He wondered about Rebus’s friend though. The policeman didn’t seem the gregarious type. They’d been painting the living room together. He couldn’t know if it was connected to the break-in; probably not. A man Rebus’s age, maybe a little younger, quite a tough-looking individual. Another police man? Perhaps. The man’s face had lacked Rebus’s intensity. There was something in Rebus – he had noticed it during their first meeting, and it had been reinforced this evening – a singleness of purpose, a sense of determination. Physically, Rebus’s friend seemed the superior, but that wouldn’t make Rebus a pushover. Physical strength could take a person only so far.

After that, it was down to attitude.

26

They were waiting outside the photo shop when it opened next morning. Jack looked at his watch for only the fifteenth time.

‘He’ll kill us,’ he said for the ninth or tenth. ‘No, I mean it, really he will.’

‘Relax.’

Jack looked about as relaxed as a headless chicken. When the manager started unlocking the shop, they sprinted from the car. Rebus had the stub ready in his hand.

‘Give me a minute,’ the manager said.

‘We’re late for something.’

Coat still on, the manager browsed through a box of photograph packets. Rebus imagined family days out, holidays abroad, red-eyed birthdays and blurred wedding receptions. There was something faintly desperate and yet touching about collections of photographs. He’d looked through a lot of photo albums in his time – usually seeking clues to a murder, a victim’s acquaintances.

‘You’ll have to wait anyway while I unlock the till.’ The manager handed over the packet. Jack glanced at the price, slapped down more than enough to cover it, and dragged Rebus out of the shop.

He drove to Fettes like there was a murder scene waiting there. Traffic honked and squealed as he did his stunt-driver routine. They were still twenty minutes late for the meeting. But Rebus didn’t mind. He had his reprints, the missing photos from Allan Mitchison’s cabin. They were similar to the other pictures: group shots, but with fewer figures. And in all of them, braid-hair, standing right next to Mitchison. In one, she had an arm around him; in another, they were kissing, grinning as their lips met.

Rebus wasn’t surprised, not now.

‘I hope they were bloody well worth it,’ Jack said.

‘Every penny, Jack.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

Chick Ancram sat with hands clasped, his face the colour of rhubarb crumble. The files were in front of him, as though they hadn’t been moved since the previous meeting. His voice had a slight vibrato. He was in control, but only just.

‘I had a phone call,’ he said, ‘from someone called Kayleigh Burgess.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘She wanted to ask me a few questions.’ He paused. ‘About you. About the role DI Morton is currently playing in your life.’

‘It’s gossip, sir. Jack and myself are just good friends.’

Ancram slapped both hands down on the desk. ‘I thought we had a deal.’