The third body belonged to the gunman, who’d turned his weapon on himself. No mystery, as Siobhan had said.

Except for the why.

“He was like you,” she was saying. “Ex-army, I mean. They reckon that’s why he did it: grudge against society.”

Rebus noticed that her hands were now being kept firmly in the pockets of her jacket. He guessed they were clenched and that she didn’t know she was doing it.

“The papers say he ran a business,” he said.

“He had a powerboat, used to take out water-skiers.”

“But he had a grudge?”

She shrugged. Rebus knew she was wishing there was a place for her at the scene, anything to take her mind off the other inquiry-internal this time, and with her at its core.

She was staring at the wall above his head, as if there were something there she was interested in other than the paintwork and an oxygen outlet.

“You haven’t asked me how I’m feeling,” he said.

She looked at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m going stir-crazy, thank you for asking.”

“You’ve only been in one night.”

“Feels like more.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Nobody’s been to see me yet, not today. Whatever they tell me, I’m out of here this afternoon.”

“And then what?”

“How do you mean?”

“You can’t go back to work.” Finally, she studied his hands. “How’re you going to drive or type a report? What about taking phone calls?”

“I’ll manage.” He looked around him, his turn now to avoid eye contact. Surrounded by men much his age and sporting the same grayish pallor. The Scots diet had taken its toll on this lot, no doubt about it. One guy was coughing for want of a cigarette. Another looked like he had breathing problems. The overweight, swollen-livered mass of local manhood. Rebus held up one hand so he could rub a forearm over his left cheek, feeling the unshaven rasp. The bristles, he knew, would be the same silvered color as the walls of his ward.