The languorous, late-night sound of saxophones filled the air, bringing with it the atmosphere of sleazy nightclubs and dangerous women.

Its appearance, however, confused Detective Inspector John Rebus as he was in the bath at the time, scrubbing the gaps between his toes with a toothbrush. Rebus’s gnarled, manly features creased into a scowl. This had been happening a lot recently.

The ghostly wail of seedy saxophones followed him wherever he went, particularly when he was pounding the dark, murderous streets of the Old Town in the small hours, pursuing the dirty old city’s lowest forms of life.

Maybe his ire was understandable. He was a tough, seasoned cop and he delved into the city’s vicious underbelly in a brusque, brutal manner, one more than deserving of its own musical accompaniment. But Rebus was tired, dog tired, and it was beginning to show.

He was approaching his sixties, after 40 difficult years with Lothian’s finest. He lived the life of a lonely bachelor. He was overfond of solitary drinking. Dismayed by his unorthodox methods, and his refusal to contribute to their sponsored climbs of Arthur’s Seat, his superiors looked to be edging him out of the force.

For Rebus, every day brought a new problem. He had just discovered, for instance, that his cases had been turned into a series of novels by a writer named Ian Rankin. Appalled, he had arranged to discuss the subject with his colleague Siobhan Clarke over a drink in The Oxford Bar.

“The usual please, Harry.” Rebus asked the barman.

“Which is?” Rebus glanced round the room nervously and answered in a whisper. “A Hemingway daiquiri in a tall glass, bamboo umbrella, extra double cream, hold the sparkler.” His voice regained its usual volume. “And a white wine for the lady.”

Rebus carried the drinks to the table. DS Clarke looked more attractive than ever, he thought to himself. He had long nursed a secret passion for her, ever since that sunny afternoon he’d watched her drag the bloated corpse of a heroin dealer from the Water of Leith. As the putrefied body emerged, Rebus marvelled at the lustrous intensity of Siobhan’s hair. His heart almost burst to see the tenderness with which she’d removed the samurai sword lodged in the dead man’ s windpipe. Ach, but what would she want with an old crock like him, this beautiful, alluring, fresh . . . nubile . . . supple . . . broad-minded young woman? Rebus cleared his throat and tried to focus.

Nothing, that’s what.

Defeated he threw a paperback by Rankin onto the table.

“It’s just the way it’s written, Siobhan, that’s what I mind most,” he said. “Listen to this description of Edinburgh Castle from Dead Souls: ‘The volcanic plug might be black Plasticine, and the castle balanced solidly atop it a skewed rendition of crenellated building bricks.’ Or what about: ‘The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee wrappers glued to lollipop sticks.’ Atrocious! We should arrest this guy for crimes against adjectives.”

“Right,” said Siobhan, “shall we finish these and go back to my place?” “What’s even worse,” Rebus continued, “is the way he depicts me. I’m a bit like Taggart, but I’m also a bit like John Thaw in The Sweeney. I’ve no unique, individual voice as a character. I’m just an anthology of tough-detective clichés.”

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