“The one and only,” James Page said, straightening up. He rested his palm on Esson’s shoulder. “Good work, Christine.” Then he clapped his hands just once, keeping them pressed together. “So now we bring Mr. Hammell, that good friend to the McKie family, in for a little chat.”

“He never mentioned being at the bus station?” Rebus guessed.

Clarke answered with a shake of the head. “And we’ve just managed to get an itemized list from Annette’s mobile network. She sent a dozen texts from the bus—ten to her pal Timmy, the other two to a phone belonging to Frank Hammell. Only time her phone was used after that was for the photo to Thomas Redfern.”

“Incoming calls?”

“We don’t have those.”

“Be interesting to know if Hammell texted her back.”

“We’ll ask him,” Page responded crisply. “This is a man with a criminal record, isn’t that right, John?”

“He’s a criminal all right, but as yet we’ve never nailed anything on him.”

“Well, he’s lied to this inquiry, and that’s quite enough to be going on with.”

“Obstruction at the very least,” Ronnie Ogilvie agreed.

Page nodded slowly. “Back to your desks then, everyone. Siobhan, get on the phone to Mr. Hammell and request his company.” Page caught Rebus’s eye, gesturing towards his office. Rebus followed him, not bothering to close the door. He’d had enough of close confines for one day.

“How did it go?” Page was asking.

“I’m convinced the photo was taken at a place called Edderton.”

“Siobhan seems to agree. But she also said something about it being some sort of hoax…?”

“Not exactly. But I think the abductor’s playing a game with us.”

Page took a moment to digest this. “And Hammell?” he asked.

“Needs to be interviewed.”

“He could have followed her to Pitlochry…”

“He could,” Rebus admitted.

Page remained thoughtful. “How was the rest of your trip?”

“Largely uneventful.” Rebus handed over the petrol receipt. “Expenses,” he explained.

Page studied it. “Dated today.”

“That’s right.”

“I thought you went yesterday?”

“The trip took longer than expected.”

“You were away overnight?”

“A hotel,” Rebus said.

“Receipt?” Page held out a hand, but Rebus shook his head.

“On the house, as it were.” He turned to go, but Page hadn’t quite finished with him.

“Nina Hazlitt picked you out for praise.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“As long as it doesn’t go to your head.”

“Quite the opposite, James, I assure you…”

Back in the body of the kirk, it struck Rebus once again that he had nowhere to sit, not when the team was accounted for. There was a metal-framed chair that had come from the interview room, but no desk to go with it. Rebus placed it next to Clarke and checked that the legs were not going to collapse beneath him.