“He’s gone,” she told the mouthpiece.

“Well, get him back!”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible. Look… maybe if you could give me a clue what this is all about. I might be able to help…”

“I’ll leave it open if you don’t mind,” Rebus said.

“If you want the whole station to hear, that’s fine by me.”

Rebus slumped down on the visitor’s chair. “It’s just that I’m having a bit of trouble with door handles.” He lifted his hands for Templer to see. Her expression changed immediately.

“Christ, John, what the hell happened?”

“I scalded myself. Looks worse than it is.”

“Scalded yourself?” She leaned back, fingers pressing the edge of the desk.

He nodded. “There’s no more to it than that.”

“Despite what I’m thinking?”

“Despite what you’re thinking. I filled the kitchen sink to do some dishes, forgot I hadn’t added cold and plunged my hands in.”

“For how long exactly?”

“Long enough to scald them, apparently.” He tried for a smile, reckoned the dishes story was easier to swallow than the bathtub, despite which Templer looked far from convinced. Her phone started ringing. She picked up the receiver and dropped it again, cutting the connection.

“You’re not the only one having some bad luck. Martin Fairstone died in a fire.”

“Siobhan told me.”

“And?”

“Accident with a chip pan.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

“You were with him Sunday night.”

“Was I?”

“Witnesses saw you together in a bar.”

Rebus shrugged. “I did chance to bump into him.”

“And left the bar with him?”

“No.”

“Went back to his place?”

“Says who?”

“John…”

His voice was rising. “Who says it wasn’t an accident?”

“The fire investigators are still looking.”

“Good luck to them.” Rebus made to fold his arms, realized what he was doing, and dropped them to either side again.