Rebus looked around the room. Hi-Ho Silvers and one of the civilian staff had stopped the conversation they'd been having.

'She's losing it,' Silvers commented.

'What did she mean about tomorrow?' Rebus asked, but Silvers just shrugged.

'Losing it,' he said again.

Maybe he was right.

Rebus sat back down at his desk and pondered the phrase: there were lots of ways of 'losing it'. He knew he was in danger of losing it too . .. whatever it was.

Jean Burchill had spent much of her day trying to trace the correspondence between Kennet Lovell and the Reverend Kirk- patrick. She'd spoken to people in Alloway and Ayr - the parish minister; a local historian; one of Kirkpatrick's descendants. She'd spent over an hour on the phone to the Mitchell Library in Glasgow. She'd taken the short walk from the Museum to the National Library, and from there to the Faculty of Advocates. Finally, she'd walked back along Chambers Street and headed for Surgeons' H~. In the museum there she'd stared long and hard at the portrait of Kennet Lovell by J. Scott Jauncey. Lovell had been a handsome young man. Often in portraits, the artist left little clues as to the character he was painting: profession, family, hobbies... But this was a simple execution: head and upper body. The background was plain and black, contrasting with the bright yellows and pinks of Lovell's face. The other portraits in Surgeons' Hall, they usually showed their subjects with a textbook in front of them, or some paper and a pen. Maybe standing in their library or posed with a few telling props - a skull or femur, an anatomical drawing. The sheer plainness of the Lovell portrait bothered her.

307 Either the painter had had little enthusiasm for the commission, or else the subject had insisted on giving little enough away. She thought of Reverend Kirkpatrick, imagined him paying the artist's fee and then receiving this bland decoration. She wondered if it perhaps showed some ideal of its subject, or if it was the equivalent of a picture postcard, a mere advertisement for Lovell. This young man, hardly out of his teens, had assisted in the Burke autopsy. According to one report of the time, 'the quantity of blood that gushed out was enormous, and by the time the lecture was finished the area of the classroom had the appearance of a butcher's slaughter-house, from its flowing down and being trodden upon'. The description had made her queasy, first time she'd read it. How much more preferable to have died as one of Burke's victims, made insensible with drink and then smothered. Jean stared into Kennet Lovell's eyes again. The black pupils seemed luminous, despite the horrors they'd witnessed.

Or, she couldn't help wondering, because of them?

The curator wasn't able to help answer her questions, so she'd asked if she might see the bursar. But Major Bruce Cawdor, while affable and willing, wasn't able to add much to what Jean already knew.

'We don't seem to have any record,' he told her as they sat in his office, 'of how the Lovell portrait came into the College's possession. I'd presume it was a gift, perhaps to defer death duties.' He was short but distinguished looking, well dressed and with a face shining with good health. He'd offered her tea, which she'd accepted. It was Daijeeling, each cup coming with its own silver tea-strainer.

'I'm also interested in Lovell's correspondence.'

~es, well, we would be, too.'

~ou don't have anything?' She was surprised.

The bursar shook his head. 'Either Dr Lovell wasn't a great man for the pen, or else they've perished or ended up in some obscure collection.' He sighed. 'A great pity. We know so little about his time in Mrica...'

'Or in Edinburgh, come to that.'

'He's buried here. Don't suppose his grave's of much interest to you ....

'Whereabouts is it?'

'Calton cemetery. His plot's not far from David Hume's.'

'I might as well take a look.'

'I'm sorry I can't be more help.' He thought for a moment, and his 308 face brightened. 'Donald Devlin's supposed to have some table made by Lovell.'

Yes, I know, though there's nothing in the literature about an interest in carpentry.'

'I'm sure it's mentioned somewhere; I seem to recall reading something ...' But try as he might, Major Cawdor couldn't remember what or where.

That evening, she sat with John Rebus in her Portobello home. They ate Chinese takeaway, washed down with cold Chardonnay for her, bottled beer for him. Music on the hi-fi: Nick Drake, Janis Ian, Pink Floyd's Meddle. He seemed wrapped up in his thoughts, but she could hardly complain. After the food, they walked down to the promenade. Kids on skateboards, looking American but sounding pure Porty, swearing like troopers. One chip shop open, that childhood smell of hot fat and vinegar. They still didn't say much, which didn't make them so very different from the other couples they passed. Reticence was an Edinburgh tradition. You kept your feelings hidden and your business your own. Some people put it down to the influence of the Church and figures like John Knox - she'd heard the city called 'Fort Knox' by outsiders. But to Jean, it was more to do with Edinburgh's geography, its louring rock-faces and dark skies, the wind whipping in from the North Sea, hurtling through the canyon-like streets. At every turn you felt over- and pummelled by your surroundings. Just travelling into whelmed own from Portobello, she felt it: the bruising and bruised nature of the place.

John Rebus, too, was thinking of Edinburgh. When he moved from his flat, where would he make his next home? Was there any district he liked better than any other? Portobello itself was fine, pretty relaxed. But he could always move south or west, into the country. Some of his colleagues travelled in from as far as Falkirk and Linlithgow. He wasn't sure he was ready for that kind of commute. Portobello would be okay though. The only problem was, when they walked along the promenade, he kept looking towards the beach, as if expecting to see a little wooden coffin there, like the they'd found in Nairn. It wouldn't matter where he went, his hone ead would go with him, colouring his surroundings. The Falls coffin was working away at him now. He only had the carpenter's word for it that it had been made by someone else, someone who hadn't made the other four. But if the killer was being really clever, 309 wouldn't he have anticipated just that, changing his work habits and tools, trying to dupe them into ...

Oh Christ, here he went again ... the same old dance, reeling around his skull. He sat down on the sea wall, and Jean asked if something was wrong.

'Bit of a headache,' he said.

'Isn't that supposed to be the woman's prerogative?' She was smiling, but he could see she wasn't happy.

'I should be heading back,' he told her. 'Not great company tonight.'

'Do you want to talk about it?' He raised his eyes so they met hers, and she snorted with laughter. 'Sorry, stupid question. You're a Scottish male, of course you don't want to talk about it.'

'It's not that, Jean. It's just ...' He shrugged. 'Maybe therapy wouldn't be such a bad idea.'

He was trying to make a joke of it, so she didn't push him. 'Let's head back,' she said. 'Bloody freezing out here anyway.' She slid her arm through his as they walked.

310 12.

By the time Assistant Chief Constable Cohn Carswell arrived at Gayfield Square police station on that underlit Tuesday morning, he was out for blood.

John Balfour had bawled him out; Balfour's lawyer had done his damage more subtly, the voice never wavering in its professional and well-educated tones. Still, Carswell felt bruised, and he wanted some measure of revenge. The Chief Constable was remaining aloof - his position, his unassailability, had to be maintained at all costs. This was Carswell's mess, one he'd spent all the previous evening busy surveying. He might as well have been exploring a landscape of shrapnel and broken glass, armed only with a dustpan and some tweezers.

The best minds in the Procurator Fiscal's office had pored over the problem and had concluded, in an annoyingly bland and objective way (letting Carswell know that it was no skin off their noses) that there was little chance of blocking the story. After all, they couldn't prove that either the dolls or the German student had anything to do with the Balfour case - most senior officers seemed to agree that a connection was unlikely at best - and so would find it difficult to persuade a judge that Holly's information could, once published, be detrimental to the inquiry.

What Balfour and his lawyer wanted to know was why the police hadn't seen fit to share with them the story of the dolls, or the information about the German student and the Internet game.

What the Chief Constable wanted to know was what Carswell intended doing about it.

And what Carswell himself wanted was blood.

His official car, driven by his acolyte DI Derek Linford, drew up in front of a station already crowded with officers. Everyone who 311 had worked or was currently working on the Balfour case - uniforms, CID, even the forensic team from Howdenhall - had been 'requested' to attend the morning meeting. Consequently, the briefing room was packed and stifling. Outside, the morning was still recovering from overnight sleet, the pavement damp and chilling to the feet as Carswell's leather-shod soles stamped across it.

'Here he comes,' someone said, watching as Linford, having opened Carswell's door for him, now closed it and, showing a slight limp, walked back round to the driver's side. There was a sound of folding paper as the fresh tabloids - each copy the same title, each open at the same gathering of pages - were closed and put out of sight. DCS Templer, dressed as though for a funeral, dark lines under her eyes, came into the room first. She whispered something into the ear of DI Bill Pryde, who nodded and tore the corner from a notepad, spitting into it the wad of chewing gum he'd been guawing for the past half-hour. When Carswell himself walked in, there was a ripple of movement as officers subconsciously corrected their posture or checked their attire for obvious blemishes.

'Is anyone missing?' Carswell called out. No 'good morning', no 'thank you all for coming', the usual protocols forgotten. Templer had a few names for him - minor ailments and complaints. Carswell nodded, didn't seem interested in what he was being told, and didn't wait for her to finish the roll-call.

'We've got ourselves a mole,' he bawled, loud enough to be heard down the corridor. He nodded slowly, eyes trying to take in every face in front of him. When he saw that there were people at the back, out of staring range, he walked up the aisle between the desks. Officers had to shift so he could get through, but left enough room so that there was no possibility he might brush against them.

'A mole's always an ugly little thing. It lacks vision. Sometimes it has big greedy paws. It doesn't like to be exposed.' There were flecks of saliva either side of his mouth. 'I find a mole in my garden, I put down poison. Now, some of you will say that moles can't help it. They don't know they're in someone's garden, a place of order and calm. They don't know they're making everything ugly. But they are, whether they know it or not. And that's why they have to be eradicated.' He paused, the silence lingering as he walked back down the aisle. Derek Linford had entered the room as if by stealth and was standing by the door, eyes searching out John Rebus, the two of them recent enemies . .

312 The presence of Linford seemed only to spur Carswell on. He spun on his heels, facing his subjects again.

'Maybe it was a mistake. We all make slip-ups, can't be helped. But, by Christ, a lot of information seems to have been pushed to the surface!' Another pause. 'Maybe it was blackmail.' And now a shrug. 'Someone like Steven Holly, he's lower than a mole on the evolutionary ladder. He's pond-life. He's the scum you sometimes see there.' He waved a hand slowly in front of him, as if skimming water. 'He thinks he's made us dirty, but he hasn't. Game's not near over, we all know that. We're a team. That's how we work! Anyone who doesn't like that can always ask to be transferred back to normal duties. It's that simple, ladies and gentlemen. But just think of this, will you?' He dropped his voice. 'Think of the victim, think of her family. Think of all the upset this is going to cause them. They're the ones we're slogging our guts out for here, not the newspaper readers or the scribes who provide them with their daily gruel.

You might have some grievance against me, or someone else on the team, but why the hell would you want to put them - the family and friends, getting ready for tomorrow's funeral - why would anyone want to do something like this to people like them?' He let the question hang, saw faces bow in collective shame as he scanned them. Took another deep breath, his voice rising again.

'I'm going to find whoever did this. Don't think I won't. Don't think you can trust Mr Steven Holly to protect you. He doesn't care a damn for you. If you want to stay buried, you'll have to feed him more stories, and more, and more! He's not going to let you rise back up to the world you knew before. You're different now. You're a mole. His mole. And he'll never let you rest, never let you forget it.'

A glance in Gill Templer's direction. She was standing by the wall, arms folded, her own eyes scanning the room.

'I know this probably all sounds like the headmaster's warning. Some pupil's smashed a window or daubed graffiti on the bike sheds.' He shook his head. 'I'm talking to all of you like this because it's important we're clear on what's at stake. Talk might not cost lives, but that doesn't mean it should be squandered. Careful what you say, who you say it to. If the person responsible wants to come forward, that's fine. You can do it now, or later. I'll be here for an hour or so, and I can always be reached at my office. Think what's at stake if you don't. Not part of a team any more, not on the side of the angels. But in ajournalist's pocket. For as long as he wants you 313 there.' This final pause seemed to last an eternity, nobody coughed or cleared their throat. Carswell slid his hands into his pockets, head angled as though inspecting his shoes. 'DCS Templer?' he said.

And now Gill Templer stepped forward, and the room relaxed a little.

'Don't go getting the holiday mood just yet!' she called out. 'Okay, there's been a leak to the press, and what we need now is some damage limitation. Nobody talks to anybody unless they run it past me first, understood?' There were murmurs of assent.

Templer went on, but Rebus wasn't listening. He hadn't wanted to listen to Carswell either, but it had been hard to block the man out. Impressive stuff really. He'd even put some thought into the image of the garden mole, almost making it work without becoming laughable.

But mostly Rebus's attention had been on the people around him. Gill and Bill Pryde were distant figures, whose discomfort he could almost iguore. Bill's big chance to shine; Gill's first major inquiry as a DCS. Hardly what either of them would have wanted ...

And closer to home: Siobhan, concentrating hard on the ACC's speech, maybe learning something from it. She was always on the lookout for a new lesson. Grant Hood, someone else with every- thing to lose, dejection written into his face and shoulders, the way he held his arms across chest and stomach, as though to ward off blows. Rebus knew Grant was in trouble. A leak to the press, you looked at liaison first. They were the ones with the contacts: an unwise word; the drunk and friendly banter at the end of a good meal. Even if not to blame, a good liaison officer might have been all that was needed in the way of Gill's 'damage limitation'. With experience, you'd know how to bend a journalist's will to your own, even if it meant a bribe of some kind: first dibs on some later story or stories ...

Rebus wondered at the extent of the damage. Quizmaster would now know what he'd probably always suspected: that it wasn't just him and Siobhan, that she was keeping her colleagues apprised. Her face didn't give anything away, but Rebus knew she was already wondering how to handle it, how to phrase her next communication with Quizmaster, supposing he wanted to keep playing... The Arthur's Seat coffins connection annoyed him only because Jean had been mentioned by name in the story, cited as had been persistent, leaving messages for Jean, wanting to 'the Museum's resident expert' on the case. He recalled that 5Hpo~l~l~~ 314 to her. Could she have said something to him unwittingly? He didn't think so.

No, he had the culprit in his sights. Ellen Wylie looked like she'd been wrung out. There were tangles in her hair where she hadn't been concentrating with the brush. Her eyes had a resigned look. She kept staring at the floor during Carswell's speech, and hadn't shifted when he'd finished. She was still looking at the floor now, Itrying to find the will to do anything else. Rebus knew she'd spoken on the phone with Holly yesterday morning. It had been to do with the German student, but afterwards she'd seemed lifeless. Rebus had thought it was because she was working another dead end. Now he knew different. When she'd walked away from the Caledonian Hotel, she'd been heading either for Holly's office or for some wine bar or cafe' nearby.

He'd got to her.

Maybe Shug Davidson would realise as much; maybe her colleagues at West End would remember how different she'd been after that phone call. But Rebus knew they wouldn't shop her. It was something you didn't do. Not to a colleague, a pal.

Wylie had been unravelling for days. He'd taken her into the coffin case thinking maybe he could help. But then maybe she was right - maybe he'd been treating her as just another 'cripple', someone else who might be bent to his will, do some of the hard graft on something which would always be his case.

Maybe he'd had ulterior motives.

Wylie had probably seen it as a way of getting back at all of them: Gill Templer, cause of her public humiliation; Siobhan, for whom Templer still had such high hopes; Grant Hood, the new golden boy, coping where Wylie had not ... And Rebus, too, the manipulator, the user, grinding her down.

He saw her left with two alternatives: let it all out, or burst with frustration and anger. If he'd accepted her offer of a drink that night ... maybe she'd have opened up and he'd have listened. Maybe that was all she'd needed. But he hadn't been there. He'd sneaked off to a pub by himself.

Nice one, John. Very smoothly played. For some reason an image came to mind: some old blues stalwart, turning up for 'Ellen Wylie's Blues'. Maybe John Lee Hooker or B. ........ He caught himself and snapped out of it. He'd almost retreated into music, almost got to a lyric that would tide him over.

But now Carswell was reading from a list of names, and Rebus caught his own as Carswell snapped it out. DC Hood... DC Clarke 315 ... DS Wylie ... The coffins; the German student they'd worked those cases, and now the ACC wanted to see them. Faces turned, curious. Carswell was announcing that he'd see them in the 'boss's office', meaning the station commander's, commandeered for the occasion.

Rebus tried to catch Bill Pryde's eye as they trooped out, but with Carswell already having exited, Bill was searching his pockets for more gum, his eyes trying to locate his clipboard. Rebus was the tail of this lethargic snake, Hood in front of him, then Wylie and Siobhan. Templer and Carswell at the head. Derek Linford was standing outside the station commander's office, opened the door for them and then stood back. He tried to stare Rebus down, but Rebus wasn't having that. They were still at it when Gill Templer closed the door, breaking the spell.

Carswell was sliding his chair in towards the desk. You've already heard my spiel,' he told them, 'so I won't bore you again. If the leak came from anywhere, it came from one of you. That little shit Holly knew way too much.' As his mouth snapped shut his eyes looked up at them for the first time.

'Sir,' Grant Hood said, taking a half-step forward and folding his hands behind his back, 'as liaison officer it should have been my job to damp the story down. I'd just like to publicly apologise for-'

Yes, yes, son, I got all that from you last night. What I want now is a simple confession.'

'With respect, sir,' Siobhan Clarke said, 'we're not criminals here. We've had to ask questions, put out feelers. Steve Holly could just have been putting two and two together ...'

Carswell just stared at her, then said: 'DCS Templer?'

'Steve Holly,' Templer began, 'doesn't work that way if he can possibly help it. He's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he's as sneaky as they come, and ruthless with it.' The way she spoke was telling Clarke something, was saying to her that this had all been gone over already. 'Some of the other journos, yes, I think they could take what's out there in the public domain and make something of it, but not Holly.'

'But he did work the case of the German student,' Clarke persisted.

'And shouldn't have known about the gaming connection,' Templer said, almost by rote: another argument that the senior officers had tried out between themselves.

'It was a long night,' Carswell told them, 'trust me. We've been 316 over it time and again. And it still seems to come down to the four of you.'

'There's been outside assistance,' Grant Hood argued. 'A museum curator, a retired pathologist ..

Rebus laid a hand on Hood's arm, silencing him. 'It was me,' he said. Heads turned towards him. 'I think it might have been me.'

He concentrated on not looking in Ellen Wylie's direction, but was aware of her eyes burning into him.

'Early on, I was out at Falls talking to a woman called Bev Dodds. She'd found the coffin by the waterfall. Steve Holly had already been sniffing around, and she'd given him the story...'

'And?'

'And I let it slip that there'd been more coffins... let shp to her, I mean.' He was remembering the slip - a slip Jean had in fact made. 'If she yapped to Holly, he'd have been on a flyer. I had Jean Burchill with me - she's the curator. That might have given him the Arthur's Seat connection ...

Carswell was staring at him coldly. 'And the Internet game?'

Rebus shook his head. 'That one I can't explain, but it's not exactly a well-kept secret. We've been shoving the clues at all the victim's friends, asking if she'd asked them for help. any one of them could have told Holly.'

Carswell was stiU staring. CYou're taking the fall for this?'

'I'm saying it could be my fault. Just that one slip...' He turned to the others. 'I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. I let all of us down.' His gaze skirted Wylie's face, concentrating on her hair.

'Sir,' Siobhan Clarke said, 'what DI Rebus has just admitted could go for any one of us. I'm sure I may have said a little more than I should on occasion Carswell wafted his hand in front of him, quieting her.

'DI Rebus,' he said, 'I'm suspending you from active duty, pending further inquiries.'

~ou can't do that!' Ellen Wylie blurted out.

'Shut up, Wylie!' Gill Templer hissed.

'DI Rebus knows the consequences,' Garswell was saying.

Rebus nodded. 'Someone needs to be punished.' He paused. 'For the sake of the team.'

'That's right,' Carswell said, nodding. 'Otherwise mistrust begins its corrosive influence. I don't think any of us wants that, do we?'

'No, sir.' Grant Hood's voice proved a lone one.

'Go home, DI Rebus,' Carswell said. 'Write your version down, leaving nothing out. We'll t~k again later.'

317 ~es, sir,' Rebus said, turning and opening the door. Linford was directly outside, and smiling with one side of his face. Rebus didn't doubt he'd been listening. It struck him suddenly that Carswell and Linford might well conspire to make the case against him look as black as possible.

He'd just given them the perfect excuse for getting rid of him for good.

His flat was ready to be put on the market, and he called the selling solicitor and told her so.

'Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons for viewing?' she asked.

'I suppose so.' He was sitting in his chair, staring out of the window. 'Is there any way I can ... not be here?'

~ou want someone to show the flat for you?'