‘So’s my driving,’ Rebus told them.

He had calls to make, but avoiding his flat, Fort Apache, or any other cop-shop. He thought of the early-opening pubs, but they were like offices – he was known to work out of them. Too big a chance that Ancram would find him. So he used his local launderette, shaking his head at the offer of a service wash – ten per cent discount this week. A ‘promotional offer’. Since when did launderettes need promotional offers?

He used the change machine to turn a five-pound note into coins, got coffee and a chocolate biscuit from another machine, and dragged a chair over to the wall-phone. First call: Brian Holmes at his house, a final red card on the ‘investigation’. No answer. He didn’t leave a message. Second call: Holmes at work. He disguised his voice and listened to a young DC tell him Brian was a no-show so far.

‘Is there any message?’

Rebus put down the receiver without saying anything. Maybe Brian was working from home on the ‘investigation’, not answering the phone. It was possible. Third call: Gill Templer at her office.

‘DCI Templer speaking.’

‘It’s John.’ Rebus looked around the launderette. Two customers with their faces in magazines. Soft motor sound of washers and tumble driers. The smell of fabric conditioner. The manageress was loading powder into a machine. Radio on in the background: ‘Double Barrel’, Dave & Ansel Collins. Idiot lyric.

‘You want an update?’

‘Why else would I be phoning?’

‘You’re a smooth operator, DI Rebus.’

‘Tell that to Sade. What have you done about Fergie?’

‘The notepad’s at Howdenhall, no result yet. A forensic team is going into the house today, checking for prints and anything else. They wondered why they were needed.’

‘You didn’t tell them?’

‘I pulled rank. After all, that’s what it’s for.’

Rebus smiled. ‘What about the computer?’

‘I’m going back there this afternoon, look through the disks myself. I’ll also question the neighbours about visitors, strange cars, all that.’

‘And Fergie’s business premises?’

‘I’m off to his salesroom in half an hour. How am I doing?’

‘So far, I can’t complain.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll phone you later, see how it’s going.’

‘You sound funny.’

‘Funny how?’

‘Like you’re up to something.’

‘I’m not the type. Bye, Gill.’

Next call: Fort Apache, direct line to the Shed. Maclay picked up.

‘Hello, Heavy,’ Rebus said. ‘Any messages for me?’

‘Are you kidding? I need asbestos mitts for this phone.’

‘DCI Ancram?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘ESP. I’ve been trying to reach him.’

‘Where are you anyway?’

‘Laid low, flu or something.’

‘You don’t sound too bad.’

‘I’m putting on a brave face.’

‘Are you at home?’

‘At a friend’s. She’s nursing me.’

‘Oh aye? Tell me more.’

‘Not just now, Heavy. Look, if Ancram phones again …’

‘Which he will.’

‘Tell him I’m trying to reach him.’

‘Does your Florence Nightingale have a number?’

But Rebus had hung up. He called his own flat, checking the answerphone was still working after the abuse he’d given it. There were two messages, both from Ancram.