“Persuading the upper echelons to give him a press conference. He wants the world to get a good look at Tutankhamun.”

“Any idea how long he’ll be?”

“I think he went home for a change of shirt—always likes to look his best for the brass.”

Rebus pondered his options. He could take what he had to DCI Ralph at Torphichen. The Pat McCuskey inquiry had drawn nothing but blanks—there was always the chance they’d welcome Rebus with open arms.

On the other hand, what did he have in the way of hard facts? Probably not enough for a search warrant for the car park. Nick Ralph’s first step would be to interview the three students again, and they would almost certainly stick to their original stories. The paint on the door could be explained as a prank. They had placed their trust in Jessica’s father rather than CID.

Rebus couldn’t really blame them.

He needed more before he could go to Torphichen, so he sifted through the paperwork he had on Rory Bell, put it back in order, then fired up his computer and got ready to start a Google search of his own.

It took him an hour to spot what Esson had missed. Missed, or had failed to see as being of importance. Alice Bell’s father had died two years back when his car was hit by a van. The van driver’s name was Jack Redpath. He had been charged with dangerous driving…but the case had never reached court. Or rather it had, but he hadn’t. He’d done a runner.

Such was the assumption of the local paper that had covered the case. Just the one mention. Rebus picked up the phone and managed to get through to someone in Central Region, who eventually connected him to an officer who remembered the incident.

“Guy was divorced, living in a hovel and about to lose his job—maybe even do some time inside. He stuffed what few possessions his wife hadn’t taken into his car and offskied.”

“You tried tracking him down?”

“We did what we could.”

“But he never turned up?” Rebus scratched the underside of his jaw. “Have you got a record of the car he drove? Make and registration?”

“Bloody hell.” The officer gave a snort. “It’s Indiana Jones you need.”

“Maybe so, but you’re what I’ve got. It was only two years ago—how hard can it be? Plus a photo or description of Redpath—and whether he was a smoker or not.” He looked across to where Esson was still busy at her computer, her head resting on one hand, elbow against the surface of her desk. Rebus gave the officer his phone number and e-mail, ended the call, then filled the kettle and switched it on.

“Just hot water, right?” he asked. “No tea bag or coffee granules?”

“Right,” she agreed.

“Having much luck?”