Burglary with violent assault: just the thing for a dreich Thursday morning. The victim was in hospital, head bandaged and face bruised. Rebus had been to talk with her, and was at the house in Jock's Lodge, overseeing the dusting for prints and the taking of statements, when word reached him from Great London Road. The call came from Brian Holmes.

'Yes, Brian?'

'There's been another drowning.'

'Drowning?'

'Another body in the river.'

'Oh Christ. Whereabouts this time?'

'Out of town, up towards Queensferry. Another woman. She was found this morning by someone out for a walk.' He paused while someone handed him something. Rebus heard a muted 'thanks' as the person moved away. 'It could be our Mr Glass, couldn't it?' Holmes said now, pausing again to slurp coffee. 'We expected him to stick around the city, but he could as easily have headed north. Queensferry's an easy walk, and mostly across open land, well away from roads where he might be spotted. If I was on the run, that's the way I'd do it…'

Yes, Rebus knew that country. Hadn't he been out there just the other day? Quiet back roads, no traffic, nobody to notice… Hang on, there was a stream – no, more a river -running past the Kinnouls' house.

'Brian…" he started.

'And that's another thing,' Holmes interrupted. 'The woman who found the body… guess who it was?'

'Cathy Gow,' Rebus said casually.

Holmes seemed puzzled, 'Who? Anyway, no, it was Rab Kinnoul's wife. You know, Rab Kinnoul… the actor. Who's this Cathy Gow…?'

It was uphill from the Kinnoul house, and along the side of the hill, too. Not too far a walk, but the country grew if anything bleaker still. Fifty yards from the fast-flowing river there was a narrow road, leading eventually to a wider road which meandered down to the coast. For someone to get here, they either had to walk past the Kinnoul house, or else walk down from the road.

'No sign of a car?' Rebus asked Holmes. Both men had zippered their jackets against the snell wind and the occasional smirr.

'Any car in particular?' Holmes asked. 'The road's tarmac. I've had a look for myself. No tyre tracks.'

'Where does it lead?'

'It peters out into a farm track, then, surprise surprise, a farm.' Holmes was moving his weight from one foot to the other, trying in vain to keep warm.

'Better check at the farm and see -'

'Someone's up there doing precisely that.'

Rebus nodded. Holmes knew this routine well enough by now: he would do something, and Rebus would double check that it had been done.

'And Mrs Kinnoul?'

'She's in the house with a WPC, drinking sweet tea.'

'Don't let her take too many downers. We'll need a statement.'

Holmes was lost, until Rebus explained about his previous visit here. 'What about Mr Kinnoul?'

'He went off somewhere this morning early. That's why Mrs Kinnoul went for a walk. She said she always went for a walk in the morning when she was on her own.'

'Do we know where he's gone?'

Holmes shrugged. 'Just on business, that's all she could tell us. Couldn't say where or how long he'd be. But he should be back this evening, according to Mrs Kinnoul.'

Rebus nodded again. They were standing above the river, near the roadway. The others were down by the river itself. It was in spate after the recent rain. Just about wide enough and deep enough to be classed a river rather than a stream. The 'others' included police officers, dressed in waders and plunging their arms into the icy water, feeling for evidence which would long have been flushed away, forensics men, hovering above the body, the Identification Unit, similarly hovering but armed with cameras and video equipment, and Dr Curt, dressed in a long flapping raincoat, its collar turned up. He trudged towards Rebus and Holmes, reciting as he came. 'When shall we three meet again… blasted heath et cetera. Good morning, Inspector.' 'Morning, Doctor Curt. What have you got for us?' Curt removed his glasses and wiped spots of water from them. 'Double pneumonia, I shouldn't wonder,' he answered, replacing them.

'Accident, suicide, or murder?' asked Rebus. Curt tut-tutted him, shaking his head sadly. 'You know I can't make snap decisions, Inspector. Granted, this poor woman hasn't been in the water as long as the previous one, but all the same…'

'How long?'

'A day at most. But with the weight of water and all… debris and so on… she's taken a bit of a battering. Lucky she was found at all, really.'

'How do you mean?'

'Didn't the sergeant say? Her wrist caught in a dead branch. Otherwise, she'd almost certainly have been swept down into the river and out into the sea.'

Rebus thought about the direction the river would take, bypassing the only settlements… yes, a body falling into the stream here might well have disappeared without trace…

'Any idea who she is?'

'No identification on the body. Plenty of rings on her fingers though, and she's wearing quite a nice dress, too. Care to take a look?'

'Why not, eh? Come on, Brian.'

But Holmes stood his ground. 'I had a look earlier, sir. Don't let me stop you though…'

So Rebus followed the pathologist down the slope. He was thinking: difficult to bring a body down here… but you could always roll it from the top… yes, roll it… hear the splash and assume it had fallen into the river,… you might not know the wrist had caught in a branch. But to get a body up here in the first place – dead or alive – surely you'd need a car. Was William Glass capable of stealing a car? Why not, everyone else seemed to know how to do it these days. Kids in primary school could show you how to do it…

'Like I say,' Curt was saying, 'she's been bashed about a bit… can't tell yet whether post- or ante-mortem. Oh, about that other drowning at Dean Bridge…'

'Yes?'

'Recent sexual intercourse. Traces of semen in the vagina. We should be able to get a DNA profile. Ah, here we go…'

The body had been laid out on a plastic sheet. Yes, it was a nice dress, distinctive, summery, though torn now and smeared with mud. The face was muddy, too… and cut… and swollen… the hair drawn back and part of the skull exposed. Rebus swallowed hard. Had he been expecting this? He wasn't sure. But the photographs he'd seen made him sure in his mind,

'I know her,' he said.

'What?' Even the forensics men looked up at him in disbelief. The tableau must have alerted Brian Holmes, for he came stumbling down the slope to join them.

'I said I know her. At least, I think I do. No, I'm sure I do. Her name is Elizabeth Jack. Her friends call her Liz or Lizzie. She's… she was married to Gregor Jack MP.'

'Good God,' said Dr Curt. Rebus looked at Holmes, and Holmes stared back at him, and neither seemed to know what to say.

There was more to identification than that, of course. Much more. Death was certainly suspicious, but this had to be decided officially by the gentleman from the Procurator Fiscal's office, the gentleman who now stood talking with Dr Curt, nodding his head gravely while Curt made hand gestures which would not have disgraced an excited Italian. He was explaining – explaining tirelessly, explaining for the thousandth time – about the movement of diatoms within the body, while his listener grew paler still.

The Identification Unit was still busy shooting off photographs and some video film, wiping their camera lenses every thirty seconds or so. The rain had, if anything, grown heavier, the sky an unbroken shading of grey-black. An autopsy was needed, agreed the Procurator Fiscal. The body would be transported to the mortuary in Edinburgh 's Cowgate, and there formal identification would take place, involving two people who knew the deceased in life, and two police officers who had known her in death. If it turned out not to be Elizabeth Jack, Rebus was in a dung-pile of trouble. Watching the body being taken away, Rebus allowed himself a muffled sneeze. Perhaps Dr Curt's diagnosis of pneumonia was right. He knew where he was headed: the Kinnoul house. With luck, he might find hot tea there. The forensics team squeezed wetly into their car and headed back to police headquarters at Fettes.