‘No!’

‘Using him to get at your father.’

‘No!’

‘Which means he had something you found useful. What could that be?’

She got up. ‘Get out!’

‘Something that drew the two of you together.’

She clamped her hands over her ears, shaking her head.

‘Something from your past … your childhoods. Something like blood between you. How far back does it go, Jo? Between you and your father – how far into the past does it stretch?’

She swung around and slapped his face. Hard. Rebus rode it, but it still stung.

‘So much for non-violent protest,’ he said, rubbing the spot.

She slumped down on the magazines again, ran a hand over her head. It came to rest on one of her braids, which she twirled nervously. ‘You’re right,’ she said, so quietly Rebus almost didn’t hear.

‘Mitch?’

‘Mitch,’ she said, remembering him at last. Allowing herself that pain. Behind her, lighting flickered over the photographs. ‘He was so uptight when we met. Nobody could believe it when we started seeing one another – chalk and cheese they said. They were wrong. It took a while, but one night he opened up to me.’ She looked up. ‘You know his background?’

‘Orphaned,’ Rebus said.

She nodded. ‘Then institutionalised.’ She paused. ‘Then abused. He said there were times he’d thought of coming forward, telling people, but after all this time … he wondered what good it would do.’ She shook her head, tears forming. ‘He was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met. But inside, it was like he was eaten away, and Jesus, I know that feeling.’

Rebus got it. ‘Your father?’

She sniffed. ‘They call him “an institution” in the oil world. Me, I was institutionalised …’ A deep breath, nothing theatrical about it: a necessity. ‘And then abused.’

‘Christ,’ Jack said quietly. Rebus’s heart was racing; he had to fight to keep his voice level.

‘For how long, Jo?’

She looked up angrily. ‘You think I’d let the prick get away with it twice? I ran as soon as I could. Kept running for years, then thought: fuck it, I’m not to blame. I’m not the one who should be doing this.’

Rebus nodded understanding. ‘So you saw a bond between Mitch and you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you told him your own story?’

‘Quid pro quo.’

‘Including your father’s identity?’ She started to nod, but stopped, swallowed instead. ‘That’s what he was blackmailing your father with – the incest story?’

‘I don’t know. Mitch was dead before I could find out.’

‘But that was his intention?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

‘Jo, I think we’ll need a statement from you. Not now, later. All right?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ She paused. ‘We can’t prove anything, can we?’

‘Not yet.’ Maybe not ever, he was thinking. He slid out of the seat, Jack following.

Outside, there were more songs around the camp-fire. Candles danced inside Chinese lanterns strung from the trees. Faces had turned shiny orange, like pumpkins. Joanna Bruce watched from her doorway, leaning against the bottom half of the door as before. Rebus turned to say goodbye.