‘You’re supposed to make that clear before you say anything.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘Off the record.’

She nodded, raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to off the record remarks.’

Rebus put his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. The whisky was loosening him up, mixing with the exhaustion and a brain that seemed full to bursting. A dangerous cocktail. He knew he’d have to be more careful, starting straight away.

‘Want some music?’ he asked.

‘Is that a subtle change of subject?’

‘Questions, questions.’ He went over to the hi-fi, slotted in a tape of Meddle.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘Pink Floyd.’

‘Oh, I like them. Is it a new album?’

‘Not exactly.’

He got her talking about her job, how she got into it, her life all the way back to childhood. Now and again she asked a question about his past, but he’d shake his head and lead her back into her own story.

She needs a break, he thought, as in a rest. But she was obsessed with her job, maybe this was as close as she could allow herself to come to a respite: she was with him, so it counted as work. It came down to guilt again, guilt and the work ethic. He thought of a story: World War One, Christmastime, the opposing sides emerging from their trenches to shake hands, play a game of football, then back into the trenches, picking up their guns again …

After an hour and four whiskies, she was lying on the sofa with one hand behind her head, the other resting on her stomach. She’d taken her jacket off, and was wearing a white sweatshirt beneath. She’d rolled the sleeves up. The lamplight made golden filaments of the hairs on her arms.

‘Better get a taxi …’ she said quietly, Tubular Bells in the background. ‘Who’s this again?’

Rebus didn’t say anything. There was no need to: she was asleep. He could wake her, help her into a taxi. He could drive her home, Glasgow under an hour away at this time of night. But instead he covered her with his duvet, left the music on so low he could barely hear Viv Stanshall’s intros. He sat in his chair by the window, a coat covering him. The gas fire was on, warming the room. He’d wait till she woke up in her own time. Then he’d offer a taxi or his services as driver. Let her choose.

He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning. He had an idea about tomorrow and Ancram and the inquiry. He was turning it, shaping it, adding layers. A lot of thinking to do …

He awoke to streetlamp sodium and the feeling that he hadn’t been asleep long, looked at the sofa and saw Kayleigh had gone. He was about to close his eyes again when he noticed her denim jacket still lying on the floor where she’d thrown it.