'Makes sense to me,' was all Rebus had said, getting in the drinks. He thought he knew the way Macrae would be thinking.

Less to this than meets the eye… That was the way Siobhan said he had put it. But it would keep Rebus occupied until retirement day, after which Siobhan would be persuaded to return to route one: a mugging gone wrong.

'Makes sense to me,' he repeated now, heading down a rat run.

Ten minutes later, he was parking at Gayfield Square. No sign of Siobhan's car. He went upstairs and found Hawes and Tibbet seated together at the same desk, staring at the mute telephone.

'No joy?' Rebus guessed.

'Eleven calls so far,' Hawes said, tapping the notepad in front of her. 'One driver who exited the car park at nine fifteen on the night in question and therefore had nothing at all to tell us but wanted to chat anyway.' She glanced up at Rebus. 'He enjoys hill-walking and jogging, if you're interested.' Without bothering to look, she could sense Tibbet grinning beside her, and gave him an elbow in the ribs.

'He was on the phone to Phyl for half an hour,' Tibbet added after stifling a grunt.

'Who else have we got?' Rebus asked.

'Anonymous cranks and practical jokers,' Hawes replied. 'And one guy we're hoping will call back. He started talking about a woman hanging around on the street, but the line went dead before I could get any details.'

'Probably just saw Nancy Sievewright,' Rebus cautioned. But he was thinking: why would Nancy be 'hanging around'? 'I've got a job for the pair of you,' he said, reaching for Hawes's notepad and finding a clean sheet. He jotted down the details of Nancy 's 'friend'

Gill Morgan. 'Go see if this checks out. Sievewright reckons she was on her way home from Great Stuart Street. Even if there's someone by that name living at the address, give them a bit of a grilling.'

Hawes stared at the page. 'You think she's lying?'

'Seemed to have trouble remembering. But she'll probably have primed this pal of hers.'

'I can usually tell when someone's spinning me a line,' Tibbet stated.

'That's because you're a good cop, Colin,' Rebus told him. Tibbet puffed out his chest a little, which Hawes noticed with a laugh.

Tou've just been spun a line,' she pointed out to her partner.

Then, rising to her feet: 'Let's go.' Tibbet followed her sheepishly, pausing in the doorway.

Tfou okay manning the phones?' he asked Rebus.

'It rings, and I pick it up… does that about cover it?'

Tibbet was trying not to scowl as Hawes returned to fetch him.

'By the way,' she said to Rebus, 'if you get bored you can watch the telly – we got hold of that video Siobhan wanted.'

Rebus noticed it lying on the desk. It was marked with the words 'Question Time'.

Tou might learn something,' was the parting shot from the doorway, made by Tibbet rather than Hawes. Rebus was quietly impressed.

'We'll make a man of you yet, Colin,' he muttered under his breath, reaching out to pick up the tape.

Charles Riordan wasn't at the studio. The receptionist told them he was spending the morning at home and, when asked, provided them with an address in Joppa. It was a fifteen-minute drive away, and took them past the flat grey waters of the Firth of Forth. At one point, Goodyear tapped the side window.

'Cat and dog home back there,' he said. 'I went once, thinking I'd get a pet. In the end, I couldn't choose… told myself I'd go back some day.'

'I've never had a pet,' Clarke said. 'Find it hard enough taking care of myself.'

He laughed at that. 'Any boyfriends?'

'One or two down the years.'

He laughed again. 'I meant just now.'

She took her eyes off the road long enough to give him a look.

Tfou're trying too hard, Todd.'

'Just nervous.'

'That why you're asking so many questions?'

'No, not at all. I'm just… well, I suppose I'm interested.'

'In me?'

'In everybody.' He paused. 'I think we're put here for a purpose.

Never find out what it is if you don't ask questions.'

'And your “purpose” is to pry into my love life?'

He gave a little cough, face reddening. 'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Back in the cafe, you talked about God's purpose – is this where you tell me you're religious?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I am. Is there anything wrong with that?'

'Nothing at all. DI Rebus used to be, too, and I've managed to cope with him all these years.'

'Used to be?'

'In that he went to church…' She thought for a moment. 'Actually, he went to dozens of them, a different one every week.'

'Looking for something he couldn't find,' Goodyear guessed.

'He'd probably kill me for telling you,' Clarke warned.

'But you're not religious yourself, DS Clarke?'

'Lord, no,' she said with a smile. 'Hard to be, in this line of work.'

Tou reckon?'

'All the stuff we deal with… people gone bad, hurting themselves and others.' She gave him another glance. 'Isn't God supposed to have made us in his or her image?'

'An argument that might take us the rest of the day.'

'Instead of which, I'll ask if you've got a girlfriend.'

He nodded. 'Her name's Sonia, works as a SOCO.'

'And what did the two of you get up to at the weekend – apart from church, obviously?'

'She had a hen party Saturday, I didn't see much of her. Sonia's not a churchgoer…'

'And how's your brother doing?'

'Okay, I think.'

Tou mean you don't know?'

'He's out of hospital.'

'I thought you said it was a punch-up?'

'There was a knife…'

'His or the other guy's?'

'The other guy's, hence Sol's stitches.'

Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. Tou said your mum and dad fell apart when your grandad went to jail…'

Goodyear leaned back into his seat. 'Mum started on medication.

Dad walked out soon after and hit the bottle harder than ever. There were days I'd bump into him outside the shops and he wouldn't even recognise me.'

'Tough on a young kid.'

'Sol and me mostly stayed with our Aunt Susan, Mum's sister.

House wasn't really big enough, but she never complained. I started going with her to church on Sundays. Sometimes she was so tired, she nodded off in the pew. Used to have a bag of sweets with her, and this one time they slid from her lap and started rolling across the floor.' He smiled at the memory. 'Anyway, that's about all there is to it.'

'Just as well – we're nearly there.' They were heading down Portobello High Street and – a first for Clarke – without being held up by roadworks. Two more minutes and they were turning off Joppa Road and cruising a street of terraced Victorian houses.

'Number eighteen,' Goodyear said, spotting it first. Plenty of kerbside parking – Clarke reckoned most people had taken their cars to work. She pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition.

Goodyear was already striding down the path.

'All I need,' she muttered to herself, undoing her seatbelt, 'is a bloody holy-roller…' Not that she meant it: as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew where she'd got them – or at least their sentiment.

John Rebus.

She'd only just reached Goodyear as the door opened, Charles Riordan looking surprised to be face-to-face with a police uniform.

He recognised Clarke however and ushered the two officers inside.

The hallway was lined with bookshelves but no books. Instead, all the available space was taken up with old-fashioned reels of tape and boxes of cassettes.

'Come in if you can get in,' was Riordan's comment. He led them into what should have been the living room but had been fitted out as a studio, complete with acoustic baffling stapled to the walls and a mixing-desk surrounded by more cartons of cassettes, minidiscs and reel-to-reels. Cables snaked underfoot, microphones lay in the dust, and the curtains covering the only window looked half an inch thick.