“Talk to Forbes,” Rebus went on. “Let him know we’re on your side. Then give us a call…”

He was getting back to his feet again as Alice Bell returned with a half-filled glass.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Bell said, determination in her voice. The childproof cap on the pill bottle was defeating her friend, so she took it from her and opened it.

“You need to go easy on those,” Clarke advised.

“Then I won’t.” Traynor shook three small tablets into the palm of her hand and scooped them into her mouth, taking the glass from Bell and drinking from it. Afterwards, she gave a satisfied sigh and laid her head down on the sofa, closing her eyes.

“Don’t let her take too many,” Clarke warned.

“Time for you to leave,” Alice Bell repeated, pointing towards the door.

Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her own sofa, a cookery program on TV and a microwave meal on a tray on her lap, when her mobile rang. It was Laura Smith, wanting an update.

“The office is closed for the night,” Clarke told her, stabbing at a forkful of food.

“I hear the postmortem result was inconclusive.”

“Then you know as much as I do.”

“You can really switch off? At home, I mean?”

“I’d be a sad case otherwise.”

“That must be me, then. Working days seem to get longer all the time.”

“Poor you. Editor running you ragged?”

“It’s not him; it’s just the job.”

“Then put the phone down and go for a walk, maybe catch a film…”

“Chance would be a fine thing. Have you done anything with that tip I gave you?”

“Forbes and his drugs? Everyone seems to be denying it.”

“There’s a surprise. And the interview with Owen Traynor…?”

“Was a matter of routine.”

“I had a chat with the political desk here—you know he’s friends with Stefan Gilmour, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Clarke lied, suddenly interested but hoping it didn’t show in her voice. “But I’m impressed your political desk knows.”

“Since he’s prominent in the No camp, the Yes supporters have a little file on Gilmour. Traynor’s name is in there. Some business venture from a few years back.”

“Not really relevant,” Clarke said, scribbling a note in the front-page margin of an old Evening News.

“There could still be political capital to be made out of it. With Pat McCuskey gone, the Yes people would love some dirt on his equivalent in the No camp.”

“I dare say they would.”

There was silence on the line, then a sigh from the journalist. “I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?”

“It’s yours to waste, Laura.”

“I gave you Forbes McCuskey—don’t forget that.”