He had the address for Eugene Construction, got it from Ryan Slocum’s business card. I stood next to Bible John in a bar. He bought me a drink. Rebus shook his head. Probably a lot of other people could say the same, if only they knew; Rebus wasn’t so special. The company’s phone number was on the card, but all he’d got was an answering machine. It didn’t mean no one was there: security wouldn’t necessarily answer the phones. The card also had a pager number for Slocum, but Rebus wasn’t about to use that.

The company was housed behind a tall mesh fence. It took twenty minutes of driving around and asking questions before he found it. It wasn’t dockside, which was where he’d expected it to be. There was a country business park on the edge of town, and Eugene Construction bordered that. Rebus drove up to the gates. They were locked. He sounded his horn. There was a gatehouse, its lights on, but nobody in. Past the gates were barriers, painted red and white. His headlamps picked them out, and then behind them, coming forwards, a sauntering figure in guard’s uniform. Rebus left the car running, walked up to the gate.

‘What is it?’ the guard asked.

He pressed his warrant card to the mesh. ‘Police. I need a home address for one of your employees.’

‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

Gritted teeth. ‘Afraid not.’

The guard – sixties, retirement age, low-slung paunch – rasped at his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Look, who do you contact in an emergency?’

‘My office.’

‘And they contact someone from the company?’

‘I suppose so. Haven’t had to test it. Some kids tried to scale the fence a few months back, but they –’

‘Could you phone in?’

‘– heard me coming and ran away sharpish. What?’

‘Could you phone in?’

‘I suppose so, if it’s an emergency.’ The guard walked towards his hut.

‘And could you let me in while you’re at it? I’ll need to use your phone afterwards.’

The guard scratched his head, muttered something, but shook a chain of keys from his pocket and walked up to the gate.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus told him.

The hut was sparsely furnished. Kettle, mug, coffee and a little jar of milk sat on a rusted tray. There was a one-bar electric heater, two chairs, and a paperback novel on the desk: a western. Rebus took the telephone and explained the situation to the guard’s supervisor, who asked to speak to the guard again.

‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said, ‘ID and everything.’ Staring at Rebus like he might be leader of a heist gang. He put Rebus back on, and the supervisor handed him the name and phone number he needed. Rebus made the call, waited.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mr Sturges?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. I’m calling from your company’s gatehouse.’

‘Not a break-in or something?’ The man sighed. A break-in meant he’d have to get dressed and go down there.