“Delicious, isn’t it? I heard it from two normally reliable sources. Even set up a bit of a surveillance—had a photographer with me and everything. Never caught him, though.”

“So we’re talking unsubstantiated rumors?” Clarke, while sounding skeptical, still had a question. “Where’s he getting it?”

Smith offered a shrug. “Not sure it originates in Edinburgh—do your lot know of any dealers who could be sending stuff down the chain?”

“I’ll look into it.”

“A note of caution—this is a son grieving for his father, remember.”

“Meaning there’s nothing you can do with it?”

Smith shook her head. “Would I be trading it otherwise?” she asked, with that same sweet, professional smile.

Rebus was asleep in his chair when his phone woke him. He didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway, massaging his eyes back into focus with his free hand.

“John Rebus,” he said.

“You’ve got to stop hassling my dad!”

“Jessica?” Rebus walked over to the record deck and lifted the stylus from the run-out groove. Side two of Beggars Banquet—how had he managed to sleep through so much of that? “I didn’t know you had my number.”

“You gave Forbes your card.”

“So I did.”

“Now listen to me—just leave him alone!”

“Forbes or your dad?”

“Dad’s not done anything—he doesn’t deserve this…” She seemed to be trying to control a sob.

“Has he taken it out on you, Jessica?” Rebus asked.

“Of course not—but I can see it’s eating him up. They named him on TV, and now people keep phoning him.”

“You’re still at the hotel?”

“Checking out tomorrow.”

“You’ll go back to your flat? What about your father?”

“He needs to be in London. What he doesn’t need is this hanging over him.”

“Then tell me what happened,” Rebus said.

“What do you mean?”

“The night of the crash…”

There was silence on the line. He thought for a moment she’d hung up. But then came a crackling sound as she exhaled noisily.

“I can’t,” she said. “They’ll kill me.”

“Who’ll kill you?” He gave her time to answer, but none came. “You’re Owen Traynor’s daughter—no one’s going to kill you.”

“I just can’t. Don’t ask me again.”

“You can expect to see me at your door tomorrow. Does it involve Forbes? Or maybe his father?”

But this time she really had ended the call. Rebus rang back, but her messaging service picked up. He added her number to the contacts list on his phone, then patted the phone against his cheek as he went back over the conversation.

They’ll kill me.

Who the hell were they?