‘Chris Agnew,’ Driscoll said after only the slightest hesitation.

‘Me too, probably. Let’s talk again later. And Rob?’

‘Yes, Sarge?’

‘No more losing your head, okay?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Fleck ended the call. His tea was a bit cooler than he liked, so he poured it away and made a fresh mug. It was still too early to take one upstairs, so instead he wandered through to what his wife always termed his den. There was a desk there, and a fairly antiquated computer, plus a leather chesterfield sofa where he could stretch his legs out and read. But this morning he was more minded to pace the floor, rubbing at the stubble on his chin with his free hand.

One thing and one thing alone mattered to him: his own neck. He would save it at all costs. He had already waved Tony Barlow in front of Fox in the hope of ensnaring Rebus, but he wasn’t sure Fox had fallen for it. He knew that Fox wanted a sacrifice, and ideally that would be Fleck himself. But the man was a pragmatist – they all were, once they got high enough up the greasy pole. He would settle for less. The only thing almost certainly unacceptable to him was no result at all. Fleck knew he could offer a result. Rebus for one, Driscoll or Agnew for another. Others too, if it came to it.

But John Rebus first, obviously.

Fraser and Elizabeth Mackenzie always tried to have a family breakfast. At first it had been a way of corralling the teenage Gaby so they could at least check she still had a pulse. These days, however, Gaby tended to eat on the move, comparing herself to a shark. If they were lucky, they had her company for the length of time it took to swipe a banana from the fruit bowl and juice from the fridge. Today she was elsewhere, meaning they ate in a silence that outsiders might have thought companionable.

There was always good coffee, and Fraser always drank too much of it, Beth sticking to green tea. She was dressed for the gym and managing to force down some slices of kiwi fruit and mango. Her husband had made himself porridge, a hangover from childhood. He had his phone out, as did Beth.

‘The word online,’ he said, ‘is that the Courant is actually a reporter called Laura Smith.’

‘I could have told you that,’ his wife stated.

‘You didn’t tell James when he asked.’

‘Which is why he went and asked Gaby instead. She wasn’t quite so circumspect.’ She peered at him above her phone.

Mackenzie closed his eyes briefly. ‘How did you know it was this journalist?’ he enquired.