She raised her eyes to the nicotine-coloured ceiling. 'Give me strength,' she said.

'It won't take long,' Rebus said. 'I thought afterwards we could go somewhere… a bit more your style.'

'Don't patronize me, you pig.'

Rebus stared into his drink, thinking about that statement's various meanings. Then he caught sight of a new customer in the bar, and waved through the doorway. A young man came forwards, smiling tiredly.

'Don't often see you in here, Inspector Rebus,' he said.

'Sit down,' said Rebus. 'It's my round. Patience, let me introduce you to one of Scotland's finest young reporters. Chris Kemp.'

Rebus got up and headed for the bar. Chris Kemp pulled over a chair and, having tested it first, eased himself on to it.

'He must want something,' he said to Patience, nodding towards the bar. 'He knows I'm a sucker for a bit of flattery.'

Not that it was flattery. Chris Kemp had won awards for his early work on an Aberdeen evening paper, and had then moved to Glasgow, there to be voted Young Journalist of the Year, before arriving in Edinburgh, where he had spent the past year and a half 'stirring it' (as he said himself). Everyone knew he'd one day head south. He knew it himself. It was inescapable. There didn't seem to be much left for him to stir in Scotland. The only problem was his student girlfriend, who wouldn't graduate for another year and wouldn't think of moving south before then, if ever…

By the time Rebus returned from the bar, Patience had been told all of this and more. There was a film over her eyes which Chris Kemp, for all his qualities, could not see. He talked, and as he talked she was thinking: Is John Rebus worth all this? Is he worth the effort I seem to have to make? She didn't love him: that was understood. 'Love' was something that had happened to her a few times in her teens and twenties and even, yes, in her thirties. Always with inconclusive or atrocious results. So that nowadays it seemed to her 'love' could as easily spell the end of a relationship as its beginning.

She saw it in her surgery. She saw men and women (but mostly women) made ill from love, from loving too much and not being loved enough in return. They were every bit as sick as the child with earache or the pensioner suffering angina. She had pity and words for them, but no medicines.

Time heals, she might say in an unguarded moment. Yes, heals into a callus over the wound, hard and protective. Just like she felt: hard and protective. But did John Rebus need her solidity, her protection?

'Here we are,' he said on his return. 'The barman's slow tonight, sorry.'

Chris Kemp accepted the drink with a thin smile. 'I've just been telling Patience…'

Oh God, Rebus thought as he sat down. She looks like a bucketful of ice. I shouldn't have brought her. But if I'd said I was popping out for the evening on my own… well, she'd have been the same. Get this over and done with, maybe the night can be rescued.

'So, Chris,' he said, interrupting the young man, 'what's the dirt on Gregor Jack?'

Chris Kemp seemed to think there was plenty, and the introduction of Gregor Jack into the conversation perked Patience up a bit, so that she forgot for a time that she wasn't enjoying herself.

Rebus was interested mostly in Elizabeth Jack, but Kemp started with the MP himself, and what he had to say was interesting. Here was a different Jack, different from the public image, the received opinion, but different too from Rebus's own ideas having met with the man. He would not, for example, have taken Jack for a drinker.

'Terrible one for the whisky,' Kemp was saying. 'Probably more than half a bottle a day, more when he's in London by all accounts.'

'He never looks drunk.'

'That's because he doesn't get drunk. But he drinks all the same.'

'What else?' "

There was more, plenty more. 'He's a smooth operator, but cunning. Deep down cunning. I wouldn't trust him further than I can spit. I know someone who knew him at university. Says Gregor Jack never did anything in his life that wasn't premeditated. And that goes for capturing Mrs Gregor Jack.'

'How do you mean?'

'Story is, they met at university, at a party. Gregor had seen her around before, but hadn't paid much attention. Once he knew she was rich though, that was another matter. He went at it full throttle, charmed the pants off her.' He turned to Patience. 'Sorry, poor choice of words.'

Patience, on her second g and t, merely bowed her head a little.

'He's calculating, you see. Remember, he was trained as an accountant, and he's got an accountant's mind all right. What are you having?'

But Rebus was rising. 'No, Chris, let me get them.'

But Kemp wouldn't hear of it. 'Don't think I'm telling you all this for the price of a couple of beers, Inspector…'

And when the drinks had been bought and brought to the table, it was this train of thought which seemed to occupy Kemp.

'Why do you want to know anyway?'

Rebus shrugged.

'Is there a story?'

'Could be. Early days.'

They were talking now as professionals: the meaning was all in what was left unsaid.

'But there might be a story?'

If there is, Chris, as far as I'm concerned it's yours.'

Kemp gulped at his beer. 'I was out there all day, you know. And all we got was a statement. Plain and simple. No further comment to make, et cetera. The story ties in with Jack?'

Rebus shrugged again. 'Early days. That was interesting, what you were saying about Mrs Jack…'

But Kemp's eyes were cool. 'I get the story first?'

Rebus massaged his neck. 'As far as I'm concerned.'

Kemp seemed to size the offer up. As Rebus himself knew, there was almost no offer there for the sizing. Then Kemp placed his glass on the table. He was ready to say a little more.

'What Jack didn't know about Liz Ferric was that she ran with a very fast crowd. A rich fast crowd. People like her. It took Gregor quite a while before he was able to insinuate his way into the group. A working-class kid, remember. Still gangly and a bit awkward. But it happened, he had Liz hooked. Where he went, she would et cetera. And Jack had his own gang. Still does.'

'I don't follow.'

'Old school friends mostly, a few people he met at university. His circle, you could call it.'

'One of them runs a bookshop, doesn't he?'

Kemp nodded. 'That's Ronald Steele. Known to the gang as Suey. That's why his shop's called Suey Books.'

'Funny nickname,' said Patience.

'I don't know how he came by it,' admitted Kemp. 'I'd like to know, but I don't.'

'Who else is there?' asked Rebus.

'I'm not sure how many there are altogether. The interesting ones are Rab Kinnoul and Andrew Macmillan.'

'Rab Kinnoul the actor?'

'The very same.'

'That's funny, I've got to talk to him. Or rather, to his wife.'

'Oh?'

Kemp was sniffing his story, but Rebus shook his head. 'Nothing to do with Jack. Some stolen books. Mrs Kinnoul is a bit of a collector.'

'Not Prof Costello's missing hoard?'

'That's it.'

Kemp was nothing if not a newsman. 'Any progress?'

Rebus shrugged.

'Don't tell me,' said Kemp, 'it's early days yet.'

And he laughed, and Patience laughed with him. But something had just struck Rebus.

'Not the Andrew Macmillan, surely?'

Kemp nodded. 'They were at school together.'

'Christ.' Rebus stared at the plastic-topped table. Kemp was explaining to Patience who Andrew Macmillan was.

'A very successful something-or-other. Went off his head one day. Toddled off home and sawed off his wife's head.'

Patience gasped. 'I remember that,' she said. 'They never found the head, did they?'

Kemp shook his own firmly fixed head. 'He'd have done his daughter in, too, but the kid ran for her life. She's a bit dotty now herself, and no wonder.'