‘How long have you been here?’

‘Four and a half years.’ And no killings during that time, so maybe Bible John had come out of retirement for this one job … ‘Of course,’ Una Slocum said, ‘we go back now and then to see my folks. They’re in Miami. And Ryan goes over three or four times a year on business.’

Business. Rebus added a rider to his previous thought: or maybe not.

‘Is he a churchgoer, Mrs Slocum?’

She stared at him. ‘He was when we met. It tailed off, but he’s been attending again.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Any chance I could look around? He may have left a clue where he was headed.’

‘Well … I suppose that would be all right.’ The kettle came to the boil and clicked off. ‘I’ll make the tea.’ She turned to go, paused, turned back. ‘Inspector, what are you doing here?’

Rebus smiled. ‘A routine inquiry, Mrs Slocum, to do with your husband’s work.’

She nodded as though this explained everything, then walked silently back to the kitchen.

‘Ryan’s study’s to the left,’ she called. So Rebus started there.

It was a small room, made smaller by the furniture and bookshelves. There were dozens of books about the Second World War, a whole wall covered with them. Papers were laid out neatly on the desk – stuff from Slocum’s work. In the drawers were more work files, plus others for tax, house and life insurance, pension. A life put into compartments. There was a small radio, and Rebus turned it on. Radio Three. He turned it off again, just as Una Slocum put her head round the door.

‘Tea’s in the living room.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, another thing, he’s taken his computer.’

‘Computer?’

‘You know, a laptop. He used it a lot. He kept this door locked while he worked, but I could hear the clatter of keys.’

There was a key on the inside of the door. When she’d gone, Rebus closed the door and locked himself in, then turned and tried to imagine this as the den of a murderer. He couldn’t. It was a workspace, nothing more. No trophies, and no place to hide them. No bag filled with souvenirs, like Johnny Bible had collected. And no shrine, no scrapbooks of horror. No indication at all that this person lived a double life …

Rebus unlocked the door, went through to the living room, checked the window again.

‘Find anything?’ Una Slocum was pouring tea into fine china cups. A Battenberg cake had been sliced on a matching plate.

‘No,’ Rebus admitted. He took a cup and a slice of cake from her. ‘Thank you.’ Then retreated to the window again.

‘When your husband’s a salesman,’ she went on, ‘you get used to seeing him irregularly, to having to attend boring parties and gatherings, to being hostess at dinner parties where the guests are not ones you’d have chosen for yourself.’

‘Can’t be easy,’ Rebus agreed.

‘But I never complained. Maybe Ryan would have paid me more attention if I had.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re sure he’s not in trouble?’