'I'll settle for that.' Rebus took a mouthful.

'Malcolm put it there.'

'Oh?'

'He got a phone call and left in a hurry.'

'When was this?'

'Maybe three quarters of a tuna sandwich back.'

Rebus frowned in thought, then retreated to the corridor to make the call.

'Yes, John?' Fox said, answering. He kept his voice low, uncertain about the protocol regarding mobile phones. Time was, there were signs everywhere warning that they could interfere with the machines, so he kept his eye on the readouts, without noting any sudden peaks or troughs.

'Where are you, Malcolm?'

'The Infirmarymy dad's taken a turn for the worse.'

'Sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?'

'I've not spoken to anyone yet.'

'I'm sure it'll be fine.'

'Aye. Maybe.' Fox cleared his throat. 'Listen, Joe Stark has left town. Taking all but two of the gang with him.'

'Oh?'

'Might put your chum Cafferty's mind at restplus Darryl Christie.'

'It might,' Rebus seemed to agree. 'Speaking of Cafferty, which care home was your dad in again? Wasn't Meadowlea?'

'Isn't that more of a medical place? Like a hospice?' Fox saw a white coat approaching. The doctor looked only just out of her teens, but she lifted the clipboard with confidence and studied it with deep concentration. 'Got to go,' Fox told Rebus.

'Call me if you need anything.'

'Thanks.' Fox put the phone away and rose to his feet. 'I'm his son,' he told the doctor. She had finished reading the notes and acknowledged him with a nod, squeezing past to check the readouts, the drip, the oxygen. 'Is there anything you can tell me?'

'We'll be running tests later today.'

'I was told he'd had a seizurecould it be a stroke? He doesn't look like he's coming round any time soon.'

'Sometimes the body shuts down so it can repair itself.'

'But what about the other times?'

The doctor glanced at her patient's face. 'We'll know more in a short while. Your father's a good age, Mr Fox...'

'Meaning what?'

'You said it yourselfbrain and body can just decide it's time.'

And there was that smile again, the same one the nurse in A&E had offered. He watched the doctor as she moved to the next bed. A bit of him wanted to confront her, drag her back to this bed. But to what end? Instead he sat back down, feeling a weight pressing upon him. It was time to phone Jude. It was time to start preparing.

Patrick Spiers didn't own a detached house in Gullane. The address Stout had given Rebus led to a 1960s high-rise in Wester Hailes. It was one of those times he was thankful his car didn't look worth stealing. On the other hand, the jazz musician Tommy Smith had grown up in this environment, so anything was possible. Maybe the kids scowling from their BMXs would grow up to be artists and musicians. Or hospital consultants. Or care workers. When Rebus gave one group an encouraging smile, however, he received only unblinking scowls in reply.

The lift was working, so Rebus took it to the sixth floor, trying not to think about what might be in the polythene carrier bag that sat in one corner, its handles tied together to create a seal.

He didn't know what he was expecting on the sixth floor of the tower block. Stout had mentioned a grown-up daughter, but he hadn't thought she lived with her father. There had never been a wife, just a string of 'significant others'. The old journalist had confirmed that Spiers had succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver'and probably a host of other ailments besides'.

Rebus stood on the walkway. It was only partially glassed in, the glass itself scored with graffiti. But he had a view south to where snow lay on the Pentlands, just beyond the bypass. The street lights were already on, though the sun was just barely below the horizon. Long shadows at ground level. Rebus tried thinking how many hours of daylight there had beennot quite eight, maybe seven and a half. At this time of year, kids went to school in the dark and came home at twilight. He'd often wondered if crime rose in the winterdarkness changed people's mood; darkness changed everything. And under cover of darkness, anything might happen undetected.

He found himself standing outside flat 6/6. The window was curtained but there was a light on beyond the frosted-glass panel in the front door. Neighbours had added iron gates to theirs, creating a better barrier against incursion. Either Patrick Spiers had had more faith in his fellow humans, or there was nothing inside worth stealing.

The doorbell worked, so Rebus waited. A woman's voice called out from within.

'Who is it?'

'I'm with the police,' Rebus called back. 'Any chance of a word?'

He heard a chain being attached to the door before it was pulled open an inch.

'ID?' the young woman said. He could see only half her face.

'Afraid not,' he apologised. 'But I can give you a number to call.'

'And how will I know I'm talking to the police and not just some crony of yours?'

'You sound like your father's daughter all right.' Rebus gave a friendly smile. 'I don't suppose he was the trusting type either.'

'And with good reason.'

'I don't doubt it.'

'What kind of cop doesn't carry ID?'

'The kind who retired recently but is working in a civilian capacity.'

'For the police?'

'That's right.' Rebus made show of blowing on his hands and rubbing them together, but he hadn't quite gained her trust yet.

'How did you get this address?'

'Albert Stout.'

'That old sleazebag.'

'The very same.'

'He used to follow my dad arounddid you know that? Just in case there was a story he could steal from him.'

'You're not endearing him to me.'

'But he's a friend of yours?'

'Not at all. I went to ask him a few questions as part of an inquiry I'm involved in, and he-' Rebus broke off. 'It really is perishing out here.'

'You know we just buried my dad?'

'Yes, I was sorry to hear it.'

'Sorry why? Did you know him?'

'I was just hoping he could help me.'

'And that's why you're sorry?' She watched Rebus nod. 'Well that's honest, I suppose.' A few seconds later, having made her mind up, she unhooked the chain and let him in.

Rebus stood in the living-room doorway, surveying the carnage.

'Bloody hell,' he said.

'It's not as bad as it looks.'

Floor-to-ceiling box files, bulging manuscripts tied with string, and three old-fashioned manual typewriters placed around a drop-leaf table, each with a sheet of paper inserted, half a page typed. There was a venerable-looking computer too, complete with a slot for the floppy disks that sat stacked next to it. A TV set in one cornernot the latest model, but at least it wasn't black and white. The posters pinned to the walls were mostly obscured by boxes, but Rebus could make out Muhammad Ali, Bob Dylan and John Lennon.

'Your dad was old school,' Rebus commented.

'Even when it came to porn.' Spiers's daughter lifted a magazine and waved it in front of Rebusa bare-breasted blonde with unfeasibly white teeth.

'Couple more years, you could put that on Antiques Roadshow.'

She looked at him and burst out laughing, covering her eyes with her free hand. She was close to tears, he could tell.

'Where do I even begin?' she said, dropping the porn mag to the floor.

Rebus was studying the writing on the spines of some of the box files. They seemed to be in chronological sequence. Various newspapers and magazines were mentioned, sometimes with a couple of lines about the stories Spiers had contributed and even the fee received.

'I didn't get your name,' he said as he looked.

'Molly.' He turned towards her and they shook hands. She was in her early thirties, about five and a half feet tall with curly black hair and a prominent mole on her chin. She wore a wedding band on her left hand.

'I'm John Rebus,' he said. 'Your husband's not with you, Molly?'

'You are a detective, then?' She played with the ring. 'We broke up a couple of months back.'

'Do you live in Edinburgh?'

'Glasgow,' she corrected him. 'Dad used to live there too.'

'How long was he in Edinburgh?'

'Best part of a decade.'

'And your mum?'

'Left me so she could go "find herself" in India.'

'Oh aye? How's that working out?'

'Horribly, I hope.' She laughed again.

'You the only child?'

'That we know about. Dad was quite the rogue in his day.' She examined Rebus as he scanned the boxes. 'What is it you're looking for?'

'An acorn in a forest,' he muttered.

'People usually say needle, don't they? A needle in a haystack?'

'Your father wrote about a place called Acorn House,' Rebus explained.

'That rings a bell.' Rebus watched as she went to another teetering tower of box files. 'Help me with this,' she said. There were two boxes marked Acorn House, halfway down the pile. Rebus removed the top three or four, then two more, and Molly lifted the boxes in question.

'They don't weigh much,' she said.

Because they were empty, apart from a single sheet of paper in each. On the first were written words that stopped Rebus dead.

They took the lot! They took the fucking lot!

The second note consisted of a short string of numbers. 'Any ideas?' he asked Molly.

'Dates maybe?' She shrugged. Then she took another look. 'Dad has boxes of disks. Some of them have numbers...'

It took a further ten minutes of sifting until she plucked one disk from a box and held it up. 'This one,' she said. Rebus took it from her. It was a black plastic square with an index sticker on it. Written in pencil were numerals that matched the note. A thin brushed-metal cover could be pushed to one side, giving a glimpse of the flimsy brown circle within, the recording tape containing the data.

'"Formatted for IBM PS/2 and compatibles",' Rebus recited. '"1.44 MB, High Density MFD-2HD".'

'Cutting edge at the time, I dare say,' Molly said, folding her arms.

'Let's see what's on it, then.'

They fell at the first hurdle, however. Patrick Spiers's computer was password-protected. Molly offered some suggestions, but none proved right. Rebus ejected the disk and cursed silently.

'Sorry,' Molly said in sympathy.

'Not your fault. But I'll have to take it with meis that okay?'