But today Father Leary sat comfortably and sedately enough in the deckchair in his garden. It was a beautiful early evening, warm and clear with the trace of a cool seaborne breeze.

`A great day to go hot-air ballooning,' said Father Leary, taking a swig from his glass of Guinness. `Or bungee jumping. I believe they've set up something of the sort on The Meadows, just for the duration of the Festival. Man, I'd like to try that.’

Rebus blinked but said nothing. His Guinness was cold enough to double as dental anaesthetic. He shifted in his own deckchair, which was by far the older of the two. Before sitting, he'd noticed how threadbare the canvas washow how it had been rubbed away where It met the horizontal wooden spars. He hoped it would hold.

`Do you like my garden?’

Rebus looked at the bright blooms, the trim grass. `I don't know much about gardens,' he admitted.

'Me neither. It's not a sin. But there's an old chap I know who does know about them, and he looks after this one for a few bob.’

He raised his glass towards his lips. `So how are you keeping?’

'I'm fine.’

`And Dr Aitken?’

`She's fine.’

`And the two of you are still…?’

'Just about.’

Father Leary nodded. Rebus's tone was warning him off. `Another bomb threat, eh? I heard on the radio.’

`It could be a crank.’

'But you're not sure?’

'The IRA usually use codewords, just so we know they're serious.’

Father Leary nodded to himself. 'And a murder too?’

Rebus gulped his drink. `I was there.’

'They don't even stop for the Festival, do they? Whatever must the tourists think?’

Father Leary's eyes were sparkling.

`It's about time the tourists learned the truth,' Rebus said, a bit too quickly. He sighed. `It was pretty gruesome.’

'I'm sorry to hear that. I shouldn't have been so flippant.’