‘Sitting here, minding the fort. I promise.’

The minute Jack was out of the door, Rebus headed for the telephone. He asked to be put through to DCI Ancram. Then he waited, looking around the room. Somebody breaks in, then leaves without taking the hi-fi. It was almost an insult.

‘Ancram.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Something on your mind, Inspector?’

‘My flat’s been broken into.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. What did they take?’

‘Nothing. That’s where they slipped up. I thought you should tell them.’

Ancram laughed. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me. The word “harassment” springs to mind.’ As soon as he said it, he thought of The Justice Programme: how desperate were they? Desperate enough for a spot of housebreaking? He couldn’t see it, not Kayleigh Burgess. Eamonn Breen, however, was another matter entirely …

‘Look, this is a pretty serious allegation. I’m not sure I want to listen to it. Why not calm down and think it over?’

Rebus was doing just that. He hung up on Ancram, got his wallet out of his jacket pocket. It was full of scraps of paper, receipts, business cards. He plucked out Kayleigh Burgess’s, phoned her office.

‘I’m afraid she’s not here this afternoon,’ a secretary told him. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘What about Eamonn?’ Trying to sound like a friend. ‘Is he in by any chance?’

‘I’ll just check. What’s the name?’

‘John Rebus.’

‘Hold the line.’ Rebus held. ‘No, sorry, Eamonn’s out as well. Shall I tell him you called?’

‘No, it’s all right, I’ll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway.’

Rebus went through the flat again, more carefully this time. His first thought had been a straight break-in; his second some sort of ruse to wind him up. But now he was thinking of other things someone could have been looking for. It wasn’t easy to tell: Siobhan and her friends hadn’t exactly left the place as they’d found it. But nor had they been particularly thorough. For instance, they hadn’t spent time in the kitchen, hadn’t opened the cupboard where he kept all his cuttings and newspapers.

But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack … no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.

But someone had. Someone most definitely had.

By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.

Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.

‘I like that,’ Jack said.