“That his sartorial elegance has shamed me into doing a bit of shopping.”

She smiled and gave him a little wave as he made for the door. Then she left her own desk and crossed to Rebus’s, taking her prawn sandwich with her. She studied the photo of Jack Redpath on Rebus’s computer screen.

“Maybe,” she said to herself. “Just maybe…” She fixed her eyes on the doorway. She hadn’t known John Rebus long, but she knew he was good at this, like a bloodhound given a scent and then left to do what it was best at. Form-filling and protocols and budget meetings were not Rebus’s thing—never had been and never would be. His knowledge of the Internet was rudimentary and his people skills were woeful. But she would lie for him to James Page, and take the rap if caught. Because he was a breed of cop that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, a rare and endangered species.

And she would miss his kind when they did—as they would—eventually vanish from the world.

It was the scrap yard Jessica Traynor’s Golf had been taken to. The same German shepherd rose to its feet and bared its fangs as Rebus got out of his car. Eddie Duke emerged from the shack and snapped at it.

“Boris! Pipe down!”

Then, to Rebus, and indicating the Saab: “Just leave it there. We’ve got a bit of a backlog, but we’ll get round to it when we can.”

“That’s hilarious,” Rebus said, looking as though he’d never found anything less funny in his life. “I’ve been trying to phone you.”

“I told you, we’re busy.” He gestured towards the compactor, which was squeezing the life out of its latest victim. Rebus could hear the dying gasps of metal, plastic and glass. Reece Bairstow was working the machinery. Rebus noticed a car number plate resting against the wall next to the guard dog. He walked over and picked it up, ignoring the dog’s growls.

“This car?” he asked.

“Was blocking a street in Granton. Obviously abandoned.”

“And is now…?”

The man gestured once more towards the compactor. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

Granton: just along the coast from Leith. Rebus dropped the number plate and marched towards the machine, yelling for it to be switched off. Bairstow did as he was told. His boss was a couple of yards behind Rebus, repeating his question. Rebus peered into the compactor. He could smell engine oil. The blue Ford Escort had been reduced to a third of its size, and wouldn’t be carrying passengers again. Rebus looked at the two men.

“You stripped it?”

Bairstow checked with Duke before answering. “Someone had already picked it clean.”

Not that it looked clean—even mangled as it was, Rebus could make out the thick coating of dust.

“Been stored for a while, would you say?”

Bairstow nodded.