“Ach, Peter, of course you did. And in the old days, there would have been ways of dealing with that—for the police, I mean. But things have changed.”

“You still seem to enjoy a bit of intimidation.”

“Is that what this is?” Rebus glanced at Meikle. “But I’m not smacking your head against a wall, am I? And I’m not framing you—planting evidence, altering paperwork. This is just the two of us, out for a drive, having a little heart-to-heart.”

They were heading towards the Commonwealth Pool. Left at the lights and they would enter Holyrood Park.

“Some stuff’s happened lately,” Rebus went on, “and it’s got me thinking. The good guys are never all good and the bad ones never all bad.” He offered a shrug. “I know that’s not exactly news. But there’s a place where the two meet, and that’s when it can get interesting. It’s like we’re all standing on the same carpet, without bothering to look down at the pattern.” He glanced towards his passenger again. “Does that make sense?”

“Maybe to you—but then you’ve been drinking.”

“Just the one whisky, Peter. Call it Dutch courage.”

Meikle was staring at him. “What are you going to do?”

Rebus offered a cold smile. “We’re just driving,” he repeated.

And so they were—snaking around the foot of Salisbury Crags, with the Dumbiedykes estate on their left, then passing Holyrood and taking a right at St. Margaret’s Loch, beginning the ascent around Arthur’s Seat. Meikle knew where they would stop—opposite the gateway that led to Willowbrae, just like before. There was another car parked up, and Rebus drew to a halt behind it.

“We’ve not got long, Peter,” he said, checking his watch as he turned off the ignition. “You carried her body up here, yes? Buried her somewhere in the vicinity.” He paused. “Did you find your phone, by the way?”

“Took me almost half an hour, scouring those bushes.”

Rebus nodded his satisfaction. “You’d had a bit of marital strife. Neighbors knew it, Dorothy’s sister knew it. Dorothy had gone to her saying she was terrified of what you’d do to her if she tried walking out. Maybe she was packing a case when you came home. Maybe you thumped her and she decided enough was enough. Lots of ways it could have played out, Peter. The one way it didn’t play is her jumping on a bus or train and leaving town for pastures new.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Am I? All right then, fair enough.” He tapped his hands against the steering wheel.

“Eh?”

“I’ve done what I can.” Rebus sounded the horn and the doors of the car in front opened. Two men emerged. One was Darryl Christie, the other a huge, shaven-headed creature who had presumably taken over Dean Grant’s role.