The driver who had been first at the scene of Jessica’s crash—wasn’t she on her way home from work in Livingston at the time? So instead of taking the road back into the city, Rebus headed further out in the direction of Newbridge, and from there onto the M8. It didn’t take long to reach Livingston, though once there he was faced with a Mensa-level puzzle constructed almost entirely of roundabouts. Livingston was one of Scotland’s “new towns,” designed in the 1960s by planners who liked lots of circles in their diagrams. Second only to this passion seemed to be their crush on the word “Almondvale.” It cropped up time and again as Rebus sought his destination: Almondvale Boulevard, Way, Avenue and Drive. Not forgetting Parkway and Crescent—plus the football stadium where the local team played. In the end, Rebus conceded defeat and stopped to ask a pedestrian, who gave him directions to a multistory, just not the right multistory. Rather than take a ticket, Rebus left the Saab outside, found the security cabin and asked for directions. The attendant was able to help, and Rebus thanked him. Ten minutes later, he was driving into a four-story car park—the top story being its roof. There was no sign of life in the booth, though lights were on inside. Rebus drove around the ground floor, which was full. Mums with toddlers were loading bags into their vehicles, having returned from the nearby shopping center. Next story up there were fewer cars, and fewer again as Rebus climbed. As before, no one at all was using the bays on the roof. Rebus spotted the same setup of speaker and CCTV camera, and maneuvered the Saab back down the ramp. He parked on the next level and got out. He was alongside an unwashed Citroën. Across from it sat another car, covered with a dust sheet. The bay next to that was empty, but Rebus noted clumps of dirt, leaves and sweet-wrappers on the floor. If he were a betting man, he would have said a car had been parked there until recently—and it had been sitting in the multistory for some time. He took another look at the Citroën. Its tax disc had run out the previous year, and similar detritus had gathered beneath its wheels. When he ran a finger down the paintwork, he left a clean line, and his finger came away blackened. He crossed to the other car and began to lift the dust sheet, catching a glimpse of red bodywork.

“Hell do you think you’re playing at?” The man striding up the ramp wore the same uniform as Mr. Bad Teeth from the airport multistory, but was a different breed altogether—ex-forces, maybe, and still able to take on a route march. Beefy arms, fists clenched, jaw jutting. The hair had been shaved from the skull and one ear had a chunk missing from it.