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upstairs myself first,’ Rebus said, handing over the bottle. He spread his hands out palms upwards, then turned them over. Even Holmes could see the traces of oil and dirt.
    ‘Car trouble,’ he said, nodding. ‘The bathroom’s to the right of the landing.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘And those are nasty scratches, too. I’d see a doctor about them.’ Holmes’ tone told Rebus that the young man assumed a certain doctor had been responsible for them in the first place.
    ‘A cat,’ Rebus explained. ‘A cat with eight lives left.’
    Upstairs, he felt particularly clumsy. He rinsed the wash-hand-basin after him, then had to rinse the muck off the soap, then rinsed the basin again. A towel was hanging over the bath, but when he started to dry his hands he found he was drying them not on a towel but on a foot-mat. The real towel was on a hook behind the door. Relax, John, he toldhimself. But he couldn’t. Socializing was just one more skill he’d never really mastered.
    He peered round the door downstairs.
    ‘Come in, come in.’
    Holmes was holding out a glass of whisky towards him. ‘Here you go, cheers.’
    ‘Cheers.’
    They drank, and Rebus felt the better for it.
    ‘I’ll give you the tour of the house later,’ Holmes said. ‘Sit down.’
    Rebus did so, and looked around him. ‘A real Holmes from home,’ he commented. There were good smells in the air, and cooking and clattering noises from the kitchen, which seemed to be through another door off the living room. The living room was almost cuboid, with a table in one corner set with three places for dinner, a chair in another corner, a TV in the third, and a standard lamp in the fourth.
    ‘Very nice,’ commented Rebus. Holmes was sitting on a two-person sofa against one wall. Behind him was a decent-sized window looking on to the back garden. He shrugged modestly.
    ‘It’ll do us,’ he said.
    ‘I’m sure it will.’
    Now Nell Stapleton strode into the room. As imposing as ever, she seemed almost too tall for her surroundings, Alice after the ‘Eat Me’ cake. She was wiping her hands on a dishcloth, and smiled at Rebus.
    ‘Hello there.’
    Rebus had risen to his feet. She came over and pecked him on his cheek.
    ‘Hello, Nell.’
    Now she was standing over Holmes, and had lifted the glass out of his hand. There was sweat on her forehead, and she too was dressed casually. She took a swallow of whisky, exhaled noisily, and handed the glass back.
    ‘Ready in five minutes,’ she announced. ‘Shame your doctor friend couldn’t make it, John.’
    He shrugged. ‘Prior engagement. A medical dinner party. I was glad of an excuse to get out of it.’
    She gave him rather too fixed a smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave you two to talk about whatever it is boys talk about.’
    And then she was gone, the room seeming suddenly empty. Shit, what had he said? Rebus had tried to find words to describe Nell when speaking about her to Patience Aitken. But somehow the words never told the story. Bossy, stroppy, lively, canny, big, bright, a handful . . . like another set of seven dwarves. Certainly, she didn’t fit the stereotype of a university librarian. Which seemed to suit Brian Holmes just fine. He was smiling, studying what was left of his drink. He got up for a refill – Rebus refusing the offer – and came back with a manilla folder.
    ‘Here,’ he said.
    Rebus accepted the folder. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Take a look.’
    Newspaper cuttings mostly, magazine articles, press releases . . . all concerning Gregor Jack MP.
    ‘Where did you . . .?’
    Holmes shrugged. ‘Innate curiosity. When I knew I was moving into his constituency, I thought I’d like to know more.’
    ‘The papers seem to have kept quiet about last night.’
    ‘Maybe they’ve been warned off.’ Holmes sounded sceptical. ‘Or maybe they’re just biding their time.’ Having just reseated himself, he now leapt up again. ‘I’ll see if Nell needs a hand.’
    Leaving Rebus with