“Stefan Gilmour knew Pat McCuskey—knew him well, I mean.”

“Stands to reason.” It was her turn to pause. “You’re not suggesting…?”

“Of course not. Though it did get me thinking. I know we discounted a political angle from the get-go, but on the other hand, politics in Scotland has never been so ugly. Lots of hotheads out there, and most of them nursing some grievance or other. Your boss doesn’t strike me as the type who’d want to disregard a possible motive…”

“I’ll mention it to him.” She was still rubbing at her eyebrows.

“Sure you don’t want my company? I can do witty repartee.”

“I’m fine, John.”

“Something to do with your lawyer friend?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Well, if you ever need a shoulder to drink on…”

She was smiling tiredly as she ended the call. The wine was finished. She’d had just the one glass and didn’t want any more. It was churning sourly inside her. Five or ten minutes’ walk and she’d be back at her flat. She paid the bill and headed outside. The air was crisp, the night sky clear. She remembered Rebus telling her that he used to drive through the city whenever he couldn’t sleep. Not with any great purpose in mind, just enjoying the feel of the journey. She could do that. Or she could veg out on the sofa with whatever was on TV. A book—when had she last picked up a book? But as she turned the corner into her street, a car door opened.

“Siobhan?”

Clarke flinched, her eyes darting to left and right. You could never be too careful. But she recognized the owner of the voice, and walked towards the sporty Alfa Romeo.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

The smile accompanying the question was warm but professional. Laura Smith—petite, with short brown hair—was the Scotsman newspaper’s chief crime reporter, and also, since recent cutbacks, its only crime reporter.

“Hop in,” Smith said. And before Clarke could demur, the journalist had ducked back into the car and closed the door. Music was playing from the stereo. The engine, however, was turned off and the interior was losing heat.

“How long have you been here?” Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Maybe half an hour.”

“You could have been waiting half the night.”

“Comes with the job.”

“I’d no idea you had my address.”

When Smith raised an eyebrow, Clarke knew she’d said something stupid. Smith worked the crime beat—she was obviously equipped with the resources.

“You want to ask me about the McCuskey case,” Clarke guessed.

“You brought Owen Traynor in.”

“Can’t fault your powers of observation.”

“He’s a man with a past.”