Rebus’s pub crawl started at opening time the next morning—not that he was on anything other than soft drinks. Clarke had sent a list of the stolen items to his phone, plus photographs provided by the McCuskeys’ insurance company: pearl necklace, antique brooch, Rolex watches. The laptop was expensive, but whoever had taken it had left its cable behind. Same went for the missing mobile phones—both chargers still plugged into power points. Pat McCuskey himself had yet to regain consciousness, though the word “coma” was being avoided in the news bulletins. At least one tabloid was stirring up a debate on crime and punishment, and every paper Rebus had seen had run the story on its front page.

The pubs he visited were in unglamorous corners of the city, from Granton to Gorgie and the Inch to Sighthill. Some of the old places had closed. They were either boarded up or had been demolished and replaced by fast-food outlets. Rebus felt like an explorer returning to find that some wilderness had been tamed. Those haunts that did still exist were doing little or no business, the staff complaining about supermarket drink deals and the smoking ban.

“Lot of the old punters would rather stay at home, puffing away in front of the horse racing with a dozen cans of Special Offer…”

And that was another thing: lifestyle choices had hacked away at Rebus’s network of faces. Some had passed away without him knowing; others had grown senile and moved in with family members in distant climes. Hasn’t been in for a while, Rebus would be told. Or: Never see him around these days. In some pubs, the staff had no idea who he was talking about.

“Used to drink in here all the time,” Rebus would persist. “Tall guy, thick mop of silver hair, worked on the buses…” Followed by yet another shake of the head. Even the hardened eleven a.m. regulars would struggle to recall “Big Tony,” “Shug the Spit” and “Ecky Shake.” Rebus would recite the list of stolen property to anyone who’d listen, and leave a card behind the bar with his number on it. He had texted Fox to ask if he was needed before the three p.m. interview with Eamonn Paterson. Fox had replied: You’ve been talking to him then? No other way you’d know.

“Nice work, John,” Rebus had muttered to himself.

He was on his way to the final pub of his dispiriting tour when his phone rang. Not a number he recognized, but he answered anyway.

“Hello, you.”

Maggie Blantyre’s voice, instantly recognizable.

“Hi there, Maggie. Everything all right?”

“Fine. Are you in the car?”

“On my way to Silverknowes.”

“For your sins, eh?”

“Something like that. I didn’t know you had my number.”

“Porkbelly gave it to me.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so worried—I told him you’d left something behind the other night.”