'Well, it wasn't suicide,'- commented Rebus. Caroline Rattray turned towards the wall, only to find herself facing the sprays of blood. She turned instead to the doorway, where Dr Galloway was dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief.

'We'd better get someone to fetch me my tools.’

Curt was studying the ceiling. `Any idea what this place was?’

`A butcher's shop, sir,' said the constable, only too happy to help. 'There's a wine shop too, and some houses. You can still go into them.’

He turned to Rebus. 'Sir, what's a six-pack?’

`A six-pack?’ echoed Curt.

Rebus stared at the hanging body. 'It's a punishment,` he said quietly. 'Only you're not supposed to die. What's that on the floor?’

He was pointing to the dead man's feet, to the spot where they grazed the dark-stained ground.

'Looks like rats have been nibbling his toes,' said Curt.

'No, not that.’

There were shallow grooves in the earth, so wide they must have been made with a big toe. Four crude capital letters were discernible.

'Is that Neno or Nemo?’

'Could even be Memo,' offered Dr Curt.

'Captain Nemo,' said the constable. 'He's the guy in 2,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea.’

'Jules Verne,' said Curt, nodding.

The constable shook his head. `No, sir, Walt Disney,' he said.

2

On Sunday morning Rebus and Dr Patience Aitken decided to get away from it all by staying in bed. He nipped out early for croissants and papers from the local corner shop, and they ate breakfast from a tray on top of the bedcovers, sharing sections of the newspapers, discarding more than they read.

There was no mention of the previous night's grisly find in Mary King's Close. The news had seeped out too late for publication. But Rebus knew there would be something about it on the local radio news, so he was quite content for once when Patience tuned the bedside radio to a classical station.

He should have come off his shift at midnight, but murder tended to disrupt the system of shifts. On a murder inquiry, you stopped working when you reasonably could. Rebus had hung around till two in the morning, consulting with the night shift about the corpse in Mary King's Close. He'd contacted his Chief Inspector and Chief Super, and kept in touch with Fettes HQ, where the forensic stuff' had gone. DI Flower kept telling him to go home. Finally he'd taken tile advice.

The real problem with back shifts was that Rebus couldn't sleep well after them anyway. He'd managed four hours since arriving home, and four hours would suffice. But there was a warm pleasure in slipping into bed as dawn neared, curling against the body already asleep there. And even more pleasure in pushing the cat off the bed as you did so.

Before retiring, he'd swallowed four measures of whisky He told himself it was purely medicinal, but rinsed the put it away, hoping Patience wouldn't notice. She` complained often of his drinking, among other things.

`We're eating out,' she said now.

`When?’

'Lunch today.’

`Where?’

`That place out at Carlops.’

Rebus nodded. `Witch's Leap,' he said.

`What?’

`That's what Carlops means. There's a big rock there. They used to throw suspected witches from it. If you didn't fly, you were innocent.’

`But also dead?’

`Their judicial system wasn't perfect, witness the duckingstool. Same principle.’

`How do you know all this?’

`It's amazing what these young constables know nowadays.’

He paused. 'About lunch… I should go into work.’

`Oh no, you don't.’

`Patience, there's been a-‘

`John, there'll be a murder here if we don't start spending some time together. Phone in sick.’

`I can't do that.’

`Then I'll do it. I’m a doctor, they'll believe me.’

They believed her.

They walked off lunch by taking a look at Carlops Rock, and then braving a climb onto the Pentlands, despite the fierce horizontal winds. Back in Oxford Terrace, Patience eventually said she had some `office things' to do, which meant filing or tax or flicking through the-latest media: journals. So Rebus drove out along Queensferry Road and parked outside the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual noting with guilty pleasure that no one had yet corrected the mischievous graffiti on the noticeboard which turned 'Help' into `Hell'.

Inside, the church was empty, cool and quiet and flooded with coloured light from the stained glass. Hoping his timing was good, he slipped into the confessional. There was someone on the other side of the grille.

`Forgive me, father,' said Rebus, `I'm not even a Catholic.’

`Ah good, it's you, you heathen. I was hoping you'd come. I want your help.’

'Shouldn't that be my line?’

`Don't be bloody cheeky. Come on, let's have a drink.’