![]() Rebus walked over towards the wall and stared at him. ‘The edges are sharp, you might get cut.’ He shrugged, running his fingers now along the rim of the table, leaving traces of sweat and grease. ‘And what were you doing in Aberdeen, Mr Shand?’ The grating of his chair on the floor seemed to unnerve Shand. ![]() ‘I took her clothes off and was intimate with her.’ ‘After she was dead?’ Shand moved a little in the chair. ‘Bought it at some shop, I can’t remember where.’ He looked like a piece of machinery at rest. Maclay was leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes reduced to slits. He didn’t know anyone at Craigmillar very well, not yet. His name was Maclay, and Rebus didn’t know him very well. ‘Us’ because there was another CID man in the biscuit-tin. He ran twitching fingers through dark greasy hair, seeking out and covering a large bald spot at the crown of his head. He was forty years old, single, and lived alone in a council block in Craigmillar. His name was William Crawford Shand, known as ‘Craw’. There were so many butts in the tin ashtray, a couple spilled over on to the metal table. ‘Is it?’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. Sydney Goodsir Smith, ‘Kynd Kittock’s Land’ ![]() This empty capital snorts like a great beastīut with nae belief. James Ellroy (Capitalisation the author’s own) to say I can rewrite history to my own specifications, you can get away with it. Robert Burns, ‘Fareweel to a’ Our Scottish Fame’ ![]()
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