The nurse nodded again. “Arrived in the middle of the night. She was still in A and E at the time…” She had stopped by a window. It gave a view into Jessica Traynor’s room. Her father was seated bedside, holding her hand in his and stroking her wrist. Her eyes were closed. The brace seemed to be constructed of thick squares of polystyrene foam, fixed in place with an array of metal clamps. Looking up, her father saw the faces at the window. He checked his daughter was asleep, then placed her hand gently on the bed and rose to his feet.

Exiting the room quietly, he ran his fingers through his mop of silver and black hair. He wore the trousers from a pinstripe suit—the jacket was draped over the back of the chair next to his daughter’s bed. His white shirt was creased, and the cuff links had been removed so the sleeves could be rolled up. Rebus doubted the expensive-looking watch on his left wrist was a fake. He had taken off his tie at some point, and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, showing tufts of graying chest hair.

“Mr. Traynor,” Clarke said, “we’re police officers. How is Jessica doing?”

His large eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep and there was vending-machine coffee on his breath when he exhaled.

“She’s all right,” he eventually said. “Thank you.”

Rebus wondered if Traynor’s tan had come from a sun bed or a winter holiday. Probably the latter.

“Are we any clearer on what happened?” Clarke was being asked.

“We don’t think another vehicle was involved, if that’s what you mean. Maybe just a case of too much acceleration…”

“Jessica never drives fast. She’s always been supercautious.”

“It’s a powerful car, sir,” Rebus qualified.

But Traynor was shaking his head. “She wouldn’t have been speeding, so let’s rule that out right now.”

Rebus glanced down at the man’s shoes. Black brogues. Every inch the successful businessman. The accent was English, but not cut-glass. Rebus remembered Jessica’s age from the notes in Clarke’s folder: twenty-one.

“Your daughter’s a student?” he surmised. Traynor nodded. “At the University of Edinburgh?” Another nod.

“What’s her course?” Clarke added.

“Art history.”

“Which year is she?”

“Second.” Traynor seemed to be growing impatient. He was watching his daughter through the glass. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. “I have to go back in…”

“There are a couple of things we need to ask Jessica,” Clarke told him.

He looked at her. “Such as?”

“Just to make sure we have all the facts.”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Maybe you could try waking her up.”

“She’s sore all over.”

“What did she tell you about the accident?”