It was a three-story hotel, all smoked glass and chrome, sited within easy reach of the M8 and M74—a place where business traffic could stop for meetings or food or a bed for the night. Stefan Gilmour and his partner, the ex-footballer Barney Frewin, had built the place from scratch, and it had only been open three weeks. There were framed photos on a wall in the lobby showing guests at the official opening party, including Frewin and a few of his footballing cronies past and present, plus Gilmour’s girlfriend and some of her showbiz friends.

“She’s still a beauty,” Fox was forced to admit. Then, sensing Rebus’s look: “Used to see her on TV…”

They were about to announce themselves at the reception desk, but Stefan Gilmour himself was walking towards them, calling out a greeting to Rebus. The two men shook hands, and Rebus introduced Fox.

“Let’s make this quick,” Gilmour said, sounding impatient. He was in shirtsleeves, no sign of a jacket. He summoned the lift, and once all three were inside, slipped a key card in and out of the slot before pressing the button marked PH.

“Penthouse,” he explained. “Not booked today, so we might as well.”

The doors slid open, and they were in a private hallway, doors leading off to living room, bathroom and bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave views towards the center of Glasgow and the hills beyond. On the other hand, what Rebus mostly saw were motorway lanes and industrial units.

“Impressive,” Fox said, as Gilmour settled himself on one of the room’s two sofas, stretching his arms out along the back of it.

“I just saw Owen Traynor on TV,” Gilmour said. “What’s that all about?”

“You know him?” Rebus asked.

“We were planning a hotel in Croydon—never quite happened, but Traynor was part of the syndicate. Now he pops up in Edinburgh…”

“He’s from Croydon originally,” Rebus commented.

“Hence his usefulness, John.”

“Fascinating as all that may be,” Fox broke in, “it’s not why we’re here.”

“So why are you?” Gilmour crossed one leg over the other.

Rebus stayed standing by a window, while Fox took an armchair. “It’s to do with Billy Saunders,” Fox said.

“I know—it was daft of me to phone him.” Gilmour held up his hands, arms still stretched.

“How did you get his number?” Rebus asked.

“Guy drives a minicab, John—how hard do you think it was?”

“I’m guessing maybe money changed hands.”

“No comment.”

“Well,” Fox interrupted, “maybe you’d care to ‘comment’ on Mr. Saunders’s sudden disappearance?”

Gilmour looked bemused.

“His car was found abandoned on waste ground,” Rebus explained. “Just when the Solicitor General was readying to question him more thoroughly.”

“Whoa there.” Gilmour leaned forward, elbows now resting on knees, hands clasped together. “You’re not going to blame me for that!”

“What exactly did you say to him?” Fox inquired.