One message to go.

‘John?’

A woman’s voice, one he recognised.

‘If you’re home, pick up, please. I hate these things.’ Pause, waiting. A sigh. ‘OK then, look, now that we’re not … I mean, now I’m not your boss, how about some socialising? Dinner or something. Give me a call at home or office, OK? While there’s time. I mean, you won’t be at Fort Apache for ever. Take care.’

Rebus sat down, staring at the machine as it clicked off. Gill Templer, Chief Inspector, one-time ‘significant other’. She’d become his boss only recently, frost on the surface, no sign of anything but iceberg beneath. Rebus took another drink, toasted the machine. A woman had just asked him for a date: when had that last happened? He got up and went to the bathroom, examined his reflection in the cabinet mirror, rubbed his chin and laughed. Twilit eyes, lank hair, hands that trembled when he lifted them level.

‘Looking good, John.’ Yes, and he could fib for Scotland. Gill Templer, looking as good these days as when they’d first met, asking him out? He shook his head, still laughing. No, there had to be something … A hidden agenda.

Back in the living room, he emptied his lucky-bag, found that the poster of the four tykes matched the cover of one of the CDs. He recognised it: The Dancing Pigs. One of Mitchison’s tapes, their latest recording. He recalled a couple of the faces from the hospitality tent: We fucking killed them out there! Mitchison had owned at least two of their albums.

Funny he hadn’t had a ticket to the gig …

His front door bell: short, two rings. He walked back down the hall, checking the time. Eleven twenty-five. Put his eye to the spy-hole, didn’t believe what he saw, opened the door wide.

‘Where’s the rest of the crew?’

Kayleigh Burgess stood there, heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, hair tucked up under an oversized green beret, strands curling down past both ears. Cute and cynical at the same time: Don’t-Muck-Me-About-Unless-I-Want-You-To. Rebus had seen the model and year before.

‘In their beds, most likely.’

‘You mean Eamonn Breen doesn’t sleep in a coffin?’

A guarded smile; she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder. ‘You know,’ not looking at him, fussing with the bag instead, ‘you’re doing yourself no favours refusing to even discuss this with us. It doesn’t make you look good.’

‘I was no pin-up to start with.’

‘We’re not taking sides, that’s not what The Justice Programme’s about.’

‘Really? Well, much as I enjoy a blether on the doorstep last thing at night …’

‘You haven’t heard, have you?’ Now she looked at him. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Too soon. We’ve had a unit out in Lanzarote, trying to interview Lawson Geddes. I got a phone call this evening …’

Rebus knew the face and tone of voice; he’d used them himself on many grim occasions, trying to break the news to family, to friends …