‘Make sure that goes on record.’

‘I will.’

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘John … when are you coming back?’ Not what she’d wanted to ask.

‘Tonight, maybe tomorrow.’

‘OK.’ She paused. ‘See you then.’

‘Fancy doing something on Sunday?’

She sounded surprised by the question. ‘What sort of thing?’

‘I don’t know. A drive, a walk, somewhere down the coast?’

‘Yes, OK.’

‘I’ll call you. Bye, Gill.’

‘Bye.’

Grogan was refilling a cup. There were at least a couple of crates of whisky, and three of bottled beer.

‘Where do you get this stuff?’ Rebus asked.

Grogan smiled. ‘Oh, you know.’

‘Pubs? Clubs? Places you’re owed a favour?’

Grogan just winked. More officers were arriving all the time – uniforms, civilian staff, even people who looked to be off-duty: all had heard, and all wanted to be part of it. The top brass looked stiff but smiling, declining refills.

‘Maybe Ludovic Lumsden gets it for you?’

Grogan’s face creased. ‘I know you think he shafted you, but Ludo’s a good copper.’

‘Where is he?’

Grogan looked around. ‘No idea.’

In fact, no one knew where Lumsden was; he hadn’t been seen all day. Someone had called him at home, but only got an answering machine. His bleeper was turned on, but he wasn’t responding. A patrol car, detouring past his house, reported no sign of him, though his car was outside. Rebus got an idea, and went downstairs to the comms room. There were people at work here – taking incoming calls, keeping communications open with patrol cars and beat officers. But they had a bottle of whisky of their own, and plastic cups to go round. Rebus asked if he could see the day’s sheets.

He only had to look back an hour. A call from a Mrs Fletcher, reporting her husband missing. He’d gone to work that morning as usual, but hadn’t arrived, and hadn’t come home since. The sheet listed details of his car and a brief description. Patrols had been requested to keep a look-out. In another twelve hours or so, they’d start to deal with it more seriously.

Christian name of missing spouse: Hayden.

Rebus recalled Judd Fuller talking about dumping bodies at sea, or inland, places they’d never be found because no one ever went there. He wondered if that would be the fate of Lumsden and Fletcher … No, he couldn’t do it. He wrote a message on the back of one of the sheets and handed it to the duty officer, who read it silently before reaching for the mike.

‘Any patrol in the vicinity of the city centre, to College Street, Burke’s Club. Apprehend Judd Fuller, co-owner, and bring to Queen Street for questioning.’ The comms officer turned to Rebus, who nodded. ‘And check the cellar,’ he continued, ‘persons possibly being held there against their will.’

‘Please repeat,’ one patrol car said. The message was repeated. Rebus went back upstairs.

In spite of the party, some work was still being done. Rebus saw Jack manoeuvring one of the secretaries into a corner, chatting her up twenty to the dozen. Near them, a couple of desk-bound officers were making phone calls. Rebus picked up a spare receiver, called Gill.