‘You were at the docks around the time she was murdered. You arrived back at your hotel cut and bruised, your clothes a mess.’

‘This is bullshit! I don’t have to listen to this!’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Charge me then.’

‘We’ve a few more questions, Inspector. This can be as painless as you like, or it can be absolute bastarding agony. You choose, but before you do that – sit down!’

Rebus stood there. His mouth was open, and he wiped saliva from his chin. He looked over at Lumsden, who was still seated, albeit tensed, ready to jump if words became deeds. Rebus wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He sat down.

Grogan took a deep breath. The air in the room – what was left of it – was beginning to smell bad. It wasn’t even half past seven.

‘Bovril and oranges at half time?’ Rebus asked.

‘That might be a long way off.’ Grogan walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head out. Then he held the door wide open so someone outside could come in.

Chief Inspector Chick Ancram.

‘Saw you on the news, John. Not exactly telegenic, are you?’ Ancram slipped off his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. He looked like he was about to enjoy himself. ‘You weren’t wearing your hard hat, mightn’t have recognised you otherwise.’ Grogan walked over to where Lumsden was sitting, like a tag-team wrestler leaving the ring. Ancram started rolling up his sleeves.

‘Going to be a hot one, John, eh?’

‘A scorcher,’ Rebus muttered. Now he knew why CID liked dawn raids: he felt exhausted already. Exhaustion played tricks with your mind; it made you make mistakes. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

Ancram looked to Grogan. ‘I don’t see why not. How about you, Ted?’

‘I could do with a cup myself.’ He turned to Lumsden. ‘On you go, son.’

‘Fucking message-boy,’ Rebus couldn’t help saying.

Lumsden sprang to his feet, but Grogan had a restraining hand out.

‘Easy, son, just go get those coffees, eh?’

‘And DS Lumsden?’ Ancram called. ‘Make sure Inspector Rebus gets decaf, we don’t want him getting all jumpy.’

‘Any jumpier and I’d be a kangaroo. Lumsden? I like hundred per cent decaf, no pissing or howking into it, OK?’

Lumsden left the room in silence.

‘Now then.’ Ancram sat down across from Rebus. ‘You’re a hard man to catch.’

‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

‘I think you’re worth it, don’t you? Tell me something about Johnny Bible.’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything. His methods, background, profile.’

‘That could take all day.’

‘We’ve got all day.’

‘Maybe you have, but my room’s got to be vacated by eleven, or else it’s another day’s rate.’

‘Your room’s already empty,’ Grogan said. ‘Your stuff’s in my office.’

‘Inadmissible as evidence: you should have had a search warrant.’

Ancram shared a laugh with Grogan. Rebus knew why they were laughing, he’d’ve been doing it too if he’d been where they were. But he wasn’t. He was where a lot of men and women, some of them barely adult, had been before him. Same chair, same sweaty room, same set-up. Hundreds and thousands of them, suspects. In the eyes of the law, innocent until proven guilty. In the eyes of the interrogator, the other way round. Sometimes to prove to yourself that a suspect was innocent you had to break them. Sometimes you had to go that far before you were sure in your mind. Rebus didn’t know how many sessions like this he’d sat in on … hundreds, certainly. He’d broken maybe a dozen suspects only to find they were innocent. He knew where he was, knew why he was there, but that didn’t make it any easier.