“Right.”

“If someone had been with her in the car, they could have called the ambulance sooner. Might have made all the difference.”

“But she’s going to be okay—she told me.”

“It’s still going to take her longer to recover,” Clarke bluffed, giving the news time to sink in. “Odd place for her to be. Has she told you what she was doing there?”

“Said she just felt like a drive.”

“Her father tells us she’s not the kind to put her foot down…”

“Maybe she hit a patch of oil.”

“Road looked fine when we checked.” Clarke made show of searching the folder, pulling out another photo. “Then there’s this.”

“Yes?” McCuskey’s eyes had narrowed in apparent concentration.

“It’s one of her boots, found lying in the passenger-side foot well. Any notion how it might have ended up there?”

McCuskey gave a little pout, shaking his head.

“See, the obvious conclusion—obvious to us, that is—is that Jessica wasn’t alone in the vehicle. She was the passenger. And after the smash, the driver hauled her across so it would look like her fault. Then he scarpered.”

McCuskey’s eyes met Clarke’s. “And you think that was me?”

“Well, was it?”

“What does Jessica say?” When this received no answer, McCuskey barked out a short laugh. “I went to see her last night. If I’d run off and left her, would she have been so happy to see me? Would there have been tears in her eyes when we kissed?”

“How did you twist your ankle, Forbes?” The question had come from Rebus. McCuskey turned his attention towards him.

“I told you—I just got one of the steps wrong on Jessica’s stairwell.”

“Seen a doctor about it?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Any other bruises or aches and pains?”

“I wasn’t in the car with her. I don’t even drive.”

“You don’t drive?” Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Rebus’s direction as McCuskey shook his head in confirmation.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” Rebus asked into the silence.

“No.”

“Haven’t you told them about Jessica?”

“Not yet.”

“How about her father—do you get on with him?”

“Only met him last night.”

“He has a bit of a rep. You should Google him, that’s what I did.” Rebus had taken a few steps towards the table. “Not the sort of character you’d want to cross.”

“Really?”

“An investor in one of his companies started bad-mouthing him. Ended up in intensive care. Afterwards, he kept tight-lipped about who’d thumped him. And that’s just one of the stories.” Rebus paused. “Which is why it’s a shame I let slip our little theory—the one about you being responsible.”