'Dead now, though.'

'Yes.'

'There's a missing kid mentioned a bit further onBryan Holroyd. Could that be him?'

'No one ever gave me a name.'

'I'm going to see if I can source a photo.'

'Will there still be records?'

'From Acorn House? I doubt it. But the kids who went there had mostly been in trouble.'

'And the police keep everything?' Cafferty nodded his understanding. Then he looked at his watch. 'I think you deserve a drink, and I'm buying.'

'I don't feel like a drink.'

'Words I doubt you've uttered before. I did tell you it wasn't going to be pleasant.'

'You did,' Rebus conceded.

'And drink can do wonderful things to unpleasant memories.'

Rebus nodded slowly. 'Fine then.' He ejected the floppy from its slot and stuck it in his pocket.

'Probably an unnecessary precaution,' Cafferty said.

'Probably,' Rebus agreed. 'But that won't stop me making copies of it, first chance I get. And speaking of precautions...'

'Yes?'

'If I hear that you've been back to Meadowlea to visit Paul Jeffries without me...'

'I admit it's crossed my mind.'

'Staff there have my number. If they tell me you've as much as paused for breath at the end of the driveway, that's us finished.'

'Time was, a man could have some fun...'

'For the likes of you and me, those days are over.'

'Then what's left to look forward to?'

Rebus plucked his house keys from the table. 'We're heading there right now,' he said.

30.

Fox's sister, Jude, lived in a terraced house in Saughtonhall. He'd suggested picking her up, but she'd said she would take a cab.

'Then I'll wait outside for you.'

'Because you want to pick up the tab? I've got money of my own, Malcolm.'

He'd waited in the hospital's main concourse instead, equidistant between the two entrances. Jude had come tottering through the sliding doors on three-inch heels, clad in skin-tight jeans, a shapeless T-shirt and a waist-length fur jacket. There were at least two gossamer-thin scarves wrapped around her neck, and her shoulder-length hair looked lifeless. Her face was pale, cheekbones prominent, eyeshadow overdone.

She stopped a yard or so from him and adjusted her sparkly shoulder bag. No embrace, no peck on the cheek. 'How's he doing?' she enquired.

'He hasn't regained consciousness.'

'And they're saying it's a stroke?'

'Have you been drinking, Jude?'

'Would you blame me if I had?'

'We should get you a coffee or something.'

'I'll be fine.'

'You're sure?'

'Do we take the lift or what?'

'We take the lift.'

'Well then.' She walked over to the wall and pressed the button. Fox had a sudden flashbackJude as a toddler, dressed in her mother's clothes and shoes, doing a fashion parade in their parents' bedroom. Another time it had been make-up and perfume. 'You coming?'

He joined her in front of the lift. Its doors slid open, revealing an attendant in charge of an empty wheelchair.

'Kind of you,' Jude told the man, 'but I think I can walk.'

Once the wheelchair had gone, they got in and waited for the doors to close.

'Times like this,' Fox said, staring at the floor, 'I wish I'd visited Dad more often.'

Jude glared at him. 'It's not the frequency that counts, it's the intention.'

He met her eyes. 'What do you mean?'

'Dad always knew you were only there out of a sense of duty.'

'That's not true.'

But Jude wasn't listening. 'You were there because it was the thing that had to be done, and you could feel all good about yourself afterwards, because you'd done your duty.' Her gaze was challenging him to deny it. 'Something you felt was expected, rather than something you did out of love, like paying for your sister's cab.'

'Jesus, Jude...'

'Dad could see it toohow bored you were, just sitting there, trying not to look at your watch too often and too obviously.'

'You know how to kick a man when he's down, sis.'

She smiled, not unsympathetically. 'I do, don't I? Needed to be said, though, before the full martyr complex kicks in. That was where we were headed next, wasn't it?'

The bell pinged and the doors slid open, the automated voice telling them they had reached their floor. Fox led the way. The lights had been dimmed. The brightest lamp sat over the nurses' station. Mitch had been moved into a room of his own. Fox was afraid to ask whymaybe a slow death wasn't something the other patients and their visitors should have to witness. The breath caught in Jude's throat when she saw her father. She walked briskly to his bedside while Fox closed the door, giving the three of them a measure of privacy. There was a window on to the main ward, its blinds left open, the room itself unlit. Fox reached for the light switch, but Jude shook her head.

'It's fine like this,' she said, touching a hand to Mitch's forehead. Her shoulder bag had fallen to the floor, a few items spilling outphone, lipstick, cigarette lighter. Fox crouched to pick them up.

'Just leave them,' she hissed. 'They're not what's important.'

'But they're something I can fix,' her brother said, straightening up, her things gathered in his hand.

Her face softened. 'I suppose that's true,' she said quietly. Then, half turning from the bed, she wrapped her arms around him and began to sob.

Siobhan Clarke had been sitting on her sofa for the best part of an hour, just staring at the bookshelves opposite. She sat bent forward, elbows on knees, face cupped in her hands. She'd made a mug of tea but it was as yet untouched. Acorn Housethose two words kept reverberating, sometimes clashing against names like Champ and Broadfoot and Holroyd. Rebus had made her promise not to take it to James Page, not until he'd had a chance to dig a little deeper. More names: Tolland and Dalrymple, Jeffries and Ritter. Rebus had bombarded her with them, like they were dots that had to be joined together so the picture could emerge.

Tolland...

She still had the file Jim Grant had given her. She remembered the DVD footage, the subdued-looking wife. Ella Tolland, sad-eyed on her wedding day, her husband controlling her, his hand grasping her arm.

'It wasn't just shyness, was it, Ella?' Clarke enquired out loud. 'I think you knew. He'd said something, or else you'd always suspected.' She straightened up and looked to left and right, spotting the file on the carpet, half hidden beneath the sofa. She lifted it up and opened it, seeking the various photographs, knowing there was no way to tell for sure, just as there was no hard and fast evidence that Acorn Housewhatever horrors it had containedhad anything to do with the attacks on Tolland, Minton and Cafferty.

'Proof would be nice,' she mused, knowing she was going to give Rebus another day or so. Because whatever you could say about the man, he clamped his teeth on to a case and didn't let go. 'Go get 'em, John,' she said, yawning as the photographs slid off her lap to the floor.

Fox was in bed when his phone rang. He had plugged it into a wall socket, so padded across the carpet in darkness and peered at the screen before answering.

'John?' he said. 'What's up?'

'Just thought I'd see how your dad's doing.'

'No real news. What time is it?'

'Did I wake you? It's only just gone eleven.'

'We're not all nighthawks.'

'You'll find you need less sleep as you get older.'

'Anything happening at your end? Help take my mind off my dad.'

'He'll either be fine or he won't, Malcolm. Nothing you can do except be there for him.'

'My sister doesn't think I even do that. I'm dutiful rather than loving, apparently. Look at meat home in bed rather than keeping vigil at his bedside.'

'Your sister's at the hospital?'

'We decided to take shifts.' Fox sat on the carpet, back to the wall, knees raised. 'Do you ever see your daughter?'

'Once or twice a year.'

'If I had a grandkid...'

'You trying to make me feel guilty? Sammy knows she can visit any time she wants.'

'Does she know you want her to, though? Seems to me we're not always good at opening up. I mean, we're fine with friends and strangers; it's our families we keep stuff from.'

'You're wishing you'd said more to your dad?'

'I said plenty, but Jude might have a pointI skated over the difficult stuff.'

'He's your fatherhe doesn't need to be told.'

'How do you mean?'

'He probably reads you better than anyone. He'll know exactly how you're feeling and what you're not saying.'

'Maybe.' Fox rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a tightness there. 'Anyway, I was asking for an update.'

'Some bad things happened in the past. They may explain the attacks on Cafferty, Minton and our Linlithgow lottery winner.'

'There is a connection then?'

'Connection and motive both.'

'Congratulations.'

'Bit early for that.'

'But you're making progress, showing the youngsters a thing or two.'

'It feels like the end of a long song, thoughmen like Cafferty and Joe Stark... and me too, come to that... we're on our last legs. Our way of doing things seems... I don't know.'

'Last century?'

'Aye, maybe.'

'Footwork still counts for something, John. Add it to gut instinct and you've got a formula that works.' He listened to Rebus drain the dregs from a glass, imagined him at home, one last whisky before bed. Hell, he could almost taste it, oily, copper-coloured, peat-rich.

'I should let you get back to bed,' Rebus said, after a satisfied exhalation.

'Will you pass on the news to Siobhan?'