‘It’s not your first today, is it?’ she asked him.

He sipped, put the glass on the arm of his chair. ‘I can stop any time I want.’ He held his arms wide. ‘See?’

She smiled, drank, watching him above the rim of the glass. He tried to read the signals: coquette, minx, relaxed, sharp-eyed, calculating, amused …

‘Who tipped you off about the inquiry?’ he asked.

‘You mean who tipped the media in general, or me personally?’

‘Whichever.’

‘I don’t know who started the story, but one journalist told another and it spread from there. A friend of mine on Scotland on Sunday phoned me; she knew we were covering the Spaven case already.’

Rebus was thinking: Jim Stevens, standing on the sideline like the team manager. Stevens, Glasgow-based. Chick Ancram, Glasgow-based. Ancram knowing Rebus and Stevens went way back, spilling the story …

Bastard. No wonder he hadn’t invited Rebus to call him Chick.

‘I can almost hear the cogs turning.’

A thin smile. ‘Pieces falling into place.’ He reached for the bottle – had left it within grabbing distance. Kayleigh Burgess rested against the back of the sofa, sliding her legs under her, looking around.

‘Nice room. Big.’

‘It needs redecorating.’

She nodded. ‘Cornices for definite, maybe around the window. I’d turf that out though.’ She was referring to a painting above the fireplace: a fishing-boat in a harbour. ‘Where’s it supposed to be?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Somewhere that’s never existed.’ He didn’t like the painting either, but couldn’t conceive of throwing it out.

‘You could strip the door,’ she went on, ‘it’d come up well from the look of it.’ She saw his look. ‘I’ve just bought my own place in Glasgow.’

‘Nice for you.’

‘The ceilings are too high for my liking, but –’ His tone of voice caught her. She stopped.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m a bit rusty on chit-chat.’

‘But not on irony.’

‘I get plenty of practice. How’s the programme going?’

‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Got to be more interesting than DIY.’ He got up to refill her glass.

‘It’s going OK.’ She looked up at him; he kept his eyes on her glass. ‘Be better if you agreed to be interviewed.’

‘No.’ He went back to his chair.

‘No,’ she echoed. ‘Well, with you or without you, the programme will go out. It’s already scheduled. Have you read Mr Spaven’s book?’

‘I’m not a great one for fiction.’

She turned to stare at the piles of books near the hi-fi. They called him a liar.

‘I’ve seldom met a prisoner who didn’t profess his or her innocence,’ Rebus went on. ‘It’s a survival mechanism.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a miscarriage of justice either?’

‘I’ve seen plenty. But the thing is, usually the “miscarriage” was that the criminal was getting away with it. The whole legal system is a miscarriage of justice.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘This conversation is strictly off the record.’