‘What I’m wondering is: who told you?’ Clarke closed her eyes for a second. ‘Actually, you don’t even need to answer that.’

‘You home for supper tonight? I can cook again if you like.’

‘Only if you promise to make half as much.’ She watched Fox approach her desk. ‘Got to go,’ she said, ending the call.

Fox was standing right next to her. He leaned down, a hand on the back of her chair, his lips almost touching her ear.

‘You told Rebus about the Mackenzies, didn’t you?’ he whispered.

‘Would I do that? I’m shocked you’d even ask.’

‘His theory is, it’s the mother and daughter in charge rather than the father. On the way back here from talking to him, I got thinking …’

‘You reckon he could be right?’

‘He might never have been much of a police officer, but he was always a gifted detective.’

‘So you’ll take it to Geoff Dickinson?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Tell him you want something in return, though – Agnew’s phone records asap.’

‘You reckon he’s got more clout than the actual ACC?’

‘Clout, no; contacts, almost certainly.’

Fox met her eyes. ‘Whispers, you said?’

‘Did I?’

‘Agnew and Haggard, bad blood – you’ve heard whispers.’ He paused. ‘Originating where, I wonder? Maybe best I don’t ask, eh?’

He was interrupted by Esson and Ritchie, who were ready to leave.

‘I’m on the end of the phone if you need me,’ Clarke told them.

‘The one and only Big Ger Cafferty,’ Ritchie was saying, like he was off to his first pop concert.

The morning was foggy, which suited Rebus fine. While he drove, he whistled an old tune he couldn’t quite name. He checked at the top of the lane, but everything was quiet, so he manoeuvred the Saab down it, stopping directly outside the lock-up. He was still whistling when he got out and surveyed the structure in front of him. He began working away at the rim of the door with the heavy-duty crowbar, pausing to take his jacket off, placing it on the passenger seat. Stealth was not exactly possible, the sounds of his efforts reverberating and rising into the air. It was a good crowbar, he’d been assured, so he had to blame the workman rather than the tool for the amount of effort it was taking. Then again, the door to the lock-up was reinforced – possibly more than was strictly necessary to protect some tools, paint pots and foldaway beds.

The first bike arrived before he’d finished the job. Rebus didn’t recognise the face above the handlebars.

‘Off you fuck,’ he told the kid.

‘You’re dead,’ the face said, slewing the bike a hundred and eighty degrees and speeding off.