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At St Leonard's, Del Lauderdale was fighting his corner, arguing that his team should take on the Millie Docherty investigation from C Division. So he was too busy to come bothering Rebus, and that was fine by Rebus.

Officers were out at Lachlan Murdock's fiat, talking to him. He was being treated as a serious suspect now; you didn't lose two flatmates to hideous deaths and not come under the microscope. Murdock would be on the petri dish from now till the case reached some kind of conclusion. Rebus returned to his desk. Since he'd last been there, earlier in the day, people had started using it as a rubbish bin again.

He phoned London, and waited to be passed along the line. It was not a call he could have made from Fettes.

'Abernethy speaking.’

`About bloody time. It's DI Rebus here.’

'Well well. I wondered if I'd hear from you.’

Rebus could imagine Abernethy leaning back in his chair. Maybe his feet were up on the desk in front of him. 'I must have left a dozen messages, Abernethy.’

'I've been busy, what about you?’

Rebus stayed silent.

'So, Inspector Rebus, how can I help?’

'I've got a few questions. How much stuff is the Army losing?’

'You've lost me.’

`I don't think so.’

Someone walking past offered Rebus a cigarette. Without thinking he accepted it. But then the donor walked away, leaving Rebus without a light. He sucked on the filter anyway. `I think you know what I'm talking about.’

He opened the desk drawers, looking for matches or a lighter.

`Well, I don't.’

`I think material has been going missing.’

`Really?’

`Yes, really.’

Rebus waited. He didn't want to speculate too wildly, and he certainly didn't want Abernethy to know any more than was necessary. But there was silence on the other end of the line. `Or you suspect it's going missing.’

`That would be a matter for Army Intelligence or the security service.’

`Yes, but you're Special Branch, aren't you? You're the public arm of the security service. I think you came up here in a hurry because you damned well know what's going on. The question is, why did you disappear again in such a hurry too?’

`You've lost me again. Maybe I'd better pack my bag for a trip, what do you say?’

Rebus didn't say anything, he just put down the phone. 'Anyone got a light?’

Someone tossed a box of matches onto the desk. `Cheers.’

He lit the cigarette and inhaled, the smoke rattling his nerves like they were dice in a cup.

He knew Abernethy would come.

He kept moving, the most difficult kind of target. He was trusting to his instincts; after all, he had to trust something. Dr Curt was in his office at the university. To get to the once you had to walk past a row of wooden boxes marked with the words `Place Frozen Sections Here'. Rebus had never looked in the boxes. In the Pathology building, you kept your eyes front and your nostrils tight. They were doing some work in the quadrangle. Scaffolding had been erected, and a couple of workmen were belying their name by sitting on it smoking cigarettes and sharing a newspaper.

`Busy, busy, busy,' Curt said, when Rebus reached his office. `You know, most of the university staff are on holiday.

I've had postcards from the Gambia, Queensland, Florida.’

He sighed. 'I am cursed with a vocation while others get a vacation.’

'I bet you were awake all night thinking up that one.’

'I was awake half the night thanks to your discovery at the Crazy Hose Saloon.’

'Post-mortem?’

'Not yet complete. It was a corrosive of some kind, the lab will tell us exactly which. I am constantly surprised by the methods murderers will resort to. The fire hose was new to me.’

'Well, it stops the job becoming routine, I suppose.’

'How's Caroline?’

'I'd forgotten all about her.’

'You must pray that she'll let you.’

'I stopped praying a long time ago.’

He walked back down the stairs and out into the quadrangle, wondering if it was too soon in the day for a drink at Sandy Bell's. The pub was just round the corner, and he hadn't been there in months. He noticed someone standing in front of the Frozen Sections boxes. They had the flap open, like they'd just made a deposit. Then they turned around towards Rebus and smiled.

It was Cafferty.

'Dear God.’

Cafferty closed the flap. He was dressed in a baggy black suit and open-necked white shirt, like an undertaker on his break. 'Hello, Strawman.’

The old nickname. It was like an ice-pack on Rebus's spine. 'Let's talk.’

There were two men behind Rebus, the two from the churchyard, the two who'd watched him taking a beating. They escorted him back to a newish Rover parked in the quadrangle. He caught the licence number, but felt Cafferty's hand land on his shoulder.

'We'll change plates this afternoon, Strawman.’