The terraces, that’s where I belong, she thought.

Either there or the CID room.

She felt so very different from the teenager who’d hitched her way to Greenham Common, singing “We Shall Overcome” as she locked hands with the other women ringing the air base. Already, Saturday’s Make Poverty History march seemed like history itself. And yet…Bono and Geldof had managed to breach the G8 security, putting their case to the various leaders. They’d made damned sure those men knew what was at stake, and that millions expected great things of them. Tomorrow, decisions might be made. Tomorrow would be crucial.

Her cell was in her hand, and she was on the verge of calling Rebus. But she knew he would laugh, tell her to switch it off and enjoy herself. She suddenly doubted that, despite the ticket pinned by a magnet to the fridge in her kitchen, she would go to T in the Park. Doubted the killings would be solved by then, especially now she was officially off the case. Her case. Except now Rebus had brought in Ellen Wylie…it rankled that he hadn’t thought to ask. Rankled, too, that he’d been right: they needed help. But now it turned out Wylie knew Gareth Tench and Tench knew Wylie’s sister…

Bobby Greig had returned with her beer. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“I think they’re all remarkably small,” she commented. He nodded his agreement.

“Pop stars,” he explained, “must’ve been the school runts. This is how they get their revenge. You’ll notice their heads are big enough though.” He saw that he had lost her attention.

“What’s he doing here?” Siobhan asked.

Greig recognized the figure, gave a wave. Councilman Gareth Tench waved back. He was talking to Daws and Diprose, but broke off-a pat on the shoulder for the former; peck on either cheek for the latter-and came toward them.

“He’s the council’s culture convener,” Greig stated. He held out a hand for Tench to squeeze.

“How are you, lad?” Tench inquired.

“Just fine.”

“Keeping out of trouble?” This question was directed at Siobhan. She took the proffered hand and returned its firm grasp.

“Trying to.”

Tench turned back to Greig. “Remind me again, where do I know you from?”

“The campsite. Name’s Bobby Greig.”

Tench shook his head at his own incompetence. “Of course, of course. Well, isn’t this great?” He clapped his hands together and looked around. “Whole bloody world’s got its eyes on Edinburgh.”

“Or on the concert at any rate,” Siobhan couldn’t help qualifying.

Tench just rolled his eyes. “There’s no pleasing some folk. Tell me, did Bobby here sneak you in for free?”

Siobhan felt obliged to nod.

“And you’re still complaining?” He gave a chuckle. “Remember to give a donation before you leave, eh? Might look like a kickback otherwise.”

“That’s a bit unfair,” Greig started to protest, but Tench waved the complaint aside. “And how’s that colleague of yours?” he was asking Siobhan.

“You mean DI Rebus?”

“That’s the one. Seems a bit too friendly with the criminal fraternity, if you ask me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you work together…I’m sure he confides in you. The other night?” As if jogging her memory. “ Craigmillar Faith Center? I was making a speech when your man Rebus showed up with a monster called Cafferty.” He paused. “I’m assuming you know him?”

“I know him,” Siobhan confirmed.

“Seems strange to me that the forces of law and order would need to…” He seemed to be searching for the right word. “Fraternize,” he decided. Then he paused, eyes boring into Siobhan’s. “I’m presuming DI Rebus wouldn’t have kept any of this from you. I mean, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know?”

Siobhan felt like a fish worried by an insistent hook.

“We all have our private lives, Mr. Tench” was the only reply she could muster. Tench seemed disappointed. “And what about yourself?” she continued. “Hoping to persuade a few bands into playing the Jack Kane Center?”

He rubbed his hands again. “If the opportunity presents…” His voice drifted away as he saw a face he recognized. Siobhan knew it too: Marti Pellow from Wet Wet Wet. The name reminded her to raise her umbrella. The rain tom-tommed off it as Tench moved away toward his target.

“What was all that about?” Greig asked. She just shook her head. “Why do I get the feeling you’d rather be elsewhere?”

“Sorry,” she said.

Greig was watching Tench and the singer. “Works fast, doesn’t he? Not shy either. I think that’s why people listen. You ever heard him when he’s giving a speech? The hairs on your arms start to rise.”

Siobhan nodded slowly. She was thinking about Rebus and Cafferty. It didn’t surprise her that Rebus hadn’t said anything. She looked at her phone again. She had an excuse now to call him, but still she held back.

I’m owed a private life, an evening off.

Otherwise, she’d become just like Rebus-obsessed and sidelined; cranky and mistrusted. He’d been stuck at inspector rank for the best part of two decades. She wanted more. Wanted to do the job well, but be able to switch off now and again. Wanted a life outside her job, rather than a job that became her life. Rebus had lost family and friends, pushing them aside in favor of corpses and con men, killers, petty thieves, rapists, thugs, racketeers, and racists. When he went out drinking, he did so on his own, standing quietly at the bar, facing the row of optics. He had no hobbies, didn’t follow any sports, never took a vacation. If he had a week or two off, she could usually find him at the Oxford Bar, pretending to read the paper in a corner, or staring dully at daytime TV.

She wanted more.

This time, she made the call. It was picked up and she broke into a smile. “Dad?” she said. “You still in the restaurant? Tell them to squeeze in an extra place setting for dessert.”

Stacey Webster was herself again.

Dressed much as she had been the time Rebus had met her outside the morgue. Her T-shirt had long sleeves.

“That to hide the tattoos?” he asked.

“They’re temporary,” she told him. “They’ll fade in time.”

“Most things do.” He saw the suitcase. It was standing on end, carry handle retracted. “Back to London?”

“Sleeper car.” She nodded.

“Look, I’m sorry if we…” Rebus looked around the reception area, as though reluctant to make eye contact.

“It happens,” she said. “Maybe my cover wasn’t breached, but Commander Steelforth doesn’t like to risk his officers.” She seemed awkward and uncertain, brain stuck in the no-man’s-land between two very separate identities.

“Time for a drink?” he asked.

“I came to see Siobhan.” She slid a hand into her pocket. “Is her mum okay?”

“Recuperating,” Rebus said. “Staying at Siobhan’s.”

“Santal never got the chance to say good-bye.” She was holding her hand out toward Rebus. A clear plastic wallet, within which sat a silver disk. “CD-ROM,” she said. “Film copied from my camera, that day on Princes Street.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “I’ll see she gets it.”

“The commander would kill me if…”

“Our secret,” Rebus assured her, tucking the disk into his breast pocket. “Now let’s get you that drink.”

Plenty of pubs available to them on Leith Walk. But the first they walked past looked busy, the Murrayfield concert blaring from the TV. Farther downhill they found what they wanted-a quiet, traditional place with a jukebox sound track and a one-armed bandit. Stacey had left her suitcase behind the desk at Gayfield Square. She told him she wanted to off-load some Scottish money-her excuse for getting the round. They settled at a corner table.

“Ever used the sleeper car before?” Rebus asked.

“That’s why I’m drinking gin and tonic-only way to sleep on that damned train.”

“Is Santal gone for good?”

“Depends.”

“Steelforth said you were undercover for months.”