He got into his Saab and drove to Torphichen Place. The media presence had lessened—maybe they’d heard the results of the autopsy. Inside, DCI Ralph nodded a greeting. He seemed flustered, which probably explained why he didn’t question a stranger’s arrival in his midst. There was a heavy, almost drowsy atmosphere in the office. Rebus recognized it from dozens of previous investigations. Adrenaline and process carried you through the initial stages of an inquiry, but if progress stalled, there came a creeping inertia. All the phone calls had been made, all the interviews conducted. You were going over old ground constantly, for want of anything else to do. Or you headed down unpromising paths which led to dead end after dead end. All of it sapping the strength and the spirit. Especially galling when the team had become fragmented—Rebus sensed that the loss of Clarke and the few others she’d taken with her weighed heavily. Many hours of effort had been expended, and by now, answers were expected. Without them, self-worth would deflate, team morale flag.

One short tour of the main room told Rebus all of this. He headed into a smaller office where a solitary detective constable, jacket over the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up, was working away at a computer. There was a kettle, and Rebus asked if it was all right to make himself a brew.

“Long as you’ve got a pound for the kitty,” the young man said.

Rebus nodded, noticing the tin tea caddy with the slot in its top and the word MONEY taped on one side. He switched the kettle on and asked the officer if he wanted anything.

“My shout.”

“Coffee, thanks. One sugar, no milk.”

Rebus nodded again and got to work. He sifted through some change from his jacket, then, with back turned, lifted the caddy and gave it a shake, so that its contents rattled, before returning the coins to his pocket.

“No milk, one sugar,” he said, placing the mug on the corner of the desk. Then he asked the young man’s name.

“Alan Drake.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Rebus stuck out his hand. “I’m John Rebus.”

“I know.”

“Probably been warned off talking to me, eh? Big bad wolf and all that.”

“No, it’s just…well, everybody knows you.”

“You can ignore most of what you’ve heard.” Rebus picked up his mug and scooped the tea bag into a bin.

“You mentored DI Clarke,” the young man stated.

“No one ‘mentors’ Siobhan—all she ever learned from me was what not to do.” Rebus had come around to the side of the desk, so he could see what Drake was working on.

“Deceased’s diary,” the young officer obliged. “His office has been helpful…”

“The Justice Minister was a busy man,” Rebus commented. “What about the night prior to his death? Have we anything on that?”