`Can you jam that door open?’ Claverhouse was asking the doctor. `And what about a sedative?’

Rebus was clawing his hands through his hair, bawling dry-eyed, his voice hoarse and uncomprehending. Staring down at himself, he saw the ludicrous t-shirt and knew that's what he'd take away from this night: the image of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and its grinning bright-eyed demon. He hauled off his jacket and started tearing at the shirt.

She was behind that door, he thought, and I was out here chatting as casual as you like. She'd been in there all the time he'd been here. Two things clicked: a hit and run; the car speeding away from Flint Street.

He grabbed at Redpath. `Top of Minto Street. You're sure?’

`What?’

'Sammy… top of Minto Street?’

Redpath nodded. Clarke knew straight away what Rebus was thinking.

`I don't think so, John. They were headed the opposite way.’

`Could have doubled back.’

Claverhouse had caught some of the exchange. `I just got off the phone. The guys who did Danny Simpson, we picked up the car. White Escort abandoned in Argyle Place.’

Rebus looked at Redpath. `White Escort?’

Redpath was shaking his head. `Witnesses say dark-coloured.’

Rebus turned to the wall, stood there with his palms pressed to it. Staring at the paintwork, it was like he could see inside the paint.

Claverhouse put a hand on his shoulder. `John, I'm sure she's going to be fine. The doctor's gone to fetch you a couple of tablets, but meantime what about one of these?’

Claverhouse with Rebus's jacket folded in the crook of his arm, the quarter-bottle in his hand.

The little suicide bomb.

He took the bottle from Claverhouse. Unscrewed its top, his eyes on the open doorway. Lifted the bottle to his lips.

Drank.

Book Two

`In the Hanging Garden/No one sleeps'