They did a U-turn and headed for the Cowgate, home to the city's mortuary. There was an unmarked white van sitting by the loading bay. Rebus parked next to it and led the way. The night shift consisted of just two men. One was in his forties and had the look – to Rebus's eyes – of an ex-con. A faded blue tattoo crept out of the neck of his overalls and halfway up his throat. It took Rebus a moment to place it as some sort of snake. The other man was a lot younger, bespectacled and gawky.

'I take it you're the poet,' Rebus guessed.

'Lord Byron, we call him,' the older man rasped.

That's how I recognised him,' the young attendant told Rebus. 'I was at a reading he gave just yesterday…' He glanced at his watch. Day before yesterday,' he corrected himself, reminding Rebus that it was past midnight. 'He was wearing the exact same clothes.'

'Hard to ID him from his face,' Clarke interrupted, playing devil's j advocate.

The young man nodded agreement. 'All the same… the hair, that jacket and the belt…'

'So what's his name?' Rebus asked.

Todorov. Alexander Todorov. He's Russian. I've got one of his oks in the staffroom. He signed it for me.'

That'll be worth a few quid.' The other attendant sounded sudly interested.

you fetch it?' Rebus asked. The young man nodded and luffled past, heading for the corridor. Rebus studied the rows of srated doors. 'Which one's he in?'

'Number three.' The attendant rapped his knuckles against the door in question. There was a label on it, but no name as yet. 'I wouldn't bet on Lord Byron being wrong – he's got brains.'

'How long has he been here?'

'Couple of months. Real name's Chris Simpson.'

Clarke had a question of her own. 'Any idea how soon the autopsy will get done?'

'Soon as the pathologists get their arses down here.'

Rebus had picked up a copy of the day's Evening News. 'Looking bad for Hearts,' the attendant told him. 'Pressley's lost the captaincy and there's a caretaker coach.'