“A case I’ve been working on with DI Clarke.” Rebus broke off. “This isn’t a ruse or anything—phone her back if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m not sure even you would stoop that low.”

“A vote of confidence if ever I heard one.” Rebus got to his feet and grabbed the cup with the address on.

Outside, he poured the cold tea down the first grating he saw.

The house was an extended two-story Edwardian property at the end of a gravel driveway and with no immediate neighbors. There seemed to be extensive grounds, including a paddock and stables. The road outside, narrow enough to start with, was already lined with vehicles belonging to journalists and the curious. Cameras were being hoisted, scripts checked, feeds established. A uniform stood guard at the wrought-iron gates and scrutinized Rebus’s warrant card before letting him through. A low rumble indicated that a flight was leaving the airport. Rebus watched the passenger jet rise skywards, not half a mile away, then turned his attention back to the house. The gravel extended almost all the way to the front door, meaning approaching vehicles were bound to be heard. Same went for intruders on foot. But then he’d no idea of the layout to the rear—and housebreakers seldom used the front door.

A scene-of-crime van was parked next to four cars. Rebus guessed that the newish Land Rover probably belonged, while the others were just visiting. He ran a finger down the side of Clarke’s Astra as he moved past it to the gaping front door. The wood-paneled hall reminded him of what they’d tried to do at the Sheriff Court, but this was the real thing. The suit of armor at the foot of the winding staircase was probably intended to show that the owner had a sense of humor. A vase had tumbled from its occasional table and now lay shattered on the parquet floor. There were muted voices in the sitting room and Rebus followed them until he was told to stop. A young woman in white overalls handed him a pair of elasticated paper shoes and warned him not to touch anything. Clarke stepped towards him. She was also in overalls and paper shoes, and was looking solemn. Video was being shot, photos snapped, surfaces dusted for prints.

“He was found on the floor in here,” she explained. “His private secretary was worried when he couldn’t be roused this morning. There was an eight-thirty meeting waiting for him. Usual driver had turned up but found the door locked and no sign of life.” She saw his look. “They came in through the back—French doors with one pane punched out. Maybe they thought the house looked empty…”

Rebus scanned the room. Expensive flat-screen TV untouched. Paperwork strewn across the floor. A Persian rug rucked up.

“So what did they take?” he asked.