Clarke shrugged. “Lots of people go missing, John, for all sorts of reasons. Look at Annette McKie. Bit of a wild child. She has a falling-out with her mou’s boyfriend and decides to hide out for a while—maybe to punish him or put her mum through the wringer.”

“And the photo?”

“Might have nothing to do with anything.”

“Meaning I’m seeing things?”

“Your job is tying up loose ends. Maybe these are just random threads.”

He concentrated on finishing his first pint so he could get started on the second.

“It’s something we have to consider, John.”

“I know that.” He wiped a line of foam from his top lip. “So is this you politely telling me my services are no longer required?”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Page, then? Are you running his errands to get back in his good books?”

She glared at him. “James doesn’t think you’ve got anything. Meantime he’s got Thomas Robertson and Frank Hammell to be getting on with.”

“Why would Hammell abduct his lover’s daughter?”

“We’ll have to ask him.”

Rebus shook his head slowly, then asked her if she wanted another. She checked the time on her mobile phone.

“I need to be heading off,” she said. “Are you planning on hanging around?”

“Where else am I going to go?”

“Home, maybe.”

“I was thinking of inviting you to dinner.”

“Not tonight.” She paused. “Another time, though, for definite.”

“Christine Esson’s worried about you,” he stated as Clarke began to get to her feet.

“Worried?”

“That you’ll blame her for getting called to the headmaster’s office.”

“It wasn’t her doing.”

“Maybe you could tell her that when you see her tomorrow?”

“Sure.” She slung her bag over her shoulder.

“How long do you reckon I’ve got, before Page sends me packing?”

“I don’t know.”

“A day? Maybe two?”

“I really don’t know, John. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Let’s hope so.” Rebus raised his glass, toasting her as she turned her back on him and made for the exit. He was on his own again, the other tables wiped clean and awaiting customers. He finished the paper, while sounds of laughter came from the bar area. The usual crew were in: half a dozen familiar faces. Some of them, he didn’t even know what they did for a living. It didn’t matter in here. And although some regulars were given nicknames hinting at their jobs, no one had mooted this for Rebus—not to his face, at any rate. He was always just John. When he looked at the table in front of him, the pint Siobhan had bought him was down to its dregs. He lifted the empties, preparing to join the throng in the front room. Then he paused, remembering the drive to Tongue and back: the isolation and stillness, the sense of a world unchanged and unchanging.