'Your taste in music says otherwise.'

Rebus had donned his suit jacket and was patting his pockets, making sure he had everything. 'Can we make a detour first?'

'Where?'

'I've got the address of a vet. They said I could drop by.'

'Is this us saying a fond farewell to our new friend?'

'Your car or mine?' Rebus asked.

'Mineif you promise he won't pee on the seats.'

'But I can smoke if I roll the window down?'

'Absolutely not.'

Rebus expelled some air. 'And she wonders why I'm not always Mr Sunshine,' he muttered, draining the mug.

The vet made his inspection on a stainless-steel examination table.

'No bones broken... teeth seem fine.' He felt at the neck, pinching and rubbing at the skin. 'Doesn't appear to be chipped, which is a pity.'

'I thought it was compulsory.'

'Not quite yet.'

'You think he's been abandoned?'

'He may just have been lostgot out of the house and found himself too far from home to retrace his steps.'

'People sometimes put up posters, don't they?' Clarke commented.

'They do. You could do something like that yourselfa photograph on Facebook or Twitter.'

Clarke took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.

'So what happens now?' Rebus asked.

'You don't want to keep him?'

Rebus checked with Clarke and Clarke with Rebus. Both shook their heads. The vet sighed and ran his hands over the small terrier again. 'There's a database I can check,' he said. 'Just in case someone is looking for him. But the most likely scenario is simply that the owner was finding it hard to cope. I've seen it a lot these past few yearsunemployment or maybe a benefits cut, and suddenly the family pet becomes a luxury too far. I'll contact the cat and dog home.'

'If it's a question of money...' Rebus began.

'It's more that there are too many unwanted pets and not enough potential takers.'

'So they'll keep him for a while, and then...?'

'He'll be put to sleep, most probably. Though I assure you, that's a measure of last resort.'

The dog was looking at Rebus as if it trusted him to make the right decision.

'Fine then,' Rebus said. 'We'll leave you to it. Hang on to him a few days, though, will you? We'll do a bit of searching.'

'Fingers crossed,' the vet said, as Rebus opened the door to leave, knowing it was best not to look back.

Outside, Clarke got busy on her phone. 'Christine's the social media hotshot. I'll get her to post the photo everywhere she can think of.'

'Better still, ask her if she wants a dog.'

'Getting soft in your old age, John?'

'Soft as nails,' Rebus said, climbing into the Astra.

The Hermitage was a woodland walk to the south of Morningside, hemmed in by Braid Hills on one side and Blackford Hill on the other. A burn ran through the gorge, crossed here and there by wooden bridges, some in better repair than others. Dog-walkers were the main clientele, along with families with wellingtoned children, plus occasional cyclists. In spring, the air carried the pungency of wild garlic, but in winter the compressed leaves on the path froze and became treacherous.

'I never come here,' Clarke said as they walked from the car. They'd had to park on the main road, just down from the Braid Hills Hotel. Clarke had been given instructions to leave the main path as soon as possible and head into the woods along a muddier, narrower route, climbing up a steepening gradient. Rebus was a few yards behind her, his breathing laboured.

'Keep up, Grandad,' she couldn't help teasing.

'You might have warned me to bring boots,' he complained; Clarke had changed into hers at the kerbside.

'Do you even own any boots?'

'That's not the point.'

The barking of a stout yellow Labrador announced their arrival.

'Mrs Jenkins?' Clarke checked.

The woman who nodded was in her sixties, hair tucked under the rim of a knitted hat, matching scarf around her neck. She wore a green Puffa jacket and faded denims tucked into green wellies.

'Detective Inspector Clarke?' she confirmed. The dog was off its lead but she was gripping it by the collar. Clarke held her ungloved palm out and the dog gave it a sniff and a lick.

'This is Godfrey,' Mrs Jenkins informed them. She released her grip, allowing the dog to bound into the woods, following some trail only it could sense.

'He'll be fine,' she said with a smile, as if the two detectives had shown qualms about her companion's well-being.

'This is where it happened?' Clarke asked.

The woman nodded. 'Just over here.' She led them a short distance. 'This is the least used of the various paths,' she informed them. 'Godfrey and I were a bit further uphill; we'd gone as far as the perimeter of the golf course. I heard the sound and knew it was a shot. My husband, Archie, used to shootgrouse and pheasant. Horrible job plucking and cleaning them...'

'You didn't see anyone?'

'Sorry.' The smile this time was thinner. 'Whoever it was must have headed down the trail sharpish.'

They had stopped beside a young conifer. Some of the bark had been dislodged, and there was splintering, either from the impact of the bullet or more likely from its subsequent removal.

'A miserable winter's afternoon,' the woman continued. 'Whoever it was probably thought they had the place to themselves.'

'There are a lot of trees here, Mrs Jenkins,' Rebus said. 'How did you happen to spot that this was the target?'

'Smell of... what is it? Gunpowder? Cordite? It was in the air, strongest right here, and there was even a wisp of smoke drifting upwardsI must have missed the culprit by seconds.' She looked from one detective to the other. 'The police officer said it was probably just a prank of some kind, but from your faces... well, I'm guessing perhaps I had a narrow escape.'

'I wouldn't go that far,' Clarke sought to reassure her. 'But there's been a shooting in the citynothing fatal, just damage to propertyand we're looking at a possible connection. You don't happen to remember seeing anyone on your walk?'

'Baby buggies, other dog-walkers, but no one who didn't look as if they belonged. I mean, no one Arabic.'

'Arabic?' Clarke echoed.

'Mrs Jenkins,' Rebus advised, 'has got it into her head that this may be linked to terrorism.'

'Well, these days...' Mrs Jenkins' voice trailed off.

'It categorically isn't,' Clarke stressed.

'You'll forgive me, dear, but as a woman once said: you would say that, wouldn't you?'

Godfrey was circling them, nose to the ground.

'Any room at home for another dog, Mrs Jenkins?' Rebus asked.

'I'm afraid Godfrey would eat it alive.'

Godfrey, drool hanging from his jaws, didn't appear inclined to disagree.

The forensic science lab was situated in an unassuming building just off Howden Hall Road, on the south side of the city. Security had been ramped up since an arson attack a few years back that had successfully destroyed some crucial trial evidence. Once inside, Clarke and Rebus had to wait in reception, cameras peering down at them.

'If she talks to the press...' Clarke commented, not for the first time.

'I doubt even the Fourth Estate would go along with it.'

'No, but the Fifth might.'

'Meaning?'

'The internet. Bloggers and the like. Their creed is: print anything, just make sure you're the first.'

'And retract at leisure?'

'If at all.'

The man descending the stairs had a photographic identity card hanging around his neck from a lanyard. He was short, squat and bald, and his rolled-up sleeves marked him out as someone perennially busy.

'DI Clarke?' he said, making to shake hands. 'I'm Colin Bluntno relation, alas.'

'To the spy?' Rebus guessed.

'The singer,' Blunt corrected him with a frown. He led them upstairs and into a bright subdivided room. There was a table in the middle, and worktops stretching along three walls.

'Not much equipment,' Clarke commented.

'Under-resourced, you might say,' Blunt offered.

He told them to sit down, and pushed a sheet of paper towards Clarke, apologising to Rebus that he'd only made one copy.

'We're just grateful you've still got a photocopier somewhere,' Rebus commented. 'Maybe you can sum up for me while DI Clarke digests all that.'

'Well, it's preliminary stuffboth bullets were pretty mashed up. The impact has a concertina effect, you see.'

'I do.'

Blunt produced a pair of spectacles and a clean handkerchief, and started polishing as he spoke. 'There's a facility we use at Gartcosh for more detailed ballistics, but we'd have to get the okay for thatit doesn't come cheap. But from the look we've taken under our own microscope, I'd say there's an eighty to ninety per cent chance the bullets were fired from the same gun. The bullets themselves are of American manufacture, for what it's worthnine millimetre. Rifling looks similar...' He broke off. 'I'm referring to the striations.'

'I know,' Rebus said. 'So how many registered users of nine-mil pistols might there be in Scotland?'

'A handful.'

'And unregistered?'

'Who knows?'

'Not you, obviously, Mr Blunt.'

'Find us the gun and we'll tell you if it fired these bullets.'

'The more we know about the bullets, the better the chance of that happening.' Rebus paused. 'To be blunt.'

Blunt pretended to appreciate the joke, managing a weak smile.

Clarke looked up. 'Want to see?' she asked Rebus. He shook his head.

'So we've got the attack on Lord Minton,' Rebus said. 'Which involved a blow to the head-'

'Professor Quant has us looking at that,' Blunt interrupted. 'We've a database here of head injuries caused by hammers and other tools.'

'Good for you,' Rebus said, turning his attention back to Clarke. 'Then the afternoon after Minton's killed, someone discharges a firearm into a tree, and that same night a shot is fired, presumably at Cafferty's head.' He pointed a finger at Blunt. 'Which goes no further than this room, understood?'

'Understood,' Blunt spluttered.

'The gunman was doing a bit of target practice,' Clarke surmised.

'Hardly,' Rebus said. 'He fired at a tree. It's not like he placed tin cans on fence posts or pinned up the outline of a human.'

'Like when they go to a shooting range in the movies,' Blunt piped up. The look from Rebus silenced him.

'So what are you saying?' Clarke asked.