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Inspector? “And through all eternity/ I forgive you, you forgive me.” I’m not so sure I can forgive the media.’ This last word voiced with a distaste which manifested itself as a twist of facial muscles.
    ‘Is that why you’ve set your lawyer on them?’
    ‘“Set” makes me sound like a hunter, Inspector. This is a
newspaper
, with a team of expensive lawyers at its beck and call. Can an individual hope to win against such odds?’
    ‘Then why bother trying?’
    Lintz thumped both arms of his chair with clenched fists. ‘For the principle, man!’ Such outbursts were rare and short-lived, but Rebus had experienced enough of them to know that Lintz had a temper …
    ‘Hello?’ Kirstin Mede said, angling her head to catch his gaze.
    ‘What?’
    She smiled. ‘You were miles away.’
    ‘Just across town,’ he replied.
    She pointed to the papers. ‘I’ll leave these here, okay? If you’ve any questions …’
    ‘Great, thanks.’ Rebus got to his feet.
    ‘It’s okay, I know my way out.’
    But Rebus was insistent. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit …’ He waved his hands around his head.
    ‘As I said, it gets to you after a while.’
    As they walked back through the CID office, Rebuscould feel eyes following them. Bill Pryde came up, preening, wanting to be introduced. He had curly fair hair and thick blond eyelashes, his nose large and freckled, mouth small and topped with a ginger moustache – a fashion accessory he could well afford to lose.
    ‘A pleasure,’ he said, taking Kirstin Mede’s hand. Then, to Rebus: ‘Makes me wish we’d swopped.’
    Pryde was working on the Mr Taystee case: an ice-cream man found dead in his van. Engine left running in a lockup, looking initially like suicide.
    Rebus steered Kirstin Mede past Pryde, kept them moving. He wanted to ask her out. He knew she wasn’t married, but thought there might be a boyfriend in the frame. Rebus was thinking: what would she like to eat – French or Italian? She spoke both those languages. Maybe stick to something neutral: Indian or Chinese. Maybe she was vegetarian. Maybe she didn’t like restaurants. A drink then? But Rebus didn’t drink these days.
    ‘… So what do you think?’
    Rebus started. Kirstin Mede had asked him something.
    ‘Sorry?’
    She laughed, realising he hadn’t been listening. He began to apologise, but she shook it off. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘you’re a bit …’ And she waved her hands around her head. He smiled. They’d stopped walking. They were facing one another. Her briefcase was tucked under one arm. It was the moment to ask her for a date, any kind of date – let
her
choose.
    ‘What’s that?’ she said suddenly. It was a shriek, Rebus had heard it, too. It had come from behind the door nearest them, the door to the women’s toilets. They heard it again. This time it was followed by some words they understood.
    ‘Help me, somebody!’
    Rebus pushed open the door and ran in. A WPC was pushing at a cubicle door, trying to force it with hershoulder. From behind the door, Rebus could hear choking noises.
    ‘What is it?’ he said.
    ‘Picked her up twenty minutes ago, she said she needed the loo.’ The policewoman’s cheeks wore a flush of anger and embarrassment.
    Rebus grabbed the top of the door and hauled himself up, peering over and down on to a figure seated on the pan. The woman there was young, heavily made-up. She sat with her back against the cistern, so that she was staring up at him, but glassily. And her hands were busy. They were busy pulling a streamer of toilet-paper from the roll, stuffing it into her mouth.
    ‘She’s gagging,’ Rebus said, sliding back down. ‘Stand back’. He shouldered the door, tried again. Stood back and hit the lock with the heel of his shoe. The door flew open, catching the seated woman on the knees. He pushed his way in. Her face was turning purple.
    ‘Grab her hands,’ he told the WPC. Then he started pulling the stream of white paper from her