“And poster boy for an independent Scotland.” Rebus knew his boss’s feelings on the topic—like everyone else in the office, he’d had his ear bent by Page about the need for Scotland to remain part of the UK. “McCuskey heads the Yes campaign.”

Page digested this information. “What’s your thinking, John? A wee call to a friendly journalist?”

“Only if we can find something that will stick. Otherwise it looks too political.”

“Agreed.”

“Hang on,” Clarke said. “You’re planning to use the son to get at the father? Hardly seems fair.”

“We all know how you’ll be voting, Siobhan.”

The blood rose to Clarke’s cheeks. “I just don’t think…”

But Page had turned his back and was marching away. “Another day or two,” he called out. “See what you can find.”

Clarke stared hard at Rebus. He spread his arms in a show of appeasement.

“It’s not as if we have anything else to do,” he argued.

“And that little game you just played…” She stabbed a finger in Page’s direction.

“I knew damned fine he’d go for it.”

“He might, but I won’t.”

“You’re disappointed in me.” Rebus tried to look contrite. “But you have to admit, it’s not your typical setup—Pat McCuskey and Owen Traynor…”

“I do wonder how a dodgy businessman like Traynor ends up pulling favors with the Met.”

“Met are still a law to themselves, Siobhan—way we used to be.”

“A time you clearly yearn for. Meantime, this lets you stir stuff up for the hell of it.”

“But sometimes that’s how we find gold, too.”

“And what sort of gold do you expect to find this time?” She folded her arms in a show of defiance.

“The stirring’s the fun part,” Rebus said. “You should have learned that by now.”

“Your dad’s not here?” Rebus asked.

Jessica Traynor looked better. The device around her head had been replaced by a simple neck brace, and the top of her bed had been raised a little, so that she no longer had to stare at the ceiling.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good to hear.”

“My father’s at his hotel.”

Rebus noticed the mobile phone in her right hand. “Heard from Forbes today?”

“A couple of texts.”

“He tells me you met at a party.”

“That’s right. I went there with Alice and got talking to Forbes in the kitchen.”

“Just like the song, eh?”

“What song?”

“Before your time,” Rebus admitted, gesturing towards her phone. “A couple of texts, you say—I’m guessing one before he came in to talk to us and one after?”

She ignored this. “I’m still not really sure why you’re here…”