“Because you put away Kenny Magrath?” Christie had risen from the bar stool. “I’m supposed to thank you for that?”

But Rebus was already turning away, his hand on Fox’s arm again. “Let’s go,” he said.

Outside, he got into the car, slamming shut the door and choking the steering wheel with both fists.

“A bit of history?” Fox surmised.

“His sister was Annette McKie. Kenny Magrath killed her and I put him away.”

“And he doesn’t owe you anything?”

“Because he wanted Magrath dead—probably still does.”

Fox nodded his understanding. “Maybe if I’d gone in there on my own…”

“He’d have played the same game he just did. You heard his tone when he made those calls—no way he wanted them telling you anything useful.”

“You think he had something to do with Saunders’s disappearance?”

Rebus stared hard at the pub’s uninviting frontage. “I wish,” he said.

“But you don’t think so—which takes us back to where we started.”

“We’re just doing it the hard way, like I said.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we put in a request to check Saunders’s phone calls.”

“And then sit on our hands?”

“What do you think?”

“I think we go to Glasgow and invite ourselves in for a chat with an extremely well-connected businessman by the name of Stefan Gilmour.”

“Bingo,” Rebus said.

Fox gave a final glance towards the Gimlet. “You’re really telling me that kid’s a player in the city?”

“World’s changing, Malcolm. Out with the old, as they say.”

“Present company excepted, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Rebus said, starting the engine.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“You’re not under caution, Mr. Traynor.”

Ralph and Clarke had brought Owen Traynor to one of the smaller, tidier offices on the first floor of Torphichen Place. Members of the Major Incident Team could be heard behind the closed door, pretending to traverse the corridor but really hoping to overhear some titbit or other.

“Had to run the bloody gauntlet coming in,” Traynor complained. He was wearing his suit, but no tie. “If this is about Jessica’s crash…”

“In a way it is,” Nick Ralph interrupted. “DI Clarke tells me your daughter is recovering?”

Traynor nodded.

“But there’s still some confusion over the cause of the crash.”

“She skidded on a patch of ice or something.”

“So she was driving?”

“That’s the story.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Clarke broke in. “Sounds to me like you don’t totally believe her.”

“Blame your pal Rebus—he’s the one who tried stirring things up, bringing in Forbes McCuskey’s name. Next thing I know, he’s asking if I had anything to do with the break-in at the parents’ place.”

“And did you?”

Traynor stared hard at Clarke. “I knew that was what this was about,” he growled. “You’re desperate to put some mug in the frame—any mug!”