Rebus stared at him. `It's okay, the dog just showed me.’

`Showed you what?’

`What you're like with the enemy.’

Lintz smiled. `I don't like dogs, it's true. Don't read too much into it, Inspector. That's the journalists' job.’

`Your life would be easier without dogs, wouldn't it?’

Lintz shrugged. `Of course.’

`And easier without me, too?’

Lintz frowned. `If it weren't you, it would be someone else, a boor like your Inspector Abernethy.’

`What do you think he was telling you?’

Lintz blinked. `I'm not sure. Someone else came to see me. A man called Levy. I refused to talk to him – one privilege still open to me.’

Rebus shuffled his feet, trying to get some warmth into them. `I have a daughter, did I ever tell you that?’

Lintz looked baffled. `You might have mentioned it.’

`You know I have a daughter?’

`Yes… I mean, I think I knew before today.’

`Well, Mr Lintz, the night before last, someone tried to kill her, or at least do her some serious damage. She's in hospital, still unconscious. And that bothers me.’

`I'm so sorry. How did it…? I mean, how do you…?’

'I think maybe someone was trying to send me a message.’

Lintz's eyes widened. `And you believe me capable of such a thing? My God, I thought we had come to understand one another, at least a little.’

Rebus was wondering. He was wondering how easy it would be to put on an act, when you'd spent half a century practising. He was wondering how easy it would be to steel yourself to killing an innocent… or at least ordering their death. All it took was an order. A few words to someone else who would carry out your bidding. Maybe Lintz had it in him. Maybe it wouldn't be any more difficult than it had been for Josef Linzstek.

`Something you should know,' Rebus said. `Threats don't scare me off. Quite the opposite.’

`It's good that you are so strong.’

Rebus looked for meaning behind the words. `I'm on my way home. Can I offer you some tea?’

Rebus drove, and then sat in the drawing-room while Lintz busied himself in the kitchen. Started flicking through a pile of books on a desk.

`Ancient History, Inspector,' Lintz said, bringing in the tray – he always refused offers of help. `Another hobby of mine. I'm fascinated by that intersection at which history and fiction meet.’

The books were all about Babylonia. `Babylon is an historical fact, you see, but what about the Tower of Babel?’

`A song by Elton John?’ Rebus offered.

`Always making jokes.’ Lintz looked up. `What is it you're afraid of?’

Rebus took one of the cups. `I've heard of the Gardens of Babylon,' he admitted, putting the book down. `What other hobbies do you have?’

`Astrology, hauntings, the unknown.’

`Have you ever been haunted?’

Lintz seemed amused. `No.’

`Would you like to be?’

`By seven hundred French villagers? No, Inspector, I wouldn't like that at all. It was astrology that first brought me to the Chaldeans. They came from Babylonia. Have you ever heard of Babylonian numbers…?’

Lintz had a way of turning conversations in directions he wanted them to take. Rebus wasn't going to be deflected this time. He waited till Lintz had the cup to his lips.

`Did you try to kill my daughter?’

Lintz paused, then sipped, swallowed.

`No, Inspector,' he said quietly.

Which left Telford, Tarawicz and Cafferty. Rebus thought of Telford, surrounded by his Family but wanting to play with the big boys. How different was a gang war from any other kind? You had soldiers, and orders given to them. They had to prove themselves, or lose face, show themselves cowards. Shoot a civilian, run down a pedestrian. Rebus realised that he didn't want the driver as such he wanted the person who'd driven them to do it. Lintz's defence of Linzstek was that the young lieutenant had been under orders, that war itself was the real culprit, as though humans had no say in the matter…

`Inspector,' the old man was saying, `do you think I'm Linzstek?’

Rebus nodded. `I know you are.’

A wry smile. `Then arrest me.’

`Here comes the blue-nose,' Father Conor Leary said. `Out to steal Ireland's God-given Guinness.’

He paused, eyes narrowing. `Or are you still on that abstention kick?’

`I'm trying,' Rebus said.

`Well, I won't tempt you then.’

Leary smiled. `But you know me, John. I'm not one to judge, but a wee drop never harmed a soul.’

`Problem is, you put lots of wee drops together and you get a bloody big fall.’

Father Leary laughed. `But aren't we all the fallen? Come away in.’

Father Leary was priest of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Years back, someone had defaced the board outside to turn `Help' into `Hell'. The board had been corrected many times, but Rebus always thought of the place as `Perpetual Hell': it was what the followers of Knox and Calvin would have believed. Father Leary took him through to the kitchen.

`Here, man, sit yourself down. I haven't seen you in so long, I thought you'd renounced me.’

He went to the fridge and lifted out a can of Guinness.

`Are you operating a pharmacy on the side?’

Rebus asked. Father Leary looked at him. Rebus nodded towards the fridge. `The shelves of medicine.’

Father Leary rolled his eyes. `At my age, you go to the doctor with angina and they dose you for every conceivable ailment. They think it makes old folk feel better.’

He brought a glass to the table, placed it next to his can. Rebus felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

`I'm hellish sorry about Sammy.’

`How did you hear?’

`Her name was in one of the rags this morning.’

Father Leary sat down. `Hit and run, they said.’

`Hit and run,' Rebus echoed.

Father Leary shook his head wearily, one hand rubbing slowly over his chest. He was probably in his late-sixties, though he'd never said Well-built, with a thatch of silver hair. Tufts of grey sprouted from his ears, nose and dog-collar. His hand seemed to smother the can of Guinness. But when he poured, he poured gently, almost with reverence.

`It's a terrible thing,' he said quietly. `Coma, is it?’

`Not until the doctors say so.’ Rebus cleared his throat. `It's only been a day and a half.’

`You know what we believers say,' Father Leary went on. `When something like this happens, it's a test for all of us. It's a way of making us stronger.’

The head on his Guinness was perfect. He took a swallow, licked his lips thoughtfully. `That's what we say; it may not be what we think.’

He looked into his drink.

`It didn't make me strong. I went back to the whisky.’

`I can understand that.’

`Until a friend reminded me it was the lazy way out, the cowardly way.) 'And who's to say he's not right?’

`"Faint-Heart and the Sermon",' Rebus said with a smile.

`What's that?’

`A song. But maybe it's us, too.’

`Get away, we're just two old boys having a natter. So how are you holding up, John?’