Clarke waited for David Galvin to come back from the toilet. It was a bar in the New Town—her choice, her patch. They had been polite at first, Galvin seeking to apologize. But then he’d thrown up his hands and asked what he was apologizing for: “It’s not like I’m the one who called the Complaints!” After which the arguing had commenced—albeit with voices never raised; that wasn’t the done thing in the New Town.

Pushing the table away from him, so that its edge jabbed her in the midriff, Galvin had then had to answer a call of nature. Or, Clarke reckoned, had gone to gather his thoughts in peace. While he was away, she thought back to the meeting she’d recently come from, held at Bute House on Charlotte Square. Just Nick Ralph and her, plus the First Minister and one of his special advisers. The First Minister had wanted updates—even though he seemed to have been briefed on everything the inquiry knew. He’d demanded “swift and decisive action.” He’d worn a tie covered in tiny saltire flags and hadn’t offered them anything to drink. Every thirty seconds or so a staffer would knock and enter, handing slips of paper to the First Minister for him to read. Sometimes he’d nod, and other times he would fold the note into his pocket. Couldn’t be easy, running a country while trying to plan for a future more than half its constituents didn’t yet seem to want.

“Swift and decisive,” the First Minister had repeated. “Let’s show the world what Scottish policing can do now the new model is in effect.”

“Not quite in effect,” Ralph had corrected him, receiving a hard stare for his efforts.

Clarke watched now as Galvin emerged, rubbing his hands together as if to reassure the room that he had remembered to wash them. He walked up to the table and just stood there, shaking his head slowly, as though disappointed in her. Then he exited the bar, never looking back.

“Prick,” Clarke said under her breath. She took another slug of wine and called Rebus. “Sorry about that,” she said.

“Anything I need to know about?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sound like you’re in a pub.”

“Sharp as ever.”

“Alone?”

“As of thirty seconds ago.” She sighed and rubbed at her eyebrows. “So what can I do for you, John?”

“I saw Owen Traynor on the telly—nice work, bringing him in.”

“Just seemed to make him angry.”

“Angry is good. Angry means unthinking.”

“Well we didn’t get anything out of him. How about you?”

“Billy Saunders has gone AWOL.”

“Interesting.”

“Fox thinks maybe Stefan Gilmour slipped him a few quid to make himself scarce.”

“And?”

“Stefan denies it.”

“What about you and Malcolm—not come to blows yet?”

“We seem to be managing.” Rebus paused. “Can I toss another tiny grenade into your foxhole?”

“If you must.”