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Macbeth had never tried to emulate: his European tailoring, like so many other things, marking him as an outsider here, in his home city.
    “Hi, John …” Corbin stood up a little sluggishly and shook Macbeth’s hand. “Great to see you again. You’re looking as well-groomed as ever.”
    “You okay?” Macbeth asked as he slid into the booth opposite his former colleague. He’d noticed something weary wearing at the edges of Corbin’s broad grin of welcome.
    “Me? I’m fine. Just a little overworked. You know … same ol’ same ol’.” Corbin smiled. “You? How’s Europe?”
    “Far away. Other. But good. It’s nice to be home for a while though. It gives me a chance to catch up with Casey,” Macbeth referred to his younger brother, who still lived in Boston. “I hear you’re doing well for yourself, Pete. A teaching post at McLean …”
    “Two years now.” Corbin gave another fatigued smile.
    “I’m impressed,” said Macbeth. A teaching post at McLean Hospital in Belmont was pretty much the top end of the psychiatry game. Macbeth’s own time at McLean, some years before, had been his last involvement with patient care before his move into research. McLean was something he knew looked good on a résumé. A door-opener. It had opened doors in Copenhagen for him.
    Corbin beckoned to a pretty waitress with thick auburn hair who came over and took Macbeth’s order for a glass of Pinot Grigio. As she did so she smiled at Macbeth in the way a lot of women smiled at him; since he turned fifteen girls had smiled at him that way. He’d never worked out why: he didn’t have movie-star looks, wasn’t the most confident of men or have the smartest way with words, but there was something about him that seemed to attract women. Or maybe they just thought that they’d seen him somewhere before.
    “Sure you’re okay, Pete?” he asked Corbin after the waitress brought his wine.
    “I’m fine. Joanna and I have just moved into a townhouse in Beacon Hill …”
    “You
are
doing well for yourself.” Macbeth raised his glass in a toast.
    “I guess. Joanna’s folks helped us out. To be honest, they’re loaded and we couldn’t have bought in Beacon Hill without them. Anyway, it’s an old historic house and needs a lot of work. It’s been more hassle than we thought. An interesting place though. Loaded with dark Boston history.”
    “Oh?”
    “It used to be the home of Marjorie Glaiston. You heard of her?”
    “Can’t say I have.”
    “Really? The Glaiston scandal was almost as notorious as the Albert Tirrell case.”
    Macbeth shrugged.
    “Anyway,” continued Corbin, undeterred, “the Glaistons owned half of Boston back in the late eighteen hundreds. Marjorie was a famed beauty and socialite. Until she got herself murdered. On our staircase no less …”
    “She was killed in your house?”
    “Yeah. It’s funny …” Corbin laughed joylessly. “If it had been a house anywhere other than Beacon Hill, and the murder hadhappened a year ago instead of a century ago, then no one would have been able to sell it. Seems homicide becomes romantic and marketable with the passing of time. Adds to the value. Or at least it sure seemed to when we were trying to buy the house. Truth is, fixing it up’s been a real hassle …”
    “And that’s why you’re so tired?”
    “Not just that. Like I said, work’s been crazy the last couple of months.”
    “I thought that’s what our work was supposed to be … crazy.”
    “Not crazy like this.” Corbin shook the thought off. “Anyway, let’s not talk shop. Or at least, if we’re going to talk shop, then it should be your shop we talk. This Copenhagen thing sounds amazing.”
    “It’s cool, I can say that for it.”
    “But do you think it really can be done?” asked Corbin. “Deconstructing human intelligence?”
    “I don’t know if that’s what we’re doing,” said Macbeth. “Trying to understand human intelligence, yes.”
    “But I