“A lot of people seem to go walkabout.”

“Any shortcuts?”

“There are organizations—they have websites, Facebook and Twitter accounts…” She turned to look at him. “You’ve got something?”

“Maybe.”

“Keeping it to yourself?”

“For a little while longer.”

He poured her drink and handed the mug to her, before making tea for himself. But instead of drinking it, he went back to the toilets and stared at himself in the mirror. It made sense, didn’t it? Something kept hidden in a long-stay car park, where no one would ever come looking. A word or clue dropped to Alice Bell, who couldn’t resist telling her friends. They prize open the boot—are spotted—flee the scene. The car has to be moved, maybe got rid of.

Not along with its contents, but separate from them.

Two years since Jack Redpath ran.

Or didn’t run.

Was taken.

His room emptied to make it look like he had scarpered.

Calluses on the hands, the result of manual labor. Redpath, a plasterer by trade.

Rebus splashed water on his face, rubbing it dry with a clump of paper towels.

The forensic anthropologist would know—two years in the boot of a car, what a body would look like after. One thing Rebus was sure of: to get a corpse in a car boot, it needed to be placed almost in a fetal position.

Easily misinterpreted as having been seated…

His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Yes?” he answered.

It was the officer from Central.

“Midnight-blue Ford Escort, eight years old. Used to run something sportier but the divorce settlement took care of that.” The man reeled off the license plate. Rebus told him to hang on, then went back into the CID suite and grabbed a pen and sheet of paper.

“Repeat that, will you?” he said, jotting the details down.

“Plus I’ve e-mailed you a mug shot,” the man went on.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Rebus said. “But was he a smoker?”

“Ten a day. Do I get to go back to actual real work now?”

“With my blessing.”

Rebus put his phone next to the computer and opened his e-mail folder. Clicked on the attachment, then called across to Christine Esson. She studied the face, front and side views. Physical details were listed beneath.

“Height, five-ten,” Esson intoned. “Weight, a hundred and seventy pounds. Gray eyes, fair hair…” She retreated to her desk and returned with the autopsy photos. “So who is he?” she said.

“Would you say they’re the same person?”

“It’s possible.”

“No more than that?”

She shrugged.

“I think it’s him. He was stored in a car boot, and then dumped in the docks.”

“Stored for two years, you mean?” She watched Rebus nod. “So where’s the car?”