“Or taking part in an illegal race,” Clarke said. “Or being chased—we really won’t know unless we keep looking. Jessica has a flat in Great King Street, shares with someone called Alice or Alison. There was also mention of a boyfriend.”

Page scratched at his nose while he thought.

“Don’t want anyone thinking we were sloppy,” Rebus prompted. “One quick visit to the flat should do it.”

“We’d go this evening,” Clarke confirmed. “This Alice or Alison is a student—might have classes during the day.”

“All right then.” Page had made up his mind. “But answer me this: why is it that nothing with you two is ever straightforward?”

“Blame her,” Rebus said, pointing a finger.

“Blame him,” Clarke said, at almost exactly the same time.

Out in the CID suite, they both took a series of deep breaths. It was always so airless in Page’s little cupboard, yet somehow he thrived there, as if discomfort were as vital to his well-being as oxygen. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy with paperwork. Clarke checked her phone for messages while Rebus made himself a coffee.

“Out of milk,” Esson warned him.

“The amount we get through, we should chip in and buy a cow,” Ogilvie added.

“It would keep the grass down,” Rebus agreed, staring down onto Gayfield Square, the windowpane thrumming as a lorry rattled past the end of the road. He offered to boil the kettle for Clarke but she shook her head.

“Not if we’ve got no milk.”

“I might have a sachet of powdered stuff in a drawer somewhere,” Esson offered.

“Powdered?” Rebus said. “What is this, World War Two? I thought we were at the dawn of a shiny new country?”

“Only if you can be bothered to vote for it,” Clarke chided him.

“I’ll tell you the box I’m ready to mark my cross in—a couple of drinks after Great King Street.”

But Clarke was shaking her head. “Dinner plans,” she explained.

“I thought it was all over with…” Rebus gestured towards Page’s office.

“It is.”

Christine Esson decided that Rebus needed enlightening. “A single girl doesn’t go hungry for long in this town.”

“Is that you speaking from experience?” Ogilvie chipped in.

“Who is it then?” Rebus was asking Clarke from above the rim of his mug.

“Am I not allowed a private life?”

“Absolutely—just as soon as you convince me his intentions are honorable.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and decided to busy herself making a coffee after all. Rebus stood his ground, mouth puckered, deep in thought. Then he ambled forward and leaned in towards her ear.

“A lawyer,” he whispered.

She froze for a second before spooning granules into a clean mug.