“Right here,” Rebus said, holding up the sheet of paper. “Eight-year-old blue Ford Escort.” He thought back to the cars in the multistory. No, it matched neither of them. It had probably been driven to Leith Docks with its cargo still on board. Then got rid of. Rebus picked up his phone and called the Road Policing Unit.

“Any abandoned cars in the past couple of days? Tax disc almost certainly a year or more out of date.” He described Jack Redpath’s Escort and then waited.

“You think it’s out there collecting parking tickets?” Esson asked.

“Best-case scenario.”

“And worst?”

Rebus just shrugged. He was listening to news that the information could take some time—the city’s traffic wardens would need to be questioned.

“Soon as you can, eh?” Rebus gave his details and put the phone down. “Now we wait,” he told Esson.

“Maybe you do, but I’m heading out to the shop. It’s lunchtime, if you hadn’t noticed—want me to fetch you something?”

“Maybe a sandwich or a sausage roll.” He dug into his pocket for change.

“My treat,” Esson told him. “A sandwich is probably healthier.”

“Make it the sausage roll, then.”

She rolled her eyes and shrugged her arms into her jacket. Rebus remembered Deborah Quant doing the same, and his own instinct to help. When he’d suggested meeting for a drink sometime, she hadn’t turned him down flat. Then again, he didn’t have a number for her, excepting the one for the mortuary.

He headed out to the car park for a smoke, then remembered the phone upstairs could ring at any moment. So after three or four draws he nipped the end of the cigarette and returned it to the packet. He could hear the phone ringing on his desk from the top of the stairs, but it stopped as he entered the office. Cursing under his breath, he sat down and waited. Esson returned and handed him a paper bag. The lack of grease stains meant she’d ignored his request. The baguette contained ham salad.

“It’s like being at one of those health spas,” he muttered. But he demolished it anyway.

When the phone rang again, he snatched at it.

“Thought you were in a hurry,” the RPU officer complained.

“I am.”

“So why didn’t you answer earlier?”

“Call of nature. Now what have you got?” Rebus listened for a moment. “Taken away to be scrapped?” he repeated for Esson’s benefit. “Yesterday?” He reached for his pen again. “Do we know which scrap yard?” He began taking down the details but then broke off. “Yes, I know it,” he said. “Thanks.”

He finished the call and made another, but no one was answering. Cursing, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and got up from the desk.

“What do I tell the boss when he gets back?” Esson asked.