Rebus continued his tour of the perimeter. The thing was, once you’d scaled the fence and emerged from the tree line, you had to cross about eighty yards of highly visible lawn. Okay, it would have been dark first thing in the morning, but there were security lights at strategic points. Rebus checked and they all seemed to be motion sensitive. So maybe the intruders had come in through the front gate on foot—making almost no noise on the gravel, and hidden from the house by the dense shrubbery either side of the driveway. Still meant a car left somewhere in the vicinity. He headed back around to his starting point and set off down the driveway. There was movement at the gates, the media pack sensing he might have news for them. But he shook his head and pushed his way through. He was looking for a pull-in, a track, somewhere to hide a vehicle. He quickly found a couple of contenders, both now filled by journalists’ cars, the ground churned up. A couple of reporters had followed him, asking questions without getting answers. But now there was a commotion at the gates; Rebus’s disciples rejoined the pack as Page and Clarke came into view. The uniform on guard duty swung the gates open and everyone knew a statement was about to be made.

Before commencing, Page glanced down at his shoes, as if checking that their sheen was intact. As he started to speak, Clarke noticed Rebus and headed in his direction.

“Might keep them pacified for a while,” she said under her breath.

“The wife’s taking her time.”

“Probably at the hospital as we speak.”

“You heading there after?”

She nodded. “And meantime, I’ve sent Ronnie Ogilvie—just in case McCuskey wakes up.”

“Any word on that front?”

She shook her head. “Wonder what room he’s in—be a coincidence if it’s the same one Jessica Traynor just left.”

“Wouldn’t be the end of the coincidences around here, Siobhan.”

She looked at him. “No,” she agreed.

“And yet neither of us has said the name yet…”

“Owen Traynor,” she obliged. “With an investor who got thumped after a falling-out.”

“Ending up in intensive care,” Rebus added.

“Is Traynor still in the city, though?”

“Far as I know, he’s moved Jessica into his hotel.”

“Do we know which one?”

“A maximum of half a dozen phone calls would answer that.”

“Want to make them?”

“Might as well, eh?”

“You’d not rather get back to working on Fox?”

“Working with him,” Rebus corrected her.

“I know what I mean. Is that where you were when I phoned you?”

“Yes.”

Clarke nodded to herself and watched as James Page got into his stride, taking questions, enunciating his answers clearly for the benefit of the microphones while he made sure the cameras caught his best angles.

“You have to admit, he’s a pro,” she commented.