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over dinner.
    Not so Brigadier-General Dean. He looked to be in his mid- to late-fifties. He stood over six feet tall, had a youthful face and vigorous dark hair. He was slim too, with no sign of a retirement gut or a port drinker’s red-veined cheeks. He looked twice as fit as Rebus felt and for a moment the policeman actually caught himself straightening his back and squaring his shoulders.
    ‘Good idea,’ said Dean, joining Rebus at the sideboard. ‘Mind if I join you?’ His voice was soft, blurred at the edges, the voice of an educated man, a civilised man. Rebus tried hard to imagine Dean giving orders to a troop of hairy-fisted Tommies. Tried, but failed.
    ‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Sorry to bother you like this, sir, but there are a few questions -’
    Dean nodded, finishing his own drink and offering to replenish Rebus’s.
    ‘Why not?’ agreed Rebus. Funny thing though: he could swear this whisky wasn’t whisky at all but whiskey - Irish whiskey. Softer than the Scottish stuff, lacking an edge.
    Rebus sat on the sofa, Dean on a well-used armchair. The Brigadier-General offered a toast of slainte before starting on his second drink, then exhaled noisily.
    ‘Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose,’ he said.
    ‘Oh?’
    Dean nodded slowly. ‘I worked in Ulster for a time. Quite a long time. I suppose I was fairly high up in the tree there. I always knew I was a target. The Army knew, too, of course, but what can you do? You can’t put bodyguards on every soldier who’s been involved in the conflict, can you?’
    ‘I suppose not, sir. But I assume you took precautions?’
    Dean shrugged. ‘I’m not in Who’s Who and I’ve got an unlisted telephone number. I don’t even use my rank much, to be honest.’
    ‘But some of your mail might be addressed to Brigadier-General Dean?’
    A wry smile. ‘Who gave you that impression?’
    ‘What impression, sir?’
    ‘The impression of rank. I’m not a Brigadier-General. I retired with the rank of Major.’
    ‘But the -’
    ‘The what? The locals? Yes, I can see how gossip might lead to exaggeration. You know how it is in a place like this, Inspector. An incomer who keeps himself to himself. A military air. They put two and two together then multiply it by ten.’
    Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ Trust Watson to be wrong even in the fundamentals. ‘But the point I was trying to make about your mail still stands, sir. What I’m wondering, you see, is how they found you.’
    Dean smiled quietly. ‘The IRA are quite sophisticated these days, Inspector. For all I know, they could have hacked into a computer, bribed someone in the know, or maybe it was just a fluke, sheer chance.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll have to think of moving somewhere else now, starting all over again. Poor Jacqueline.’
    ‘Jacqueline being?’
    ‘My daughter. She’s upstairs, terribly upset. She’s due to start university in October. It’s her I feel sorry for.’
    Rebus looked sympathetic. He felt sympathetic. One thing about Army life and police life - both could have a devastating effect on your personal life.
    ‘And your wife, sir?’
    ‘Dead, Inspector. Several years ago.’ Dean examined his now empty glass. He looked his years now, looked like someone who needed a rest. But there was something other about him, something cool and hard. Rebus had met all types in the Army - and since. Veneers could no longer fool him, and behind Major Dean’s sophisticated veneer he could glimpse something other, something from the man’s past. Dean hadn’t just been a good soldier. At one time he’d been lethal.
    ‘Do you have any thoughts on how they might have found you, sir?’
    ‘Not really.’ Dean closed his eyes for a second. There was resignation in his voice. ‘What matters is that they did find me.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘And they can find me again.’
    Rebus shifted in his seat. Christ, what a thought. What