“What?” For the first time since entering the room, McCuskey looked nervous. Clarke was studying Rebus, trying to work out if he was telling the truth or bluffing. When he looked at her, his face didn’t change. Truth, then.

“You have to tell him you’re wrong,” McCuskey was saying. “You’ve spoken to Jessica and me—why would we lie?”

“I don’t know,” Rebus said. “But something like this…it starts small but it can snowball, gathering up all kinds of crap as it rolls downhill.”

“I can’t confess to something I didn’t do.”

“Quite right,” Clarke said, gathering together the photographs. “So that seems to be that. We just need an address for you, and you can be on your way.”

McCuskey stared at her. “And then what?”

Clarke shrugged, closing the folder. “If we need to talk again, we’ll let you know.” She handed him a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. “Address, please.” As he wrote, she asked if he was a student. He nodded. “Which subject?”

“Art history.”

“Same as Jessica and her flatmate.”

“We’re all in second year.”

“Is that how you met?”

“At a party.” He had finished writing. The details were just about legible.

“Arden Street?” she checked.

“Yes.”

“That’s in Marchmont, isn’t it?”

McCuskey nodded. Clarke and Rebus shared a look: same street as Rebus’s flat. He glanced at the tenement number: about six doors up from him on the other side of the road.

“Thanks again for coming in,” Clarke was saying, rising to her feet. McCuskey shook hands with both detectives and a uniform was summoned to show him out.

“Well?” Clarke asked, once he had gone.

“Girlfriend’s covering for him.”

“He’s got a point, though—why would she do that?”

“Could be she’s the forgiving type. He goes to her bedside, whispers a few sweet nothings and flutters those eyelashes—and that’s when they prepare their story.”

Clarke considered this, mouth a thin determined line. “And you really told Owen Traynor the whole story? After your little trip to the Ox, a few beers inside you…?”

“I just dropped in to see how the patient was doing. Coincided with McCuskey and Alice Bell leaving.”

Clarke was shaking her head slowly. “This is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be doing…” She broke off as James Page appeared in the doorway.

“What shouldn’t John be doing?” he inquired.

“Putting a bet on Raith Rovers for promotion,” Rebus answered.

“I’m inclined to agree.” Page paused. “So where are we with this car crash?”

“Not much further along,” Clarke conceded.

“In which case, probably time to drop it, wouldn’t you say? Nothing for us there, no point wasting effort.”

“The boyfriend,” Rebus said, “the one we think may have been in the car…”

“What about him?”

“He’s the son of Pat McCuskey.”

“Justice Minister?”