‘No, sir, I just need some information on one of your employees.’

‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Who is it anyway?’

‘Ryan Slocum.’

‘Ryan? What’s wrong?’

‘A serious illness, sir.’ Rebus had used the lie before. ‘An elderly relative. They need Mr Slocum’s permission to operate.’

‘Good God.’

‘That’s why it’s urgent.’

‘Yes, I see, I see.’ It always worked: grandmas in peril. ‘Well, it’s not every employee whose address I know off the top of my head.’

‘But you know Mr Slocum’s?’

‘Been to dinner there a few times.’

‘He’s married?’ Enter a spouse into the equation. Rebus hadn’t imagined Bible John married.

‘Wife’s name’s Una, lovely couple.’

‘And the address, sir?’

‘Well, it’s the phone number you’ll be wanting?’

‘Both actually. That way, if no one’s home, we can send someone round to wait.’

Rebus copied the details into his notebook, thanked the man and put down the phone.

‘Any idea how to get to Springview?’ he asked the guard.

35

Springview was a modern development on the coast road south of town. Rebus parked outside Three Rankeillor Close, shut off the engine, and took a good long look at the house. There was a landscaped garden to the front – clipped lawn, rockery, shrubs and flower beds. No fence or hedge separated the garden from the pavement in front. The other properties were the same.

The house itself was a newish two-storey with gabled roof. To the right of the house was an integral garage. There was an alarm box above one of the bedroom windows. A light was on behind the living-room curtains. The car parked on the gravel driveway was a white Peugeot 106.

‘Now or never, John,’ Rebus told himself, taking a deep breath as he got out of the car. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell, then stepped back off the doorstep. If Ryan Slocum himself answered, Rebus wanted a bit of distance. He remembered his army training – unarmed combat – and an old maxim: shoot first, ask questions later. Something he should have remembered when he’d gone to Burke’s Club.

A woman’s voice came through the door. ‘Yes? What is it?’

Rebus realised he was being watched through a spy-hole. He stepped back up on to the doorstep, so she could get a close look. ‘Mrs Slocum?’ Holding his warrant card up in front of him. ‘CID, madam.’

The door was flung open. A small, slender woman stood there, black cusps beneath her eyes, her hair short and dark and untidy.

‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘what’s happened?’ Her accent was American.

‘Nothing, madam.’ Relief washed over her face. ‘Why should there be?’

‘Ryan,’ she said, sniffing back tears. ‘I don’t know where he is.’ She sought a handkerchief, realised the box was back in the living room, and told Rebus he’d better come in. He followed her into the large, well-furnished room, and while she was pulling out paper hankies took the opportunity to open the curtains a little. If a blue BMW turned up, he wanted to know about it.