“Not much room here for media conferences.” DCI Ralph was standing next to her. “We’re using the hotel on the corner instead.”

“Good thinking.”

He studied her. “You were at the scene soon after Mr. McCuskey was found.” Statement rather than question. “That’s why I want you focusing on the break-in itself—the nuts and bolts, if you like.”

Clarke nodded her acceptance. “There’s already an officer working on the stolen goods—putting word out.”

“Good.”

“Maybe we could bring him in?”

“As part of the team, you mean?” He wafted a hand in the general direction of the chaos behind him. “You think we’re short-staffed?”

“Just seems rational, since he’s been involved in the preliminary investigation.”

“This wouldn’t be your old friend, would it? The infamous John Rebus?”

“John not only has contacts, he was also with me when we attended the scene of a crash not far from the McCuskey home. The young woman pulled from the wreckage happens to be Forbes McCuskey’s girlfriend. We’re not sure she was alone in the car at the time.”

Ralph grew thoughtful. “That’s quite the coincidence.”

“Our thinking exactly. Again, if DS Rebus is brought in, he’s already done a lot of the groundwork…”

“Let me think about it, once I’ve got the pep talk out of the way.” He glanced at his watch, then concentrated on the movement in the room, seeming pleased with the progress. Olivia Webster had located a grubby-looking keyboard and was plugging it in. Another officer, having wiped clean a large whiteboard, was attaching photos of the crime scene to it. McCuskey had been moved before any pictures could be taken of him, but there was a typed description of how he had been found on the sitting room floor, face down and with his legs at an awkward angle. There was a close-up of the smashed patio door, and another of the ransacked bedroom. Two bedrooms, in fact. Clarke walked over and studied the photograph of what had to be the son’s old room—she hadn’t checked it at the time, and chided herself now. There were band posters on its walls, shelves of novels, a double bed with a bright red duvet. The duvet had been thrown to the floor, some of the books scattered, one poster torn in half. Drawers sat half open. Yet there had been nothing in the room worth taking. Was this evidence of anger? As if Forbes McCuskey were as much of a target as his parents? Clarke thought back to Owen Traynor again. Did they need to bring him in for a more formal chat?