The air still smouldered, the charred smell almost overpowering.

Siobhan Clarke held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. Rebus stubbed out his breakfast underfoot.

'Bloody hell,' was all he could think to say.

Todd Goodyear had heard the news first and had phoned Clarke, who was halfway to the scene before she decided to call Rebus.

They now stood on a roadway in Joppa while the fire crew gathered up the spent coils of hose. Charles Riordan's house was a shell, the windowpanes gone, roof collapsed.

'Can we go in yet?' Clarke asked one of the firemen.

'What's the rush?'

'I'm just asking.'

'Talk to the boss…'

Some of the firemen were sweating, rubbing smudges of soot across their foreheads. They'd taken off their oxygen tanks and masks. They were talking among themselves, like a gang after a rumble, debating their roles in the action. A neighbour had brought them water and juice. More neighbours were standing in their doorways or gardens, while onlookers from further afield shuffled and whispered. It was a D Division call and two suits from Leith CID had already asked Clarke what Gayfield Square 's interest (.was.

Witness in a case,' was all she'd told them: no point giving away anything more. The suits hadn't been happy about it, and were now keeping their distance, phones held to their ears.

'Reckon he was at home?' Rebus asked Clarke.

She shrugged. 'Remember what we were talking about last t»ight?'

1.l;31

“You mean the argument we were having? Me reading way too much into Todorov's death?'

'Don't rub it in.'

Rebus decided to play devil's advocate. 'Could be an accident, of course. And hey, maybe we'll find him alive and well at his studio.'

'I've tried calling – no answer as yet.' She nodded towards a kerbside TVR. 'Woman two doors down says that's his car. He parked it last night – she knows it was him because of the noise it makes.'

The TVR's windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed.

'Fire investigator on his way?' Rebus asked.

'On her way,' Clarke corrected him.

'The march of progress…' An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding forward, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform. He nodded a greeting at Rebus and started leafing back through his notebook.

'How many of those do you get through a month?' Rebus couldn't help asking. Clarke gave him a warning look.

'I've talked to the neighbours either side of him,' Goodyear reported to Clarke. 'They're in a state of shock, of course – terrified their own houses might be about to explode. They want to get back in and save a few bits and pieces, but the brigade's not having it.

Seems Riordan came home at eleven thirty. After that, not a peep from him.'

'The way he'd soundproofed the house…'

Goodyear nodded enthusiastically. 'Unlikely they'd have heard anything. One of the fire officers says the acoustic baffling was probably part of the problem – it can be incredibly flammable.'

'Riordan didn't have any visitors in the night?' Clarke asked.

Goodyear shook his head. He couldn't help glancing towards Rebus, as if expecting some sort of praise or appraisal.

'You're in mufti,' was all Rebus said.

The constable's eyes swivelled between the two detectives. Clarke cleared her throat before speaking.

'If he's working with us, I thought he'd look less conspicuous…'

Rebus tried staring her out, then nodded slowly, though he knew she was lying. The suit had been Goodyear's idea, and now she was covering for him. Before he could say anything, a red car with flashing light roared into view, stuttering to a halt.

'The fire inspector,' Clarke announced. The woman who emerged from the car was elegant and businesslike, and seemed straight off to have the brigade's attention and respect. Officers started pointing at parts of the smoke-streaked building, obviously giving their side of the story, while the two detectives from Leith hovered nearby.

'Think we should introduce ourselves?' Clarke asked Rebus.

'Sooner or later,' he told her. But she'd already decided and was striding towards the cluster of bodies. Rebus followed, indicating for Goodyear to hang back. The constable seemed reluctant, hopping from pavement to roadway and back again. Rebus had attended plenty of house fires, including one he'd ended up being accused of starting. There'd been a fatality that time, too… Not much fun for the pathologists, when there were victims to be identified. He'd almost burned his own flat down once, as well, falling into a stupor on the sofa with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He'd woken to smouldering fabric and a plume of sulphurous smoke.

Easily done…

Clarke was shaking hands with the FI. Not everyone looked happy: the firefighters reckoned CID should leave them to get on with it. Natural reaction, and one Rebus could sympathise with.

All the same, he started lighting another cigarette, reckoning it might get him noticed.

'Bloody menace,' one of the brigade dutifully muttered. Mission accomplished. The FFs name was Katie Glass, and she was telling Clarke what happened next: locating any victims; securing breached gas-sources; checking the obvious.

'Meaning anything from a chip pan left on the heat to an electrical fault.'

Clarke nodded along until Glass had finished, then explained about the homeowner's role in an ongoing investigation, aware of Leith CID listening in.

'And that makes you suspect something?' Glass guessed. 'So be it, but I always like to enter a scene with an open mind – preconceptions mean you can miss things.' She moved towards the garden I gate, flanked by firefighters and watched by Rebus and Clarke.

“There's a cafe back in Portobello,' Rebus said, giving a final glance towards the gutted house. 'Fancy a fry-up?'

Afterwards, they headed to Gayfield Square, where Hawes and Tibbet, feeling abandoned, welcomed them with frowns. They soon

perked up at news of the fire and asked if it meant they could put the HMF away. Goodyear asked what that was.

'Habitual Mugger File,' Hawes explained.

'Not an official term,' Tibbet added, slapping a hand against the pile of box files.

'Thought they'd all be on computer,' Goodyear commented.

'If you're applying for the job…?'

But Goodyear waved the offer aside. Clarke was seated at her desk, tapping it with a pen.

'What now, boss?' Rebus asked, receiving a glare for his efforts.

'I need to talk to Macrae again,' she said at last, though she could see his office was empty. 'Has he been in?'

Hawes shrugged. 'Not since we got here.'

'Travel in together?' Rebus asked, all innocence. It was Colin Tibbet's turn to glower at him.

'This changes everything,' Clarke was saying quietly.

'Unless it was an accident,' Rebus reminded her.

'First Todorov, now the man he spent his final evening with…'

It was Goodyear who had spoken, but Clarke was nodding her agreement.

'Could all be a horrible coincidence,' Rebus argued. Clarke stared at him.

'Christ, John, you were the one seeing conspiracies! Now it looks like we've got a connection, you're pouring cold water on it!'

'Isn't that what you do with a fire?' When he saw the blood shooting up Clarke's neck, he knew he'd gone too far. 'Okay, say you're right – you still need to run it past Macrae. And meantime, we wait to hear if they find a body. And supposing they do, we then wait to see what Gates and Curt make of it.' He paused. 'That's what's called “procedure” – you know it as well as I do.' Clarke knew he was right, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed a little and she dropped the pen on to the desk, where it rolled and settled.