'I want to go home,' the girl was complaining between sobs. She standing, knees grazed. Her skirt was too short, the man felt,, her denim jacket was unlikely to keep out the cold. She looked liar to him. He had considered – briefly considered – lending his coat. Instead, he reminded her again that she needed to stay put. Suddenly, their faces turned blue. The police car was arriving, lights flashing.

'Here they come,' the man said, placing his arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her, removing it again when he saw his wife was watching.

Even after the patrol car drew to a halt, its roof light stayed on, engine left running. Two uniformed officers emerged, not bothering with their caps. One of them carried a large black torch. Raeburn Wynd was steep and led to a series of mews conversions above garages which would once have housed the monarch's carriages and horses. It would be treacherous when icy.

'Maybe he slipped and banged his head,' the man offered. 'Or he was sleeping rough, or had had a few too many…'

'Thank you, sir,' one of the officers said, meaning the opposite.

His colleague had switched the torch on, and the middle-aged man realised that there was blood on the ground, blood on the slumped body's hands and clothes. The face and hair were clotted with it.

'Or someone smashed him to a pulp,' the first officer commented.

'Unless, of course, he slipped repeatedly against a cheese-grater.'

His young colleague winced. He'd been crouching down, the better to shine light on to the body, but he rose to his feet again.

'Whose is the wreath?' he asked.

'My wife's,' the man stated, wondering afterwards why he hadn't just said 'mine'.

'Jack Palance,' Detective Inspector John Rebus said.

'I keep telling you, I don't know him.'

'Big film star.'

'So name me a film.'

'His obituary's in the Scotsman.'