‘I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown.’

He went back to the window. They were clearing off. The Redgauntlet camera was being loaded into the estate car. Message three. At the sound of the voice, Rebus turned slack-jawed to watch the machine.

‘Inspector, the inquiry will be based at Fettes. I’ll probably bring one of my own men with me, but otherwise will utilise officers and civilian staff from Fettes. So as from tomorrow morning you can contact me there.’

Rebus walked over to the machine and stared down at it, daring it … daring it …

Beep. Message four.

‘Two tomorrow afternoon for our first meeting, Inspector. Let me know if this —’

Rebus snatched up the machine and flung it at the wall. The lid flew open, ejecting the tape.

His doorbell rang.

He checked through the spyhole. Could not believe it. Opened the door wide.

Kayleigh Burgess took a step back. ‘Christ, you look fierce.’

‘I feel fierce. What the hell do you want?’

She brought a hand from behind her back, showing a bottle of Macallan. ‘Peace offering,’ she said.

Rebus looked at the bottle, then at her. ‘Is this your idea of entrapment?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Any microphones or cameras about your person?’

She shook her head. Strands of curling brown hair came to rest against her cheeks and the sides of her eyes. Rebus stepped back into the hall.

‘Lucky for you I’ve a drouth on me,’ he said.

She walked ahead of him into the living room, giving him the chance to study her body. It was every bit as tidy as Feardie Fergie’s house.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about your tape machine. Send me the bill, I mean it.’

She shrugged, then saw the answering machine. ‘What is it with you and technology?’

‘Ten seconds, and already the questions have started. Wait here, I’ll get the glasses.’ He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, then gathered up the press cuttings and newspapers from the table, flinging them into a cupboard. He rinsed two glasses, and took his time drying them, staring at the wall above the sink. What was she after? Information, naturally. Gill’s face came into his mind. She’d asked him for a favour, and a man had died. As for Kayleigh Burgess … maybe she’d been responsible for Geddes’ suicide. He took the glasses through. She was crouched in front of the hi-fi, studying album spines.

‘I’ve never owned a record player,’ she said.

‘I hear they’re the next big thing.’ He opened the Macallan and poured. ‘I’ve no ice, though I could probably chip a block off the inside of the freezer.’

She stood up, took her glass from him. ‘Neat’s fine.’

She was wearing tight black denims, faded at bum and knees, and a denim jacket with fleece lining. Her eyes, he noticed, were slightly bulbous, her eyebrows arched – natural, he thought, not plucked. Sculpted cheekbones, too.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

She sat on the sofa, legs slightly apart, elbows on knees, holding the drink up to her face.