“Pro everything I’m anti,” Rebus retorted, taking out his phone and heading further along the road, seeking a quiet spot from where to make his calls.

8

8

The Caledonian Hotel wasn’t really called that anymore. It was, according to the signs on either side of its entrance, the Waldorf Astoria, and had recently undergone a major refit. Sited at the west end of Princes Street, it currently looked onto a carnage of tramline construction. Both Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street were closed to traffic so as to allow the works to progress. Pedestrians were sent through the equivalent of laboratory mazes, squeezing down narrow passageways, hemmed in by high mesh fences behind which sat the tramlines themselves. Rebus had left his Saab out front, with the POLICE notice on its dashboard, the doorman warning him that it might not stop him getting a ticket.

“Saw a hearse get one once—and an ambulance.”

“All part of Edinburgh’s rich tapestry,” Rebus had responded, stepping into the hotel foyer. They called up to Owen Traynor’s room from the reception desk. Rebus was told to take the lift to the third floor. Traynor was waiting at his open door. He was in his shirtsleeves, the sleeves themselves rolled up, cuff links again dispensed with. No tie. Trousers held up with dark blue braces. Shiny black brogues.

“What is it now?” the man barked.

“Mind if I come in?”

Traynor hesitated, then led Rebus into not a bedroom but a suite, its living area turned into a makeshift office. The laptop computer was new—its box sat under the desk. On the sofa were bags from shops such as Ede & Ravenscroft and Marks & Spencer. From what Rebus could see of the computer screen, Traynor had been perusing spreadsheets.

“How is Jessica?” Rebus asked.

“She’s in her room—physio’s there with her.”

“Could we maybe go talk to her?”

Traynor stared hard at Rebus, then checked his watch. “Five minutes till the session ends. I take it you’ve some news for us?”

Rebus gave a twitch of the mouth.

“You want a drink?” Traynor was gesturing towards the minibar.

“Bit early.”

“Sure about that?”

Rebus looked at him. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

“Internet’s a wonderful thing, Inspector.”

“Detective Sergeant, actually.”

“Why is that? I mean, you used to be an inspector—what did you do to piss them off?”

“I stuck around.”

“Something you seem to be good at, judging by the stories. A lot of results down the years…”

“I didn’t realize the web knew so much about me.”

“Never know what to believe, though—I’m betting you’ve looked me up online. Not all of it is accurate.” There was a hard gleam in Traynor’s eye.

“Just most of it?” Rebus speculated.

“Ah, but which bits…?”

There was a knock at the door. Traynor answered and a young man stood there.

“How’s she doing?” Traynor asked.