Rebus showed it to Clarke, who shrugged.

'Looks like the same leather jacket,' Rebus commented. 'But he's got some sort of chain round his neck.'

'He was wearing it at the reading,' Simpson confirmed.

'And the guy you brought in tonight?'

'No chain – I had a quick look. Maybe they took it… whoever mugged him, I mean.'

'Or maybe it's not him. How long was Todorov staying in town?'

'He's here on some sort of scholarship. Hasn't lived in Russia for a while – calls himself an exile.'

Rebus was turning the pages of the book. It was called Astapovo Blues. The poems were in English and called things like 'Raskolnikov', 'Leonid', and 'Mind Gulag1. 'What does the title mean?' he asked Simpson.

'It's the place where Tolstoy died.'

The other attendant chuckled. 'Told you he had a brain on him.'

Rebus handed the book to Clarke, who flicked to the title page.

Todorov had written an inscription, telling 'Dear Chris' to 'keep the faith, as I have and have not'. 'What did he mean?' she asked.

'I said I was trying to be a poet. He told me that meant I already was. I think he's saying he kept faith with poetry, but not with Russia.' The young man was starting to blush.

'Where was this?' Rebus asked.

'The Scottish Poetry Library – just off the Canongate.'

'Was anyone with him? A wife maybe, or someone from the publisher?'

Simpson told them he couldn't be sure. 'He's famous, you know.

There was talk of the Nobel Prize.'

Clarke had closed the book. 'There's always the Russian consulate,'

she suggested. Rebus gave a slow nod. They could hear a car drawing up outside.

'That'll be at least one of them,' the other attendant said. 'Best get the lab ready, Lord Byron.'

Simpson had reached out a hand for his book, but Clarke waved it at him.

'Mind if I hang on to it, Mr Simpson? Promise I won't put it on eBay.'

The young man seemed reluctant, but was being prodded into action by his colleague. Clarke sealed the deal by slipping the book into her coat pocket. Rebus had turned to face the outer door, which was being hauled open by a puffy-eyed Professor Gates. Only a couple of steps behind him was Dr Curt – the two pathologists had worked together so frequently that they often seemed to Rebus a single unit. Hard to imagine that outside of work they could ever lead separate, distinguishable lives.

'Ah, John,' Gates said, proffering a hand as chilled as the room.

The night's grown bitter. And here's DS Clarke, too – looking forward, no doubt, to stepping out from the mentor's shadow.'

Clarke prickled but kept her mouth shut – no point in arguI ing that, as far as she was concerned, she'd long ago left Rebus's 1»hadow. Rebus himself offered a smile of support before shaking hands with the ashen-faced Curt. There had been a cancer scare; eleven months back, and some of the man's energy had failed to jjjeturn, though he'd given up the cigarettes for good.

'How are you, John?' Curt was asking. Rebus felt maybe that lould have been his question, but he offered a reassuring nod.

'I'm guessing box two,' Gates was saying, turning to his associite.

'Deal or no deal?'

'It's number three actually,' Clarke told him. 'We think he may a Russian poet.'

“Not Todorov?' Curt asked, one eyebrow raised. Clarke showed the book, and the eyebrow went a little higher.

Wouldn't have taken you for a poetry lover, Doc,' Rebus comBnted.

'Are we in the midst of a diplomatic incident?' Gates snorted.

auld we be checking for poisoned umbrella tips?'

'Looks like he was mugged by a psycho,' Rebus explained.

'Unless there's a poison out there that strips the skin away from your face.'

'Necrotising fasciitis,' Curt muttered.

'Arising from Streptococcus pyogenes,' Gates added. 'Not that I think we've ever seen it.' To Rebus's ears, he sounded genuinely disappointed.

Blunt force trauma: the police doctor had been spot-on. Rebus sat in his living room, not bothering to switch on any lights, and smoked a cigarette. Having banned nicotine from workplaces and pubs, the government were now looking at banning it from the home, too. Rebus wondered how they'd go about enforcing that. A John Hiatt album was on the CD player, volume kept low. The track was called 'Lift Up Every Stone'. All his time on the force, he hadn't done anything else. But Hiatt was using stones to build a wall, while Rebus just peered beneath them at the tiny dark things scuttling around. He wondered if the lyric was a poem, and what the Russian poet would have made of Rebus's riff on it. They'd tried phoning the consulate, but no one had answered, not even a machine, so they'd decided to call it a night. Siobhan had been dozing off during the autopsy, much to Gates's irritation. Rebus's fault: he'd been keeping her late at the office, trying to get her interested in all those cold cases, all the ones still niggling him, hoping that maybe they would keep his memory warm…

Rebus had dropped her home and then driven through the silent pre-dawn streets to Marchmont, an eventual parking space, and his second-floor tenement flat. The living room had a bay window, and that was where his chair was. He was promising himself he'd make it as far as the bedroom, but there was a spare duvet behind the sofa just in case. He had a bottle of whisky, too – eighteenyear-old Highland Park, bought the previous weekend and with a couple of good hits left in it. Ciggies and booze and a little night music. At one time, they would have provided enough consolation, but he wondered if they would sustain him once the job was behind him. What else did he have?

A daughter down in England, living with a college lecturer.

An ex-wife who'd moved to Italy.

The pub.

He couldn't see himself driving cabs or doing precognitions for defence lawyers. Couldn't see himself 'starting afresh' as others

had done – retiring to Marbella or Florida or Bulgaria. Some had sunk their pensions into property, letting flats to students – a chief inspector he knew had made a mint that way, but Rebus didn't want the hassle. He'd be nagging the students all the time about cigarette burns in the carpet or the washing-up not being done.

Sports? None.

Hobbies and pastimes? Just what he was doing right now.

'Bit maudlin tonight, are we, John?' he asked himself out loud.

Then gave a little chuckle, knowing he could maudle for Scotland, gold medal a nap at the Grump Olympics. At least he wasn't being sewn together again and slid back into drawer number three.

He'd gone through a list in his mind – offenders he knew who'd go overboard on a beating. Most were in jail or under sedation on the psycho ward. Gates himself had said it – “There's a fury here.'

'Or furies plural,' Curt had added.

True, they could be looking for more than one attacker. The victim had been whacked on the back of the head with enough force to fracture the skull. Hammer, cosh or baseball bat – or anything else resembling them. Rebus was guessing that this had been the first blow. The victim would have been poleaxed, meaning he posed no threat to his attacker. So why then the prolonged beating to the face? As Gates had speculated, no ordinary mugger would have bothered. They'd have emptied the pockets and fled. A ring had been removed from one finger, and there was a line on the left hand wrist, indicating that the victim had been wearing a watch.

A slight nick on the back of the neck showed that the chain might have been snapped off.

'Nothing left at the scene?' Curt had asked, reaching for the chest-cutters.

Rebus had shaken his head.

Say the victim had put up some sort of struggle… maybe he'd Ipushed a button too many. Or could there be a racism angle, his snt giving him away?