'Sod you,' said Rebus, grinning. Flight was laughing again.

'Four months then,' he said. 'But that's my final offer.'

That done, Rebus headed for the nerve centre, the one place he needed to station himself – the gents' toilets. Part of the ceiling had fallen down and had been replaced with a piece of brown cardboard on which some joker had drawn a huge eyeball. Rebus washed his hands, dried them, chatted to one of the other detectives, shared a cigarette. In a public toilet, he'd have been picked up for loitering. He was loitering, too, loitering with intent. The door opened. Bingo. It was Lauderdale, a frequent user of rest rooms when he was on an interrogation.

'All the time you're coming and going," he'd told Rebus, 'the suspect's sweating that bit more, wondering what's up, what's happened that's new.'

'What's up?' Rebus asked now. Lauderdale smiled and went to splash water on his face, patting his temples and the back of his neck. He looked pleased with himself. More worrying, he didn't smell.

'Looks like our Chief Super may have got it right for once,' Lauderdale admitted. 'He said we should be concentrating on Glass.'

'He's confessed?'

'As good as. Looks as though he's sorting his defence out first.'

'What's that then?'

'The media,' said Lauderdale, drying himself. 'The media pushed him into doing it. I mean, killing again. He says it was expected of him.'

'Sounds to me like he's one domino shy of a set.'

'I'm not putting any words into his mouth, if that's what you're thinking. It's all on tape.'

Rebus shook his head. 'No, no, I mean, if he says he did it, then fair enough. That's fine. And by the way, it was me that shot JFK.'

Lauderdale was examining himself in the spattered mirror. He still looked triumphal, his neck rising from his shirt collar so that his head sat on it like a golf ball on its tee.

'A confession, John,' he was saying, 'it's a powerful thing is a confession.'

'Even when the guy's been sleeping rough for nights on end? Strung out on Brasso and hunted by Edinburgh's finest? Confession might be good for the soul, sir, but sometimes all it's worth is a bowl of soup and some hot tea.'

Lauderdale tidied himself, then turned towards Rebus. 'You're just a pessimist, John.'

'Think of all the questions Glass can't answer. Ask him some of them. How did Mrs Jack get to Queensferry? How come he dumped her there? Just ask him, sir. I'll be interested to read the transcript. I think you'll find the conversation's all one way.'

Exit the Inspector Rebus, leaving behind the Chief Inspector Lauderdale, brushing himself down like a statue examining itself for chips. He seems to find one, too, for he frowns suddenly, and spends longer in the washroom than intended…

'I need just a little bit more, John.'

They were lying in bed together, just the three of them: Rebus, Patience, and Lucky the cat. Rebus affected an American accent.

'I gave ya everything I got, baby.'

Patience smiled, but wasn't to be placated. She thumped her pillows and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chin. 'I mean,' she said, 'I need to know what you're going to do… what we're going to do. I can't decide whether you're moving in with me, or else moving out.'

'In and out,' he said, a final attempt at humour and escape. She punched him on the shoulder. Punched him hard. He sucked in his breath. 'I bruise easily,' he said.

'So do I!' There were almost tears in her eyes, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. 'Is there anybody else?"

He looked surprised. 'No, what makes you think that?'

The cat had crawled up the bed to lie in Patience's lap, plucking at the duvet with its claws. As it settled, she started stroking its head. 'It's just that I keep thinking there's something you're about to tell me. You look as though you're gathering up the strength to say it, but then you never quite manage. I'd rather know, whatever it is.'

What was there to know? That he still hadn't made up his mind about moving in? That he still carried if not a flame then at least an unstruck Scottish Bluebell for Gill Templer? What was there to know?

'You know how it is, Patience. A policeman's lot is not a happy one, and all that.'

'Why do you have to get involved?'

'What?'

'In all these bloody cases, why do you have to get involved, John? It's just a job like any other. I manage to forget about my patients for a few hours at a stretch, why can't you?'

He gave her just about his only honest answer of the evening. 'I don't know.'

The telephone rang. Patience picked the extension up off the floor and held it between them. 'Yours or mine?' she asked.

'Yours.'

She picked up the receiver. 'Hello? Yes, this is Doctor Aitken. Yes, hello, Mrs Laird. Is he now? Is that right? It isn't maybe just flu?'

Rebus checked his watch. Nine thirty. It was Patience's turn to do standby emergency for her group practice.

'A-ha,' she Was saying, 'a-ha,' as the caller talked on. She held the receiver away from her for a second and hurled a silent scream towards the ceiling. 'Okay, Mrs Laird. No, just leave him be. I'll be there as soon as I can. What was your address again?'

At the end of the call, she stomped out of bed and started to dress. 'Mrs Laird's husband says he's on the way out this time,' she said. 'That's the third time in as many months, damn the man.'

'Do you want me to drive you?'

'No, it's all right, I'll go myself.' She paused, came over and pecked him on the cheek. 'But thanks for the offer.'

'You're welcome.' Lucky, disturbed from his rest, was now kneading Rebus's half of the duvet. Rebus made to stroke its head, but the cat shied away.

'See you later then,' said Patience, giving him another kiss. 'We'll have a talk, eh?'

'If you like.'

I like.' And with that she was gone. He could hear her in the living room, getting together her stuff, then the front door opening and closing. The cat had left Rebus and was investigating the warm section of mattress from which Patience had lately risen. Rebus thought about getting up, then thought about not. The phone rang again. Another patient? Well, he wouldn't answer. It kept on ringing. He answered with a noncommittal 'Hello'.

'Took your time,' said George Flight. 'Haven't interrupted anything, have I?'

'What have you got, George?'

'Well, I've got the trots, since you ask. I blame it on that curry I had at Gunga's last night. I've also got the information you requested, Inspector.'

'Is that so, Inspector? Well would you mind passing it the hell on!'

Flight snorted. 'That's all the thanks I get, after a hard day's graft.'

'We all know the kind of graft the Met's interested in, George.'

Flight tut-tutted. 'Wires have ears, John. Anyway, the address was a no-show. Yes, a friend of Miss Crawley's lives there. But she hasn't seen her for weeks. Last she heard, Crawley was in Edinburgh.' He pronounced it head-in-burrow.

'Is that it?'

'I tried asking a couple of sleazebags connected with Croft.'

'Who's Croft?'

Flight sighed. 'The woman who ran the brothel.'

'Oh, right.'

'Only, we've had dealings with her before, you see. Maybe that's why she moved her operation north. So I talked to a couple of her "former associates".'

'And?'

'Nothing. Not even a trade discount on French with spanking.'

'Right. Well, thanks anyway, George.'

'Sorry, John. When are we going to see you down here?'

'When are we going to see you up here?'

'No offence, John, but it's all that square sausage and fizzy beer. It doesn't agree with me.'

'I'll let you get back to your smoked salmon and Scotch then. Night, George.'

He put the phone down, and considered for a moment.

Then he got out of bed and started to dress. The cat looked satisfied with this arrangement, and stretched himself out. Rebus searched for paper and a pen and scribbled a note to Patience. 'Lonely without you. Gone for a drive. John.' He thought about adding a few kisses. Yes, a few kisses were definitely in order.