“Might not be him then. Anyway, you were telling me about Forbes McCuskey.”

“Jessica Traynor was in a car smash. Found in the driver’s seat, but we’re not convinced she was driving at the time.”

“Is she all right?”

“She will be.”

Galvin was thoughtful. “Forbes did a runner?”

“We don’t know that—we’ve not spoken to him yet.”

“Wouldn’t look good for his father.”

“An embarrassment, certainly.”

“Not to mention a possible criminal offense.” Galvin sounded intrigued.

“We won’t be bringing it to your lot for a while yet,” Clarke cautioned. “Like I say, we’ve no real evidence—plus our boss doesn’t like things messy.”

“I know—I’ve met him. Is he still fretting about the future of Gayfield Square?”

“We all are.”

“You’ll be fine, Siobhan. It’s mostly civilian posts you’ll be losing.”

“I’ll have to do my own typing? And fingerprinting? Maybe train myself up to carry out autopsies…?”

They broke off as their starters arrived, and ate without saying much more. In the pause before the mains, Clarke took out her phone, thinking she might do a Google search for Owen Traynor, but she was getting no signal.

“Reception comes and goes,” Galvin explained. “Hard to believe sometimes we’re in the middle of a city.”

“A capital city at that.” She closed the phone down again. Their waiter had returned to ask how they were enjoying the wine. “It’s fine,” Clarke told him, though she noticed Galvin hadn’t touched his. Nor had he made much headway with the aperitif.

“Keeping a clear head for the morning?” she chided him.

“Something like that,” he replied.

Half an hour later, as the plates from their main courses were cleared, they were asked if they wanted to see the dessert list. Clarke looked at her companion and shook her head.

“Any teas or coffees?”

Clarke and Galvin shared another look. “There’s coffee back at mine,” he offered.

“And broadband?” she queried.

“And broadband,” he confirmed. Then, after a pause: “Is this us continuing the consultation?”

“It is,” Clarke said with a widening smile.

Rebus only had the one drink at the Oxford Bar, then took a cab back to the car park at Gayfield Square so he could pick up his Saab. He knew he could always change his mind, but knew too that he probably wouldn’t. The lights were red at South Clerk Street. If he signaled right, he would be heading home. But when the light turned green he went straight ahead, towards Cameron Toll and Old Dalkeith Road. This time of night, the car parks at the Royal Infirmary were half empty, but Rebus pulled up at a double yellow line, sliding out the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign from beneath the passenger seat and wedging it between dashboard and windscreen. He popped a stick of peppermint gum into his mouth, locked the car and walked into the hospital.