“Forbes McCuskey panics and does a runner. But then he has second thoughts, hangs around nearby. Once the ambulance has taken Jessica away and the patrol car has gone…”

“He comes back, opens the boot and takes whatever was inside?” Clarke’s eyes had opened a little wider. “And he’s walking distance from his parents’ place, so he takes the drugs there?”

Rebus nodded. “Maybe the original owners wanted them back—if the deal had gone sour.”

“Forbes isn’t there, but they find his father instead?”

“It’s guesswork at best, Siobhan,” Rebus warned her. He knew this because he had spent half the night piecing it together.

“We really need to talk to Forbes, don’t we?”

“Might be easier starting with his girlfriend. She’s back in her flat as of today, with her dad nowhere in sight.”

“Making her the weaker link?” Clarke nodded, without looking especially convinced. She saw that there was no longer a queue at the counter. “I need another coffee to take with me.”

“You sure about that?” He nodded towards her knee. “I’d say you’re already shakier than a Neil Young tribute band.”

“He’s playing Glasgow, you know—Neil Young, I mean.”

“June the thirteenth,” Rebus confirmed.

“You’ve got a ticket?”

He shook his head. “They only had standing.”

“And at your age you need a nice comfy seat?” Clarke was smiling.

“There are just some things I won’t stand for,” Rebus replied. “You should know that by now…”

He walked with her to the hotel, and stood at the back of the room for the first few minutes of DCI Ralph’s presentation. A couple of political hacks seemed to have joined the usual newshounds. Rebus recognized their faces from late-night TV discussions. He had no idea what they sounded like—he always had the sound muted, an album playing in its place. They held phones or iPads rather than actual notebooks, and the look they affected was world-weary. Maybe they yearned for the bright lights of Westminster, Big Ben chiming the hours. Rebus almost felt sorry for them as he exited the hotel and returned to his car. He called Fox to make sure the office wasn’t locked.

“Thought we might make a day of it,” Fox told him. “I’ve fixed those interviews with Albert Stout and Norman Cuttle.”

“Want me to bring anything for them—an ear trumpet or a bag of pan drops?”

“They both sounded spry when I phoned them.”

“So where are you just now?”

“Elinor Macari’s office. She’s been updating me on Billy Saunders.”

“And?”

“Craigmillar police station are running the show—without any apparent enthusiasm.”

“Guy’s been missing no time at all,” Rebus argued.

“Even so, Macari has got one of her fiscals to go gee them up. Poor bugger’s to stick to the investigation like glue.”