'DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,' Clarke said.

`And Inspector Rebus isn't,' Groal observed. `Fascinating.’

`I'm at St Leonard 's.’

`Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad…’

`We just want to know what happened,' Rebus went on.

`A fall of some kind, wasn't it? How is he, by the way?’

`Nice of you to show concern,' Claverhouse muttered.

`He's unconscious,' Clarke said.

`And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I'm not very up on the procedures.’

`You could always ask a nurse,' Claverhouse said.

`DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’

`Just his normal tone,' Rebus said. `Look, you're here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We're here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that's a pretty fair summary, don't you?’

Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. `I've heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I'm pleased to say, in your case.’

`He's a living legend,' Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A amp;E.

There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard 's. He'd been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him `The Professor'. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.

`Science fiction,' he explained. `Always thought I'd grow out of it.’

`There are a lot of things we don't grow out of, son. What's it about?’

`The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’

Redpath looked up. `What do you think, of parallel universes, sir?’

Rebus nodded towards the door. `Who's in there?’

`Hit and run.’

`Bad?.’

The Professor shrugged. `Where did it happen?’

`Top of Minto Street.’

`Did you get the car?’

Redpath shook his head. `Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’

`Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’

Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.

` Telford doesn't want Danny talking,' she said to Rebus.

`Obviously.’

`And meantime he'll want to even the score.’

`Definitely.’

She caught Rebus's eyes. `I thought he was a bit out of order back there.’

Meaning Claverhouse, but not wanting to name names in front of a uniform.

Rebus nodded. `Thanks.’

Meaning: you did right not to say as much at the time. Claverhouse and Clarke were partners now. It wouldn't do for her to upset him.

A door slid open and a doctor appeared. She was young, and looked exhausted. Behind her in the room, Rebus could see a bed, a figure on the bed, staff milling around the various machines. Then the door slid closed.

`We're going to do a brain scan,' the doctor was telling Redpath. `Have you contacted her family?’

`I don't have a name.’

`Her effects are inside.’

The doctor slid open the door again and walked in. There was clothing folded on a chair, a bag beneath it. As the doctor pulled out the bag, Rebus saw something. A flat white cardboard box.

A white cardboard pizza box. Clothes: black denims, black bra, red satin shirt. A black duffel-coat.

`John?’

And black shoes with two-inch heels, square-toed, new-looking except for the scuff marks, like they'd been dragged along the road.

He was in the room now. They had a mask over her face, feeding her oxygen. Her forehead was cut and bruised, the hair pushed away from it. Her fingers were blistered, the palms scraped raw. The bed she lay on wasn't really a bed but a wide steel trolley.

`Excuse me, sir, you shouldn't be in here.’

`What's wrong?’

`It's this gentleman -' `John? John, what is it?’

Her earrings had been removed. Three tiny pin-pricks, one of them redder than its neighbours. The face above the sheet: puffy blackened eyes, a broken nose, abrasions on both cheeks. Split lip, a graze on the chin, eyelids which didn't even flutter. He saw a hit and run victim. And beneath it all, he saw his daughter.

And he screamed.

Clarke and Redpath had to drag him out, helped by Claverhouse who'd heard the noise.

`Leave the door open! I'll kill you if you close that door!' They tried to sit him down. Redpath rescued his book from the chair. Rebus tore it from him and threw it down the hall.

`How could you read a fucking book?’ he spat. `That's Sammy in there! And you're out here reading a book!' Clarke's cup of coffee had been kicked over, the floor slippy, Redpath going down as Rebus pushed at him.

`Can you jam that door open?’ Claverhouse was asking the doctor. `And what about a sedative?’

Rebus was clawing his hands through his hair, bawling dry-eyed, his voice hoarse and uncomprehending. Staring down at himself, he saw the ludicrous t-shirt and knew that's what he'd take away from this night: the image of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and its grinning bright-eyed demon. He hauled off his jacket and started tearing at the shirt.

She was behind that door, he thought, and I was out here chatting as casual as you like. She'd been in there all the time he'd been here. Two things clicked: a hit and run; the car speeding away from Flint Street.

He grabbed at Redpath. `Top of Minto Street. You're sure?’

`What?’

'Sammy… top of Minto Street?’

Redpath nodded. Clarke knew straight away what Rebus was thinking.

`I don't think so, John. They were headed the opposite way.’

`Could have doubled back.’

Claverhouse had caught some of the exchange. `I just got off the phone. The guys who did Danny Simpson, we picked up the car. White Escort abandoned in Argyle Place.’

Rebus looked at Redpath. `White Escort?’

Redpath was shaking his head. `Witnesses say dark-coloured.’

Rebus turned to the wall, stood there with his palms pressed to it. Staring at the paintwork, it was like he could see inside the paint.

Claverhouse put a hand on his shoulder. `John, I'm sure she's going to be fine. The doctor's gone to fetch you a couple of tablets, but meantime what about one of these?’

Claverhouse with Rebus's jacket folded in the crook of his arm, the quarter-bottle in his hand.

The little suicide bomb.

He took the bottle from Claverhouse. Unscrewed its top, his eyes on the open doorway. Lifted the bottle to his lips.

Drank.