blue as they splashed in the North Sea, waving at ships on the horizon, the ships their father told them were Russian spies. There was an RAF base near by; the Russians were after their secrets.
As he approached the town, the first thing he saw was the golf course, and heading into the centre he noticed that St Andrews seemed not to have changed. Had time really stood still here? Where were the High Street shoe shops and bargain outlets, the fast-food chains? St Andrews could afford to be without them. He recognised the spot where a toy shop had once stood. It now sold ice cream. A tearoom, an antique emporium... and students. Students everywhere, looking bright and cheerful in keeping with the day. He checked his directions. It was a small town, six or seven main streets. Even so, he made a couple of mistakes before driving through an ancient stone archway. He stopped by the side of a cemetery. Across the road were gates which led to a Gothic- style building, looking more like a church than a school. But the sign on the wall was clear enough: Haugh Academy.
He wondered if he needed to lock the car, but did so anyway: too old to change his ways.
Teenage girls were heading into the building. They all wore grey blazers and skirts, crisp white blouses with school ties knotted tight at the throat. A woman was standing in the doorway, donning a long black woollen coat.
'Inspector Rebus?' she asked as he approached. He nodded. 'Billie Collins,' she said, a hand shooting out towards him. Her grip was brisk and firm. As a girl, head bowed, made to pass them, she tutted and gripped her by the shoulder.
'Millie Jenkins, have you finished that homework yet?'
'Yes, Miss Collins.'
'And has Miss McCallister seen it?'
'Yes, Miss Collins.'
'Then along you go.'
The shoulder was released, the girl fairly flew through the door.
'Walk, Millie! No running!' She kept her head turned, checking the girl's progress, then brought her attention back to Rebus.
'The day being a fine one, I thought we might walk.' Rebus nodded his agreement. He wondered, the day apart, whether there might be some other reason she didn't want him in the school...
'I remember this place,' he said.
They'd descended the hill and were crossing a bridge over a burn, harbour and pier to the left of them, sea views ahead. Rebus pointed far to the right, then brought his arm down, lest the teacher scold him: John Rebus, no pointing!
'We came here on holiday... that caravan site up there.'
'Kinkell Braes,' Billie Collins said.
'That's right. There used to be a putting green just there.' Nodding with his head, a safer option. 'You can still see the outline.'
And the beach falling away just yards below them. The promenade was empty, save for a Labrador being walked by its owner. As the man passed them, he smiled, bowed his head. A typically Scots greeting: more evasion than anything else. The dog's hair hung wetly from its belly, where it had enjoyed a trip into the water. A wind was whipping off the sea, icy-smelling and abrasive. He got the feeling his companion would call it bracing.
'You know,' she said, 'I think you're only the second policeman I've had dealings with since I came here.'
'Not much crime, eh?'
'The usual student boisterousness.'
'What was the other time?'
'I'm sorry?'
'The other policeman.'
'Oh, it was last month. The severed hand.'
Rebus nodded, remembered reading about it. Some student joke, bits going missing from the medical lab, turning up around the town.
'Raisin Day, it's called,' Billie Collins informed him. She was tall, bony. Prominent cheekbones and black brittle-looking hair. Seona Grieve was a teacher, too. Roddy Grieve had married two teachers. Her profile showed a jutting forehead, hooded eyes. Her nose fell to a point. Masculine features married to a strong, deep voice. Low-heeled black shoes, the navy-blue skirt falling way past her knees. Blue woollen jumper with decoration provided by a large Celtic brooch.
'Some sort of initiation?' Rebus asked.
'The third-year students throw out challenges to the first years. There's a lot of dressing up, and far too much drinking.'
'Plus body parts.'
She glanced at him. 'That was a first, so far as I'm aware. An anatomy prank. The hand was found on the school wall. Several of my girls had to be treated for shock.'
'Dear me.'
Their walk had slowed. Rebus gestured towards a bench and they sat a decent distance apart. Billie Collins tugged at the hem of her skirt.
'You came here on holidays, did you say?'
'Most years. Played on the beach down there, went to the castle... There was a kind of dungeon there.'
'The bottle dungeon.'
'That's it. And a haunted tower...'
'St Rule's. It's just over the cathedral wall.'
'Where my car's parked?' She nodded and he laughed. 'Everything seemed a lot further apart when I was a boy.'
'You'd have sworn St Rule's was a distance from your putting green?' She seemed to consider this. 'Who's to say it wasn't?'
He nodded slowly, almost understanding her. She was saying that the past was a different place, that it could not be revisited. The town had tricked him by seeming unchanged. But he had changed: that was what mattered.
She took a deep breath, spread her hands out across her lap. 'You want to talk to me about my past, Inspector, and that's a painful subject. Given the choice, it's something I'd avoid. Few happy memories, and those aren't what interest you anyway.'
'I can appreciate--'
'I wonder if you can, I really do. Roddy and I met when we were too young. Second-year undergraduates, right here. We were happy here, maybe that's why I've been able to stay. But when Roddy got his job in the Scottish Office...' She reached into a sleeve for her handkerchief. Not that she was about to cry, but it helped her to work at the cotton with her fingers, her eyes fixed on the embroidered edges. Rebus looked out to sea, imagining spy ships - probably fishing boats, transformed by imagination.
'When Peter was born,' she went on, 'it was at the worst time. Roddy was snowed under at work. We were living at his parents' place. It didn't help that his father was ailing. With my post-natal depression... well, it was a kind of living hell.' Now she looked up. In front of her lay the beach, and the Labrador bounding across it to fetch a stick. But she was seeing a different picture altogether. 'Roddy seemed to immerse himself in his work: his way of escaping it all, I suppose.'
And now Rebus had his own pictures: working ever longer hours, keeping clear of the flat. No arguments about politics; no cushion fights. Nothing any more but the knowledge of failure. Sammy had to be protected: the unspoken agreement; the last pact of husband and wife. Until Rhona told him he was a stranger to her, and walked away, taking their daughter...
He couldn't recall his own parents ever arguing. Money had always been an issue: every week they put a little aside, saving for the boys' holiday. They scrimped, but Johnny and Mike never went without: patched clothes and hand-me-downs, but hot meals, Christmas treats and the annual holiday. Ice cream and deckchairs,
