“Must be a mistake,” he said, staring at the display. “Six pounds fifty?”

“That’s the minimum. Gets you four hours.”

“I’ve hardly been four minutes.”

“System’s automated—nothing I can do about it.” The man wasn’t managing to disguise his pleasure at Rebus’s discomfort.

“You telling me you can’t go back to that wee booth of yours and swing the barrier open?”

“Company would haul me over the coals.”

“Six-fifty, though.”

The man offered a shrug.

“Rory won’t be happy when I tell him about this.”

“Rory?”

“Your boss.” Rebus looked in vain for a flicker of recognition. “He owns this place.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Okay then, tell me this—these cameras of yours, do they film what they see?”

“Why are you asking?” Then it dawned. “You the police?”

“In a manner of speaking. So do they record or don’t they?”

“The machine wipes itself every forty-eight hours.”

“And is there always a human being on duty?”

“Always.”

“So if I gave you a date and an approximate time…?”

“For what?”

“Anything.”

The attendant straightened up and folded his arms. “That’s something you’d have to talk to management about.”

“Meaning Rory Bell?”

“I told you, I’ve never heard of him.”

“So who do you deal with?”

“The office is in Livingston.”

“There’s a multistory there too—you ever do a shift at it?”

“You need to speak to the management.”

“Don’t worry, I will. Now are you going to let me out of here?”

“Soon as you pay what’s due.” The man turned away and walked back towards his booth. Cursing, Rebus looked for coins in his pocket, then realized the machine only accepted credit cards. So he stuck one in, entered his PIN and pressed the button for a receipt.

Livingston.

Rory Bell’s base.

Plus he had another car park there.

And…