“I’m sorry for threatening to turn you into the tea boy.”

“You were just letting Paterson know who was boss.”

“And you too, maybe.”

Rebus nodded. “So what now?”

“Our first interview needs to be sent for transcribing. I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind—I’m meeting Elinor Macari at the top of the hour.”

“To hear what else Billy Saunders has been saying?”

“That’s right.”

“So do you want me to lock up?”

Fox studied Rebus, then shook his head.

“Still don’t trust me?” Rebus tried to sound hurt.

Fox didn’t answer. He placed a thick file in his briefcase, where it joined his notepad. “It’s good you finally got rid of that lipstick,” he said, closing the clasps.

10

10

Some of the same faces Clarke had seen outside the McCuskeys’ home were now huddled on the narrow pavement on Torphichen Place. Cars and vans parked illegally were being ticketed by wardens, but without the owners seeming to mind. Those same vehicles had narrowed the road from three lanes to one, and traffic was backed up, giving drivers plenty of time to stare at the media circus.

Once inside the police station, having ignored all the questions yelled in her direction, Clarke showed her ID and was buzzed through a locked door into the body of the building. Every bit of space on the first floor seemed to be in the process of being taken over by the Major Incident Team—desks moved, extra chairs sought, communications established. Clarke squeezed her way through the melee until she reached its still center and introduced herself to DCI Ralph. He was over six feet tall, his dark hair parted in the center, and sporting a neatly trimmed beard. He didn’t bother with a handshake or words of welcome, telling her instead that there would be a briefing in ten minutes’ time and she should make herself useful until then.

“Olivia will show you the ropes,” he explained, nodding towards a young woman who was carrying a computer printer past him.

“Olivia Webster,” the officer said by way of introduction, as Clarke followed her. “I’m a DC.”

“I’m DI Clarke.”

“Siobhan Clarke—I know who you are.”

“Have we met before?”

Webster shook her head. She had long brown hair and gray eyes, her skin pale. “I’ve just heard you mentioned.” She placed the printer on one of the desks, next to a monitor. “I’ve only been here six weeks—transferred from Dundee.” She stared at the setup on the desk.

“Keyboard?” Clarke suggested.

Webster smiled. “Knew something wasn’t quite right.” She scanned the room. “Must be one around here somewhere…” Then she was off again, leaving Clarke without any sense of what she could or should be doing. She peered from a window until the press pack below noticed her and started waving.