“Elinor Macari wants to see us. How soon can you get here?”

“The Sheriff Court? Ten minutes with a headwind. What’s up?”

“You remember that your friend had a word with Billy Saunders?”

“According to Saunders,” Rebus felt it necessary to qualify. “We’ve not heard Stefan Gilmour’s version yet.”

“Well, that’s going to happen sooner rather than later. Billy Saunders has vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“His car was found this morning on a patch of wasteland in Niddrie. Guy who runs the minicab office hadn’t heard from him all through the night shift. Apparently his last job was from a pub called the Gimlet…”

“Just off Calder Road?”

“Might have guessed you’d know it.”

“I was in there asking about the stuff taken from the McCuskey house.”

“Well, the destination was Niddrie Marischal Road.”

“Bandit country,” Rebus commented. “Does the passenger have a name?”

“Robinson.”

“Probably fake.”

Fox had to ask: “What makes you say that?”

“If he drinks in the Gimlet, chances are he’s dodgy to start with. And people don’t go to Niddrie at night for the Michelin restaurants. So Mr. Dodgy was probably about to do something dodgy.”

“And wouldn’t want his name cropping up if we ran a check?” Rebus could almost hear Fox nodding his acceptance of the argument. “Ten minutes, you say?”

“Will there be coffee?”

“If we’re talking the Solicitor General’s inner sanctum, I think there’s one of those Nespresso machines.”

“You silver-tongued bastard. I’m on my way…”

Elinor Macari’s assistant brought the tray through.

“Smells great,” Rebus said, accepting one of the small white mugs. There were even biscuits, and he selected one from the plate. Macari was seated behind her desk and didn’t want coffee. She drank from a bottle of still water and looked as though she’d spent at least an hour of the morning at some gym or other. Her skin glowed. When the assistant left, she asked Fox for his report.

“DS Rebus should probably do the talking,” Fox told her, so that was what Rebus did, giving his view of the Gimlet and its clientele. Afterwards, the Solicitor General tossed her empty bottle into a waste basket and pressed her hands together.

“Plan of action?” Her eyes drilled into Rebus’s.

“He’s not been gone long. Might be he’s got a lumber somewhere or will wander back home after a day or two, having bankrupted himself at a casino or card game.”

“Or he’s been paid to make himself scarce—would we happen to know of anyone with money enough to make that happen?”

“We’ll be talking to Stefan Gilmour,” Fox interrupted. “We’ll also track down Saunders’s last fare, just in case it ties in.”

“What else?” the Solicitor General demanded.

“We can question family and friends, ask his mobile provider for a list of calls made and received…”

She nodded, as if finally just about satisfied.