“Laptop, we think, plus both his mobile phones. Drawers have been opened in the bedroom—could be some jewelry’s missing.”

“The wife?”

“Is on her way back from Glasgow. She stayed there last night so she could take some clients to dinner and then see them again this morning.”

“Clients?”

“She’s a lawyer—American by birth.” Clarke pointed out a framed photo of the couple. It had been knocked flat and now lay on top of the baby grand piano. Wedding day: low-cut off-white dress for her, traditional Highland outfit for her beaming partner.

“Has anyone told the son?”

“Left a message on his phone asking him to call back.”

“He might not, if he thinks it’s about the crash.”

“I stressed that it isn’t.”

Rebus saw another photo—it showed McCuskey’s wife on horseback. She was dressed informally—jeans and a checked shirt, and no headwear of any kind.

“What do the medics say?”

“He was either coshed or hit his head on something when they tried to grab him. Lump like an ostrich egg on the back of his skull and they’re worried about internal bleeding.”

“So there could be some damage?”

Clarke nodded slowly.

“If they came on foot, that would explain why they didn’t take much. On the other hand…”

“We’re hiking distance from civilization.”

“So there might well have been a car waiting.”

“I’ve got uniforms scouring the perimeter.”

“How long before you talk to the media?”

“Won’t be me—Page is on his way.”

“Stopping off en route for a haircut and a new suit?” She couldn’t help but smile. “Politicians are going to want a briefing,” Rebus warned her. “This is one of their own, remember.”

“I’ve already had the First Minister’s office on the phone. He wants to visit the hospital, plus they’re sending someone to check we’re being thorough.”

“Is there anything on the laptop the government wouldn’t want getting out?”

“They’re going to come back to me about that.”

“He was the Justice Minister, after all.”

“Plus leader of the Yes campaign.”

“I doubt we can put unionists in the frame, Siobhan.”

“Doesn’t mean political capital can’t be made out of it—same as Page wanted when we found out who Forbes was.”

“I’d say that particular plan has just been put out with the bins. But let’s stay focused on the main event—why do we think this morning rather than last night?”

“Mr. McCuskey spoke to his wife at eleven thirty, by which time he was tucked up in bed. When he was found this morning, he was wearing suit trousers and shirt but no jacket or tie. Pot of coffee in the kitchen and half a banana left on the worktop.”