She hung up on him and Rebus tossed the phone onto the table. Alice Bell would know—only he had deduced the affair, and he was the only one she’d admitted it to. The chain began with him and ended with the widow’s assault. He would get nothing else from Alice now. On the other hand, if it drove a wedge between her and Forbes—and Jessica—maybe she would open up. Maybe…

But open up to Rebus? The man responsible for all of this? Not a chance in hell.

“Walked into that one, John,” he said to himself.

And all because he’d trusted Clarke and Fox, confiding in them. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed his phone and made his exit.

Rebus found DC Christine Esson behind her desk at Gayfield Square. James Page was in his broom-cupboard office, busy on the telephone. He flicked his free hand towards Rebus in greeting, then busied himself writing something down.

“How are things?” Rebus asked. Esson looked up from her computer.

“Dead slow,” she answered. “You?”

“The devil seems to find work.”

“Have you seen the video?”

“Of Widow McCuskey?” Rebus nodded.

“It had seventy-five thousand hits in its first hour.” She opened YouTube and found the page she needed. “Almost double that now, and the comments are pouring in.” She showed him where on the screen to look, then began scrolling down.

“They’ve got Alice Bell’s name,” Rebus commented.

“And plenty of speculation to go with it. Popular opinion seems to be on the side of the wronged wife.”

“But nobody knows for sure she was wronged.”

Esson gave him a look. “None of that matters online. If they were handing out flaming torches, Alice Bell would be done to a crisp by now. This’ll be the tip of it, too—if she’s on Facebook or Twitter, there’ll be plenty more bile flying her way. I really feel sorry for her. On the other hand…”

“What?”

“Well, doesn’t it flag up to you that Pat McCuskey had secrets? Might reenergize the inquiry. I’m not saying poor Alice had anything to do with it, but a spurned lover maybe…?”

“Spurned? You been at the Barbara Cartlands again? Anyway, I’m glad you’ve got your keyboard warmed up…”

“Oh?”

“I want you to check a name for me—Rory Bell.”

Esson puckered her lips. “Any relation?”

“Probably not. He’s a player in West Lothian. I did have a reporter taking a look, but I might have slid down her list of priorities.”

Esson had already typed the name into the search box. “Date of birth? Anything that would help narrow things down?”

“He’s in his early thirties, spent some time in Glasgow as an enforcer.”

“So he’ll have a police record?”

“Reporter says no prosecutions—worth checking, though.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“You’re a star.”