“Meeting,” he explained to the uniform, making his way towards the entrance. Didn’t want the man to think he’d grown senile. Indoors, he bided his time, pretending to check his phone for texts. When the coast was clear, he headed to the car park again, got back in the Saab and wondered where to go.

Maybe that was the problem right there—Clarke was in Wester Hailes with the Saunders murder; at Torphichen, Nick Ralph was running the Pat McCuskey inquiry. Leaving Rebus with what? The only thing waiting for him at Gayfield Square was an irritable James Page and a workload of desk-tidying. When his phone rang, he hoped to hell the caller might give him some direction.

It was Christine Esson, and she did. “The boss wants to know where you are—he’s got a job for you.”

“Tell him I’m on my way.”

“But are you?”

“Oh ye of little faith. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“You’ve not seen the snarl-up at the Conan Doyle roundabout—I’ll tell him fifteen to be on the safe side.”

“Twenty quid says ten.”

“Oh aye? Parked outside, are you?”

“I’m at St. Leonard’s.” Rebus repeated the bet.

“Starting now,” Esson said, after a moment’s calculation.

“You’re on.”

Rebus knew better than to head for North Bridge and Leith Street. Instead, he drove through Holyrood Park and out the other side, taking Abbey Hill and Royal Terrace and missing the worst of the congestion. He took the stairs two at a time and was in front of Esson’s desk in eleven and a half minutes.

“A good try,” she conceded.

“Call it a tenner, then.” Rebus held out his hand.

“John!” Page barked. “In here!”

“I’ll be back,” Rebus warned Esson, receiving only a smirk for his efforts.

“What time do you call this?” Page was asking when Rebus entered the room. He was behind his desk, laptop open in front of him.

“Had to drop into St. Leonard’s,” Rebus explained.

“Whatever for?”

“Running an errand for Siobhan. But now that I’m here, how can I help?”

“Another errand, I suppose. You heard they pulled a body out of Leith Docks yesterday afternoon?”

“No.”

“Adult male. Autopsy is in an hour’s time.”

“Suspicious death?”

“That’s what I’m hoping we’ll find out.”

“By ‘we,’ I assume you mean me?”

Page nodded.

“Anything I should know? Got a name for the deceased?”

“Don’t think so.”

“And you picked me over Esson, Ogilvie or any other poor sod because…?”

“Look, it’s simple enough—just go oversee the postmortem exam and then report back. I know it lacks the glamor of a shooting or the death of an MSP, but it’s still part of life’s rich tapestry.” Busying himself at his computer, he flicked the fingers of one hand in Rebus’s direction, indicating that the meeting was over.