Rebus had expected high ceilings and airy rooms, but they seemed to be in the eaves. The hall was narrow, not helped by the presence of two bicycles. Alice Bell hadn’t bothered to ask for ID. She was leading them past the galley-style kitchen into the living room. Music was playing from an MP3 player hooked up to a speaker. It was classical—unaccompanied cello. An actual cello sat on a stand in one corner.

“Yours or Jessica’s?” Rebus asked, but Bell was concentrating on Siobhan Clarke.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she blurted out.

“She’s going to be fine,” Clarke assured her. The young woman’s knees seemed to buckle in relief and she sat down heavily on an armchair. Clarke and Rebus decided to settle themselves on the sofa. It was white and modern and just about up to the task.

“What happened?” Bell was asking.

“A car smash. You’ve been worried about her?”

“Texted her a few times—she missed a class this morning, and that’s not like her.”

“Do you study art history too, Alice?”

The young woman nodded. She was dressed in a T-shirt with an unbuttoned cardigan over it, and black denims. No piercings that Rebus could see, and no tattoos. Her face was round and her cheeks slightly puffy, reminding him of a cherub in a painting, an effect heightened by curly chestnut hair.

“How long have you known Jessica?” Rebus asked.

“Almost a year. She put adverts up around the department—room to rent—and I jumped at the chance.” She paused. “She’s really going to be okay?”

“Whiplash, sprains and bruises,” Clarke explained. “Her father seems to think she’s a careful driver.”

“That’s true.”

“Not last night, though.”

“What happened?”

“The crash was the other side of the airport, on a country road. Any idea why she’d be out that way?”

Bell shook her head. “Is her father here?”

“He’s with her at the Infirmary,” Rebus said.

“I should go see her.”

“Any other friends who should be told?” Clarke asked.

“Her boyfriend, for example,” Rebus added.

“Forbes?” Bell’s voice lifted a little. “Has no one…?” She broke off, hands clasped between her knees, staring at the varnished wooden floor.

“We don’t have his contact details,” Clarke confided.

“I can phone him.”

“That’s fine, but we’d like a word with him too.” Rebus cleared his throat. “When did you last see Jessica, Alice?”

“Yesterday. Around four or five.”

“Here at the flat?”

“She was headed off out.”

“Headed where?”

“Not sure.”

“In her car, though?”

“I suppose so.”

“And as far as you know, she hasn’t got friends in Kirkliston or Broxburn?”

“I’m not even sure where those places are.”

“Where are you from?”

“Stirling.”

Rebus digested this and glanced towards Clarke, unsure where else to go.

“A number for Forbes,” Clarke prompted the student. “And his surname.”

“He’s Forbes McCuskey.”