“There’ll be a series of physio sessions and the like…”

“But she can manage stairs?” Rebus was thinking of the three steep flights to her Great King Street flat.

“Her father’s booked her into a hotel for a few days.”

In the room next to his, Rebus presumed. He thanked the nurse, ended the call and skimmed through the sheets of notes again. He realized the case was disappearing, as though it had been hoisted onto a trailer and was on its way for scrap. He looked around the office. Page was at some meeting, taking Clarke with him. Ronnie Ogilvie was prepping to give evidence at a trial. Christine Esson was studying statements. Was this what he had craved during his retirement? He had forgotten the lulls, the hours spent on paperwork, the hanging around. He thought of Charlie Watts—hadn’t he said something about life as a Rolling Stone? Fifty years in the band, ten spent drumming and the other forty waiting for something to happen. Segue to Peggy Lee: “Is That All There Is?”

“Bollocks to that,” Rebus muttered, getting to his feet. Probably just about enough time had passed. He patted his pockets, checking for cigarettes, matches, phone.

“Leaving so soon?” Esson teased him.

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Acting as boss has taken its toll, eh?”

“I don’t mind acting,” Rebus told her, heading for the door. “In fact, I’m just heading to another audition…”

The small car park was a courtyard of sorts, the gray concrete cop shop hemming it in. Rebus was almost always the only smoker to use it. He called Police HQ and asked to be put through to Professional Standards—“or whatever they’ve decided to call it this week.” The extension rang half a dozen times before being answered.

“Sergeant Kaye,” the voice said by way of identification. Tony Kaye: Rebus had had dealings with him.

“Is your boyfriend there? Tell him John Rebus wants a word.”

“He’s in conference.”

“He’s not Alan fucking Sugar,” Rebus complained.

“A meeting, then—sorry, I didn’t realize grammar was your strong point.”

“Vocabulary, you arsehole, not grammar.”

“Mind and get a refund from that charm school, eh?”

“Soon as I’ve spoken to your generalissimo. Is this meeting of his with the fragrant Ms. Macari, by any chance?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a detective, son. A proper detective.”

“You forget I’ve seen your files. Plenty six-letter words, but ‘proper’ got scratched from the dictionary the day you left the academy.”