'Where?'

Where indeed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken someone to lunch. He wanted somewhere impressive, somewhere ...

'I'm guessing,' she said, 'that you like a fry-up on a Sunday.' It 4 was almost as if she could feel his discomfort and wanted to help.

'Am I so transparent?'

'Quite the opposite. You're a flesh-and-blood Scottish male. I, on the other hand, like something simple, fresh and wholesome.'

Rebus laughed. 'The word "incompatible" springs to mind.'

'Maybe not. Where do you live?'

'Marchmont.'

'Then we'll go to Fenwick's,' she stated. 'It's perfect.'

'Great,' he said. 'Half-twelve?'

'I look forward to it. Goodnight, Inspector.'

'I hope you're not going to call me Inspector all the way through lunch.'

In the silence that followed, he thought he could hear her smiling.

'See you tomorrow, John.'

'Enjoy the rest of your...' But the connection was dead. He went back inside the pub and grabbed the phone book again. Fenwick's: Salisbury Place. Less than a twenty-minute walk from his flat. He must have driven past it a dozen times. It was fifty yards from Sammy's accident, fifty yards from where a killer had tried to stick a knife in him. He would make the effort tomorrow, push those memories aside.

'Same again, Harry,' he said, bouncing on his toes. You'll wait your turn like everyone else,' Harry growled at him. It didn't matter to Rebus; didn't bother him at all.

90 i He was ten minutes early.

She walked in only five minutes later, so she was early too. 'Nice place,' he told her.

'Isn't it?' She was wearing a black two-piece over a grey silk blouse. A blood-red brooch sparkied just above her left breast.

'Do you live nearby?' he asked.

'Not exactly: Portobello.'

'But that's miles away! You should have said.'

'Why? I like this place.'

You eat out a lot?' He was still trying to digest the fact that she'd come all the way into Edinburgh for lunch.

'Whenever I can. One of the perks of my PhD is that I call myself "Dr Burchill" whenever I'm making a booking.'

Rebus looked around. Only one other table was occupied: down near the front, a family party by the look of it. Two kids, six adults.

'I didn't bother booking for today. It's never too busy at lunchtime. Now, what shall we have ...?'

He thought about a starter and a main course, but she seemed to know that really he wanted the fry-up, so that was what he ordered. She went for soup and duck. They decided to order coffee and wine at the same time.

Very brunchy,' she said. ~ery Sunday somehow.'

He couldn't help but agree. She told him he could smoke if he liked, but he declined. There were three smokers at the family table, but the craving was still a little way off They talked about Gill Templer to start with, finding common ground. Her questions were canny and probing.

'Gill can be a bit driven, wouldn't you say?' 'She does what she has to.'

'The pair of you had a fling a while back, didn't you?' His eyes widened. 'She told you that?'

'No.' Jean paused, flattened her napkin against her lap. 'But I guessed it from the way she used to speak about you.'

'Used to?'

She smiled. 'It was a long time ago, wasn't it?'

'Prehistoric,' he was forced to agree. 'What about you?'

'I hope I'm not prehistoric.'

He smiled. 'I meant, tell me something about yourself.' 'I was born in Elgin, parents both teachers. Went to Glasgow University. Dabbled in archaeology. Doctorate from Durham University, then post-doctoral studies abroad - the USA and Canada - looking at nineteenth-century migrants. I got a job as a curator in Vancouver, then came back here when the opportunity arose. The 91 I.

old museum for the best part of twelve years, and now the new one.' She shrugged. 'That's about it.'

'How do you know Gill?'

'We were at school together for a couple of years, best mates. Lost touch for a while You never married?'

She looked down at her plate. 'For a while, yes, in Canada. He died young.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Bill drank himself to death, not that his family would ever believe it. I think that's why I came back to Scotland.'

'Because he died?'

She shook her head. 'If I'd stayed, it would have meant participating in the myth they were busy establishing.'

Rebus thought he understood.

You've got a daughter, haven't you?' she said suddenly, keen to change the subject.

'Samantha. She's ... in her twenties now.'

Jean laughed. You don't know how old exactly though?'

He tried a smile. 'It's not that. I was going to say that she's disabled. Probably not something you want to know.'

'Oh.' She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. 'But it's important to you, or it wouldn't have been the first thing you thought of.'

'True. Except that she's getting back on her feet again. Using one of those zimmer frames old people use.'

'That's good,' she said.

He nodded. He didn't want to go into the whole story, but she wasn't going to ask him anyway.

'How's the soup?'

'It's good.'

They sat in silence for a minute or two, then she asked him about police work. Her questions had reverted to the kind you asked of a new acquaintance. Usually Rebus felt awkward talking about the job. He wasn't sure people were really interested. Even if they were, he knew they didn't want to hear the unexpurgated version: the suicides and autopsies; the petty grudges and black moods that led people to the cells. Domestics and stabbings, Saturday nights gone Iwrong, professional thugs and addicts. When he spoke, he was always afraid his voice would betray his passion for the job. He still got a thrill from the work itself. Someone like Jean Burchill, he might be dubious about methods and eventual outcomes, but he 92 felt, could peer beneath the surface of this and watch other things swim into focus. She would realise that his enjoyment of the job was essentially voyeuristic and cowardly. He concentrated on the minutiae of other people's lives, other people's problems, to stop him examining his own frailties and failings.

'Are you planning to smoke that thing?' Jean sounded amused. Rebus looked down and saw that a cigarette had appeared in his hand. He laughed, took the packet from his pocket and slid the cigarette back in.

'I really don't mind,' Jean told him.

'Didn't realise I'd done it,' he said. Then, to hide his embarrassment: You were going to tell me about these other dolls.'

'After we've eaten,' she said firmly.

Bijt after they'd eaten, she asked for the bill. They went halves on it, and found themselves outside, the afternoon sun doing its best to remove the chill from the day. 'Let's walk,' she said, sliding her arm through his.

'Where to?'

'The Meadows?' she suggested. So that was where they went.

The sun had brought people out to the tree-lined playing field. Frisbees were being thrown, while joggers and cyclists sped past. Some teenagers were lying with their T-shirts off cans of cider beside them. Jean was painting some of the area's history for him.

'I think there was a pond here,' she said. 'There were certainly stone quarries in Bruntsfield, and Marchmont itself was a farm.'

'More like a zoo these days,' he said.

She threw him a glance. You work hard on your cynicism, don't you?'

'It gets rusty otherwise.'

At Jawbone Walk she decided they should cross the road and start up Marchmont Road. 'So where exactly is it you live?' she asked.

'Arden Street. Just off Warrender Park Road.'

'Not far then.'

He smiled, trying for eye contact. 'Are you angling for an invitation?'

'To be honest, yes.'

'The place is a tip.'

'I'd be disappointed if it were anything else. But my bladder says it'll settle for what's available . .

93 He was desperately tidying the living room when he heard the toilet flush. He looked around and shook his head. It was like picking up a duster after a bomb-strike: futile. So instead he went back into the kitchen and spooned coffee into two mugs. The milk in the fridge was Thursday's, but useable. She was standing in the doorway, watching him.

'Thank God I have an excuse for all the mess,' he said.

'I had my place rewired a few years back,' she commiserated. 'At the time, I was thinking of selling.' When he looked up, she saw she'd hit a chord.

'I'm putting it on the market,' he admitted.

'Any particular reason?'

Ghosts, he could have told her, but he just shrugged instead.

'A fresh start?' she guessed.

'Maybe. Do you take sugar?' He handed her the mug. She studied its milky surface.

'I don't even take milk,' she told him.

'Christ, sorry.' He tried taking the mug from her, but, she resisted.

'Thjs'l1 be fine,' she said. Then she laughed. 'Some detective. You just watched me drink two cups of coffee in the restaurant.'

'And never noticed,' Rebus agreed, nodding.

'Is there space to sit down in the living room? Now that we've got to know one another a little, it's time to show you the dolls.'

He cleared an area of the dining table. She placed her shoulder- bag on the floor and pulled out a folder.

'Thing is,' she said, 'I know this may sound barmy to some people. So I'm hoping you'll keep an open mind. Maybe that's why I wanted to know you a bit better ..

She handed over the folder and he pulled out a sheaf of presscuttings. While she spoke, he started arranging them before him on the table.

'I came across the first one when someone wrote a letter to the Museum. This was a couple of years back.' He held up the letter and she nodded. 'A Mrs Anderson in Perth. She'd heard the story of the Arthur's Seat coffins and wanted me to know that something similar had happened near Huntingtower.'

The dipping attached to the letter was from the Courier. 'Mysterious Find Near Local Hotel': a coffin-shaped wooden box with a scrap of cloth nearby. Found beneath some leaves in a copse when a dog had been out for its daily walk. The owner had taken the box to the hotel, thinking maybe it was some sort of toy. But no explanation had been found. The year was 1995.

94 'The woman, Mrs Anderson,' Jean was saying, 'was interested in -local history. That's why she kept the cutting.'

'No doll?'

Jean shook her head. 'Could be some animal ran off with it.'