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nothing in the kitchen to eat, nothing but newspapers. The nearest corner shop had closed down; it wasn’t much more of a walk to the next grocer’s along. No, he’d stop somewhere on route. He looked out of the window and saw a light-blue estate double parked outside, blocking three resident cars. Equipment in the back of the estate, two men and a woman standing on the pavement, supping coffee from take-away beakers.
    ‘Shit,’ Rebus said, knotting his tie.
    Jacketed, he walked outside and into questions. One of the men was hoisting a video camera up to his shoulder. The other man was speaking.
    ‘Inspector, could we have a word? Redgauntlet Television, The Justice Programme .’ Rebus knew him: Eamonn Breen. The woman was Kayleigh Burgess, the show’s producer. Breen was writer/presenter, loved himself, RPIA: Royal Pain in Arse.
    ‘The Spaven case, Inspector. A few minutes of your time, that’s all we need really, help everybody get to the bottom —’
    ‘I’m already there.’ Rebus saw the camera wasn’t ready yet. He turned quickly, his nose almost touching the reporter’s. He thought of Mental Minto breathing the word ‘harassment’, not knowing what harassment was, not the way Rebus had grown to know.
    ‘You’ll think you’re in childbirth,’ he said.
    Breen blinked. ‘Sorry?’
    ‘When the surgeons are taking that camera out of your arse.’ Rebus tore a parking ticket from his windscreen, unlocked the car, and got in. The video camera was finally up and running, but all it got was a shot of a battered Saab 900 reversing at speed from the scene.
    Rebus had a morning meeting with his boss, Chief Inspector Jim MacAskill. The boss’s office looked as chaotic as any other part of the station: packing cases still waiting to be filled and labelled, half-empty shelves, ancient green filing cabinets with their drawers open, displaying acre upon acre of paperwork, all of which would have to be shipped out in some semblance of order.
    ‘The world’s hardest jigsaw puzzle,’ MacAskill said. ‘If everything gets to the other end unscathed, it’ll be a miracle on a par with Raith Rovers winning the UEFA Cup.’
    The boss was a Fifer like Rebus, born and raised in Methil, back when the shipyard had been making boats rather than rigs for the oil industry. He was tall and well-built and younger than Rebus. His handshake was not masonic, and he’d not yet married, which had caused the usual gossip that maybe the boss was a like-your-loafers. It didn’t worry Rebus – he never wore loafers himself – but he hoped that if his boss was gay there was no guilt involved. It was when you wanted a secret kept that you fell prey to blackmailers and shame merchants, destructive forces both interior and exterior. Jesus, and didn’t Rebus know about that.
    Whatever, MacAskill was handsome, with plenty of thick black hair – no grey, no sign of dyeing – and a chiselled face, all angles, the geometry of eyes, nose and chin making it look like he was smiling even when he wasn’t.
    ‘So,’ the boss said, ‘how does it read to you?’
    ‘I’m not sure yet. A party gone wrong, a falling out – literally in this case? They hadn’t started on the booze.’
    ‘Question one in my mind: did they come together? The victim could have come alone, surprised some people doing something they shouldn’t —’
    Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Taxi driver confirms dropping off a party of three. Gave descriptions, one of which matches the deceased pretty well. The driver paid him most attention, he was behaving the worst. The other two were quiet, sober even. Physical descriptions aren’t going to get us far. He picked up the fare outside Mal’s Bar. We’ve had a word with the staff. They sold them the carry-out.’
    The boss ran a hand down his tie. ‘Do we know anything more about the deceased?’
    ‘Only that he had Aberdeen connections, maybe worked in the oil business. He didn’t use his Edinburgh flat much,