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nothing.
    ‘I’m going back down Mary King’s Close,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘Anyone want to tag along?’
    He had two takers.
    Rebus was keeping an eye on Brian Holmes. Holmes hadn’t tendered his resignation yet, but you never knew when it might come. When you joined the police, of course, you signed on for the long haul, but Holmes’s significant other was pulling on the other end of the rope, and it was hard to tell who’d win the tug o’ war.
    On the other hand, Rebus had stopped keeping an eye on Siobhan Clarke. She was past her probation, and was going to be a good detective. She was quick, clever and keen. Police officers were seldom all three. Rebus himself might pitch for thirty per cent on a good day.
    The day was overcast and sticky, with lots of bugs in the air and no sign of a dispersing breeze.
    ‘What are they, greenfly?’
    ‘Maybe midges.’
    ‘I’ll tell you what they are, they’re disgusting.’
    The windscreen was smeared by the time they reached the City Chambers, and there being no fluid in the wiper bottle, the windscreen stayed that way. It struck Rebus that the Festival really was a High Street thing. Most of the city centre streets were as quiet or as busy as usual. The High Street was the hub. The Chambers’ small car park being full, he parked on the High Street. When he got out, he brought a sheet of kitchen-towel with him, spat on it, and cleaned the windscreen.
    ‘What we need is some rain.’
    ‘Don’t say that.’
    A transit van and a flat-back trailer were parked outside the entrance to Mary King’s Close, evidence that the builders were back at work. The butcher’s shop would still be taped off, but that didn’t stop the renovations.
    ‘Inspector Rebus?’
    An old man had been waiting for them. He was tall and fit looking and wore an open cream-coloured raincoat despite the day’s heat. His hair had turned not grey or silver but a kind of custard yellow, and he wore half-moon glasses most of the way down his nose, as though he needed them only to check the cracks in the pavement.
    ‘Mr Blair-Fish?’ Rebus shook the brittle hand.
    ‘I’d like to apologise again. My great-nephew can be such a –’
    ‘No need to apologise, sir. Your great-nephew did us a favour. If he hadn’t gone down there with those two lassies, we wouldn’t have found the body so fast as we did. The quicker the better in a murder investigation.’
    Blair-Fish inspected his oft-repaired shoes, then accepted this with a slow nod. ‘Still, it’s an embarrassment.’
    ‘Not to us, sir.’
    ‘No, I suppose not.’
    ‘Now, if you’ll lead the way …?’
    Mr Blair-Fish led the way.
    He took them in through the door and down the flights of stairs, out of daylight and into a world of low-wattage bulbs beyond which lay the halogen glare of the builders. It was like looking at a stage-set. The workers moved with the studied precision of actors. You could charge a couple of quid a time and get an audience, if not a Fringe First Award. The gaffer knew police when he saw them, and nodded a greeting. Otherwise, nobody paid much attention, except for the occasional sideways and appraising glance towards Siobhan Clarke. Builders were builders, below ground as above.
    Blair-Fish was providing a running commentary. Rebus reckoned he’d been the guide when the constable had come on the tour. Rebus heard about how the close had been a thriving thoroughfare prior to the plague, only one of many such plagues to hit Edinburgh. When the denizens moved back, they swore the close was haunted by the spirits of those who had perished there. They all moved out again and the street fell into disuse. Then came a fire, leaving only the first few storeys untouched. (Edinburgh tenements back then could rise to a precarious twelve storeys or more.) After which, the city merely laid slabs across what remained and built again, burying Mary King’s Close.
    ‘The old town was a narrow place, you must remember, built along