Be nice. Work together. Help each other. Because for these few short days, the world would be watching.

Maybe the SOCO had been at similar briefings. He was nodding slowly, turning away to continue his work. Rebus and Siobhan shared another look. Then Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

“No traces, please,” one of the other SOCOs warned him, so Rebus moved away, back toward the parking lot. He was just lighting up when another car appeared. The more the merrier, he thought to himself as DCI Macrae leaped out. He was dressed in what looked like a new suit. New tie, too, and a crisp white shirt. His hair was gray and sparse, face saggy, nose bulbous and red veined.

He’s the same age as me, Rebus thought. Why does he seem so much older?

“Afternoon, sir,” Rebus said.

“Thought you were supposed to be at a funeral.” The tone was accusatory, as though Rebus might have fabricated a death in the family to secure a Friday sleep-in.

“DS Clarke interrupted proceedings,” Rebus explained. “Thought I’d show my face.” Making it sound like a sacrifice. The words worked, too; Macrae’s tightened jaw relaxed a little.

I’m on a roll, Rebus thought. First the SOCO, now the boss. Macrae had been pretty good actually, green-lighting a day off for Rebus as soon as news broke of Mickey’s death. He’d told Rebus to go get smashed, and Rebus had obliged-the Scotsman’s way of dealing with death. He’d found himself in a part of town he didn’t know, no idea how he got there. He walked into a drugstore and asked where he was. Answer: Colinton Village Pharmacy. He’d thanked them by making the purchase of some aspirin.