Simpson told them he couldn't be sure. 'He's famous, you know.

There was talk of the Nobel Prize.'

Clarke had closed the book. 'There's always the Russian consulate,'

she suggested. Rebus gave a slow nod. They could hear a car drawing up outside.

'That'll be at least one of them,' the other attendant said. 'Best get the lab ready, Lord Byron.'

Simpson had reached out a hand for his book, but Clarke waved it at him.

'Mind if I hang on to it, Mr Simpson? Promise I won't put it on eBay.'

The young man seemed reluctant, but was being prodded into action by his colleague. Clarke sealed the deal by slipping the book into her coat pocket. Rebus had turned to face the outer door, which was being hauled open by a puffy-eyed Professor Gates. Only a couple of steps behind him was Dr Curt – the two pathologists had worked together so frequently that they often seemed to Rebus a single unit. Hard to imagine that outside of work they could ever lead separate, distinguishable lives.

'Ah, John,' Gates said, proffering a hand as chilled as the room.

The night's grown bitter. And here's DS Clarke, too – looking forward, no doubt, to stepping out from the mentor's shadow.'

Clarke prickled but kept her mouth shut – no point in arguI ing that, as far as she was concerned, she'd long ago left Rebus's 1»hadow. Rebus himself offered a smile of support before shaking hands with the ashen-faced Curt. There had been a cancer scare; eleven months back, and some of the man's energy had failed to jjjeturn, though he'd given up the cigarettes for good.

'How are you, John?' Curt was asking. Rebus felt maybe that lould have been his question, but he offered a reassuring nod.

'I'm guessing box two,' Gates was saying, turning to his associite.

'Deal or no deal?'

'It's number three actually,' Clarke told him. 'We think he may a Russian poet.'

“Not Todorov?' Curt asked, one eyebrow raised. Clarke showed the book, and the eyebrow went a little higher.