‘My breathing’s under control, so talk to me.’

‘First victim,’ she said. ‘I spoke to someone at Robert Gordon’s. Deceased was studying geology, and it included time spent offshore. People who study geology up there almost always get a job in the oil industry, the whole course is geared towards it. Because she spent time offshore, deceased did a survival module.’

Rebus was thinking: chopper simulator, ducked in a swimming pool.

‘So,’ Siobhan went on, ‘she spent time at OSC.’

‘The Offshore Survival Centre.’

‘Which deals with nothing but oil people. I got them to fax me staff and student rolls. So much for the first victim.’ She paused. ‘Victim two seemed completely different: older, different set of friends, different city. But she was a prostitute, and we know that a lot of businessmen use that sort of service when they’re away from home.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Victim four worked closely with the oil industry, which left Judith Cairns, the Glasgow victim. Variously employed, including part-time cleaning at a city-centre hotel.’

‘Businessmen again.’

‘So tomorrow they begin faxing me names. They weren’t keen, client confidentiality and all that.’

‘But you can be persuasive.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what are we hoping for? A guest at the Fairmount who’s got a connection with Robert Gordon’s?’

‘It’ll be in my prayers.’

‘How soon tomorrow will you know?’

‘That’s down to the hotel. I may have to drive over there and gee them up.’

‘I’ll phone you.’

‘If you get the machine, leave a number where I can reach you.’

‘Will do. Cheers, Siobhan.’ He put the telephone down, went along to Jack’s room. Jack was wearing his robe.

‘I might have to splash out on one of these,’ he said. ‘Sarnies are on their way up, ditto a big pot of coffee. I’m just going to take a shower.’

‘Fine. Listen, Siobhan might be on to something.’ He filled Jack in.

‘Sounds promising. Then again …’ Jack shrugged.

‘Christ, and I thought I was cynical.’

Jack winked, went into the bathroom. Rebus waited till he could hear the shower running, and Jack humming what sounded like ‘Puppy Love’. Jack’s clothes were on a chair. Rebus fished in the jacket pockets, came up with car keys, pocketed them for himself.

He wondered what time Burke’s closed on a Thursday night. He wondered what he was going to say to Judd Fuller. He wondered how badly Fuller would take it, whatever it was.

The shower stopped. ‘Puppy Love’ segued into ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’. Rebus liked a man with catholic tastes. Jack emerged, wrapped in his robe and doing prize-fighter impressions.

‘Back to Edinburgh tomorrow?’

‘First thing,’ Rebus agreed.

‘To face the music.’

Rebus didn’t say he might well be facing the music long before that. But when the sandwiches arrived, he found he’d lost his appetite. Thirsty though: four cups of coffee. He needed to stay awake. Long night coming, no moon in the sky.

Darkness on the short drive in, thin rain falling. Rebus felt jolted by coffee, loose wires sparking where his nerves should be. One-fifteen in the morning: he’d rung Burke’s, the bar-side payphone, asked a punter what time the place shut.