“That’s what they’re called.”

“So it flew off on impact? Or came off when the medics pulled her out?”

“First patrol car on the scene, the officer took a few shots on his phone—including the boot. Jessica was still in the car at the time. Ambulance arrived a few minutes later.”

Rebus pondered this. “Who found her?”

“A woman on her way home from Livingston. She works shifts at a supermarket there.” Clarke was studying a typed sheet of paper from the folder. “Driver’s-side door was open. Impact could have done that.”

“Or the driver tried to get out.”

“Unconscious. Head resting against the airbag. No seat belt.”

Rebus took the photographs from Clarke and studied them while Clarke spoke. “The supermarket worker called 999 just after eight in the evening, no light left in the sky. No streetlamps either, just the distant glow from Edinburgh itself.”

“Boot’s closed,” Rebus said, handing the photos back.

“Yes, it is,” Clarke agreed.

“Not anymore, though.” Rebus walked around to the back of the car. “Did you open this?” he asked the man from the scrap yard, receiving a shake of the head in answer. The boot was empty, except for a rudimentary tool kit.

“Scavengers, maybe?” Clarke suggested. “Car was here all night.”

“Why not take the tool kit?”

“Don’t suppose it’s worth much. Anyone could have opened it, John—ambulance driver, our guy…”

“I suppose so.” He tried closing the boot. It was undamaged, and stayed locked once shut. The key was in the ignition, and he pressed the button to unlock the boot again. A clunk told him he had been successful.

“Electrics still seem to work,” he said.

“Sign of a well-made car.” Clarke was sifting through the paperwork. “So what do we think?”

“We think a car was traveling too fast and came off the road. No sign of a prior collision. Was she maybe on her phone at the time? It’s been known to happen.”

“Worth checking,” Clarke agreed. “And the Ugg?”

“Sometimes,” Rebus said, “footwear is just footwear.”

Clarke was checking a message on her phone. “Seems its owner is back in the land of the living.”

“Do we want to speak to her?” Rebus asked.

The look Clarke gave him was all the answer he needed.

Jessica Traynor had a room to herself at the Royal Infirmary. The nurse explained that she had been lucky—a suspected fracture of one ankle, some bruised ribs, and other minor injuries consistent with whiplash.

“Her head and neck are in a brace.”

“But she’s able to talk?” Clarke asked.

“A little.”

“Any sign of alcohol or drugs in her bloodstream?”

“Looks the clean-living type to me. She’s on painkillers now, though, so she’ll be woozy.” The nurse paused. “Do you want to speak to her father first?”

“He’s here?”