‘This could be true.’

‘You’d make it true?’ Ancram shrugged. ‘In return for what?’

‘John, you’ve ruffled more feathers than a puma in a parrot-house, and you’ve been about as subtle.’

‘You want me to be more subtle?’

Ancram’s voice tightened. ‘I want you to sit on your arse for once.’

‘Drop the Mitchison inquiry?’ Ancram didn’t say anything. Rebus repeated the question.

‘You might find it does you the world of good.’

‘And you’d have done Uncle Joe Toal another good turn, eh, Ancram?’

‘Wake up to reality. This isn’t a linoleum floor, big squares of black and white.’

‘No, it’s grey silk suits and crisp green cash.’

‘It’s give and take. People like Uncle Joe don’t go away: you get rid of him and a young pretender starts making claims.’

‘Better the devil you know?’

‘Not a bad motto.’

John Martyn: ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.

‘Here’s another,’ Rebus said, ‘don’t rock the boat. Sounds like that’s what you’re telling me.’

‘I’m advising you for your own good.’

‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’

‘Christ, Rebus, I begin to see why you’re always out on a limb: you’re not easy to like, are you?’

‘Mr Personality six years running.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I even cried on the catwalk.’ A pause. ‘Did you ask Jack Morton about me?’

‘Jack has a bizarrely high opinion of you, something I put down to sentiment.’

‘Big of you.’

‘This is getting us nowhere.’

‘No, but it’s passing the time.’ Rebus saw signs for a service area. ‘Are we stopping for lunch?’

Ancram shook his head.

‘You know, there’s one question you haven’t asked me.’

Ancram considered not asking, then caved in. ‘What?’

‘You haven’t asked what Stanley and Eve were doing in Aberdeen.’

Ancram signalled to pull into the service area, braking hard. The driver in Rebus’s Saab nearly missed the slip-road, tyres squealing on tarmac.

‘Trying to lose him?’ Rebus enjoyed seeing Ancram rattled.

‘Coffee break,’ Ancram snarled, opening his door.

Rebus sat with the tabloid on the table in front of him, reading about Johnny Bible. The victim this time was Vanessa Holden, twenty-seven and married – none of the others had been married. She was director of a company which put on ‘corporate presentations’: Rebus wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. The photo in the paper was the usual smile-for-the-camera job, taken by a friend. She had shoulder-length wavy hair, nice teeth, probably hadn’t thought about dying much short of her eightieth birthday.

‘We’ve got to catch this monster,’ Rebus said, echoing the last sentence of the story. Then he crumpled the paper and reached for his coffee. Glancing down at the table, he caught a sideways glimpse of Vanessa Holden, and got the feeling he’d seen her before somewhere, just a fleeting glance. He covered her hair with his hand. Old photo; maybe she’d changed hairstyle. He tried to see her face with a few more miles on its clock. Ancram wasn’t watching, was talking to the lackey, so he didn’t see the shock of recognition hit Rebus’s face.