It was a nice hotel, quietly upmarket. Rebus worked out a possible dialogue in his head. Ancram knew about the clippings in his kitchen, and Kayleigh was the only possible source. He’d been furious at the time, less angry now. It was her job after all: information, and using that information to elicit other information. It still rankled. Then there was the Spaven-McLure connection: Ancram had picked up on it; Kayleigh knew about it. And finally, above all, there was the break-in.

They waited for her in the lounge. Jack flicked through Scottish Field and kept reading out descriptions of estates for sale: ‘seven thousand acres in Caithness, with hunting lodge, stabling, and working farm’. He looked up at Rebus.

‘Some country this, eh? Where else could you lay your hands on seven thousand acres at knockdown prices?’

‘There’s a theatre group called 7:84 – know what it means?’

‘What?’

‘Seven per cent of the population controls eighty-four per cent of the wealth.’

‘Are we in the seven?’

Rebus snorted. ‘Not even close, Jack.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a taste of the high life, though.’

‘At what cost?’

‘Eh?’

‘What would you be willing to trade?’

‘No, I mean like winning the lottery or something.’

‘So you wouldn’t take back-handers to drop a charge?’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Come on, Jack. I was in Glasgow, remember? I saw good suits and jewellery, I saw something approaching the smug.’

‘They just like to dress nice, makes them feel important.’

‘Uncle Joe’s not doling out freebies?’

‘I wouldn’t know if he was.’ Jack lifted the magazine to shield his face: matter closed. And then Kayleigh Burgess walked in through the door.

She saw Rebus immediately, and a blush started creeping up her neck. By the time she’d walked over to where he was rising from his chair, it had climbed as far as her cheeks.

‘Inspector, you got my message.’ Rebus nodded, eyes unblinking. ‘Well, thanks for coming.’ She turned to Jack Morton.

‘DI Morton,’ Jack said, shaking her hand.

‘Do you want some tea?’

Rebus shook his head, gestured towards the free chair. She sat down.

‘So?’ he said, determined to make nothing easy for her, not ever again.

She sat with her shoulder-bag in her lap, twisting the strap. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ She glanced up at him, then away, took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t tell CI Ancram about those cuttings. Or about Fergus McLure knowing Spaven, come to that.’

‘But you know he knows?’

She nodded. ‘Eamonn told him.’

‘And who told Eamonn?’

‘I did. I didn’t know what to make of it … I wanted to bounce it off someone. We’re a team, so I told Eamonn. I made him promise it’d go no further.’

‘But it did.’

She nodded. ‘He was straight on the phone to Ancram. See, Eamonn … he’s got a thing about police brass. If we’re investigating someone at Inspector level, Eamonn always wants to go over their heads, talk to their superiors, see what gets stirred up. Besides, you haven’t exactly made a favourable impression with my presenter.’