Rebus called Esson again and asked her to pull up two numbers: that police officer, plus the scrap yard. The uniform’s name was Bryan Hall, and when Rebus got through to him he was adamant no one had tried opening the Golf’s boot while he’d been present. The owner of the scrap yard was less helpful.

“Reece knocks off at five on the dot,” he barked. “You want to speak to him, you get here before then.”

His full name was Reece Bairstow, and Rebus stared at it in his notebook after the owner had hung up.

“Well, why not?” he said to himself, stubbing out the cigarette and heading towards his car.

The scrap yard was on the outskirts of Broxburn, so he took the road out towards Edinburgh Airport. Listening to the radio, he was informed that the economic crisis was getting no easier and other European countries were approaching “basket case” territory. Cyprus, Portugal…no one seemed to know where it would end. He switched to a local station; an angry phone-in was debating how an independent Scotland could remain part of NATO if it ditched the nukes. After a couple of minutes Rebus could feel his blood pressure rising. He reached for a CD and slid it home. Spooky Tooth’s second album.

“Better,” he said to himself.

The yard was behind a chain-link fence, some of it hidden behind a further makeshift barrier of corrugated sheeting and all topped by three separate strands of razor wire. Signs warned of CCTV and guard dogs. Sure enough, a German shepherd got to its feet and bared its fangs as Rebus drove through the open gates and into the compound. The dog was tethered by a length of greasy inch-thick rope and a studded leather collar. The office it protected looked to have been constructed from leftovers of timber and beaten metal. The man who emerged knew Rebus for a policeman straightaway, just as Rebus could tell the man had served time at some point in the past. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt displayed arms festooned with faded home-made tattoos, the kind prisoners inflicted on each other for want of any other hobbies. Shaky writing and wonky thistles seemed to predominate.

“What’s the dog called?”

The owner squinted at Rebus. He was squat, almost hunchbacked, and his bald dome of a head had an oily sheen to it.

“Boris,” he eventually answered, at which the dog’s ears pricked up.

“Reckon that rope’s strong enough?”

“You better hope so.” The man allowed himself a gap-toothed grin. “You’re the cop who phoned?”

“DS Rebus. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Eddie Duke. I told Reece you wanted to talk to him, and guess what? He decided to knock off early.”

“He’s gone?”

“That’s right.”