Rebus was about to say something about her inability to check her phone for messages, but Arnold had sprung to his feet and was shaking her hand. “Sergeant Arnold,” he reminded her. “We met when you had that break-in.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good job it was kept out of the papers, eh?” Arnold turned towards Rebus. “Turned out to be one of the housekeeping staff.”

Causley busied herself trying not to squirm. Arnold was still holding her hand, and she knew what was expected.

“You’ll be wanting to see that file,” she said.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Arnold replied, only now loosening his grip.

Having played his part, Arnold had headed off to work, and half an hour later, Rebus was checking out of the hotel, taking with him photocopies of Susie Mercer’s CV, application letter, references and twelve-week performance review. He sat in the Saab and went through everything for a second time. The references were from other hotels, one in Northern Ireland and one on Mull. Mull was the more recent, and Rebus called the number. Yes, he was told, Susie Mercer had worked there the previous summer. The hotel in Northern Ireland, on the other hand, had no record of her.

“Though we did have a Susan Merton here around that time.”

Rebus waited for the woman to pull Merton’s photograph from her personnel file, then described Mercer to her.

“Sounds about right,” she conceded. Rebus asked if a copy of the photo could be sent to him. She snapped it with her phone and a couple of minutes later it arrived on his screen. It was blurry, and the cut and color of the hair were different, but he’d bet his pension Susan Merton and Susie Mercer were the same person. He had tried Mercer’s number half a dozen times, leaving messages when prompted. Now he punched in a text and sent it, asking her to get in touch without revealing who he was.

Looking down the CV, he saw more hotel and restaurant work, plus stints in department stores and as an office temp. High school in Aylesbury; further education college in the same town. Rebus had only the vaguest notion that Aylesbury was somewhere near London. Her date of birth was June 1, 1981, while Sally Hazlitt’s was the reverse—January 6. 6/1 and 1/6—easy to remember. When his phone rang, he answered automatically. It was Peter Bliss.

“Someone’s looking for you,” Bliss said, keeping his voice down.

“Cowan?”

“Gayfield Square told him you’d be back here first thing.”

Nicely played, Page: just a smidgen of revenge…

“I’m in Inverness,” Rebus confided. “I’ll be another three hours at least.”

“Inverness?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You should call in on Gregor Magrath.”

It took Rebus a moment to place the name. “The guy who started SCRU?” He remembered the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, the one with Magrath’s number on it.