Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. “So where’s this door they broke?” he asked. Clarke led him out into the hall and turned left. There were two doors, one leading to a modern kitchen, one to a formal dining room with French doors onto a large patio. Broken glass on the carpet, consistent with an attack from the outside.

“If McCuskey heard something,” Rebus said, “wouldn’t he come looking?”

“Maybe.”

“But he was found in the sitting room? Could he have had the TV on? Catching the morning’s headlines. Coffee and a banana, and next thing he knows there’s someone walking in on him.”

“Makes sense.”

“But the TV was off? Who was first on the scene anyway?”

“The private secretary—she has a key.”

“Maybe ask her about the TV.”

Clarke nodded to let him know she was adding this to her list.

“Can’t really know what else has gone AWOL until the wife arrives,” Rebus mused. They locked eyes at the sound of another vehicle crunching its way towards the house. “As good as any guard dog,” Rebus acknowledged.

But when they went to greet the new arrival, it was DCI James Page. “What’s he doing here?” Page asked Clarke, stabbing a finger in Rebus’s direction.

“I was just about to ask the same thing, sir,” Rebus retorted.

“Off with you,” Page ordered. “Nothing for you here.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Rebus gave a mock salute before offering Clarke a sly wink. Page stomped past him into the house, followed by Clarke. Rebus had to admit, he’d been wrong about the man. No new suit and no haircut.

Just shoes freshly polished and the tang of shaving foam wafting after him.

Left to his own devices, Rebus knew he had two options. One was to head back to Fox’s light grilling, which was why he removed his overshoes, stuffed them into his pocket, and went for a walk around the property instead.

There wasn’t much to see at the rear of the house. Clarke was showing Page the broken pane of glass in the door. Rebus headed across an expanse of lawn towards where a line of venerable-looking trees hid the house from the country road beyond. Past the trees was a low stone wall topped with glossy black railings. Rebus peered through them. If a car had pulled over anywhere, it would have caused a minor obstruction—meaning anyone trying to squeeze past in their own vehicle would remember it. Three uniformed officers were probing the long grass forlornly.

“Anything?” Rebus asked.

“Not so far.”