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for him by Nell.
    ‘The bed in the spare room’s made up. We need someone to christen it so we can start calling it the guest bedroom. Might as well be you.’
    Her quiet authority was not to be challenged. Rebus shrugged his acceptance. A little later, she went to bed herself. Holmes switched on the TV but found nothing there worth watching, so he turned on the hi-fi instead.
    ‘I haven’t got any jazz,’ he admitted, knowing Rebus’s tastes. ‘But how about this . . .?’
    It was
Sergeant Pepper
. Rebus nodded. ‘If I can’t get the Rolling Stones, I’ll always settle for second best.’
    So they argued 60s pop music, then talked football for a little while and shop for a bit longer still.
    ‘How much more time do you think Doctor Curt will take?’
    Holmes was referring to one of the pathologists regularly used by the police. A body had been fished out of the Water of Leith, just below Dean Bridge. Suicide, accident or murder? They were hoping Dr Curt’s findings would point the way.
    Rebus shrugged. ‘Some of those tests take weeks, Brian. But actually, from what I hear, he won’t be much longer. A day or two maybe.’
    ‘And what will he say?’
    ‘God knows.’ They shared a smile; Curt was notorious for his fund of bad jokes and ill-timed levity.
    ‘Should we stand by to repel puns?’ asked Holmes. ‘How about this: deceased was found near waterfall. However, study of eyes showed no signs of cataracts.’
    Rebus laughed. ‘That’s not bad. Bit too clever maybe, but still not bad.’
    They spent a quarter of an hour recalling some of Curt’s true gems, before, somehow, turning the talk to politics. Rebus admitted that he’d voted only three times in his adult life.
    ‘Once Labour, once SNP, and once Tory.’
    Holmes seemed to find this funny. He asked what the chronological order had been, but Rebus couldn’t remember. This, too, seemed worth a laugh.
    ‘Maybe you should try an Independent next time.’
    ‘Like Gregor Jack you mean?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s any such thing as an “Independent” in Scotland. It’s like living in Ireland and trying not to take sides. Damned hard work. And speaking of work . . . some of us have been working today. If you don’t mind, Brian, I think I’ll join Nell . . .’ More laughter. ‘If you see what I mean.’
    ‘Sure,’ said Holmes, ‘on you go. I don’t feel so bad. I might watch a video or something. See you in the morning.’
    ‘Mind you don’t keep me awake,’ said Rebus with a wink.
    In fact, meltdown at the Torness reactor couldn’t have kept him awake. His dreams were full of pastoral scenes, skin-divers, kittens, and last-minute goals. But when he opened his eyes there was a dark shadowy figure looming over him.He pushed himself up on his elbows. It was Holmes, dressed and wearing a denim jacket. There was a jangle of car keys from one hand; the other hand held a selection of newspapers which he now threw down on to the bed.
    ‘Sleep all right? Oh, by the way, I don’t usually buy these rags but I thought you’d be interested. Breakfast’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
    Rebus managed to mumble a few syllables. He heaved himself upright and studied the front page of the tabloid in front of him. This was what he’d been waiting for, and he actually felt some of the tension leave his body and his brain. The headline was actually subtle – JACK THE LAD! – but the sub-head was blunt enough – MP NICKED IN SEX-DEN SWOOP . And there was the photograph, showing Gregor Jack on his way down the steps to the waiting van. More photos were promised inside. Rebus turned to the relevant pages. A pasty-faced Farmer Watson; a couple of the ‘escorts’ posing for the cameras; and another four shots of Jack, showing his progress all the way into the van. None from the cop-shop aftermath, so presumably he’d been spirited away. You couldn’t hope to spirit this away though, photogenic or no. Ha! In the background of