“Way too busy for that, Siobhan.”

“Still enjoying the life of an archeologist?”

“There are worse jobs at sea.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“What about you? Promotion suiting you?”

“Workload’s no respecter of rank.”

“Well earned, all the same.”

She wasn’t about to deny it. Instead she took a sip of tea and scooped up a forkful of cottage cheese. Rebus tried to remember how many years they’d worked together—not that long really, in the scheme of things. Didn’t see nearly so much of one another these days. She had a “friend” who lived in Newcastle. Weekends she was often down there. And then there were the times when she’d called or texted him and he’d made some excuse not to make a meeting, never quite sure why, even as he sent the message back.

“You can’t put it off forever, you know,” she said now, waving the emptied fork at him.

“What?”

“The favor you’re about to ask.”

“What favor is that, then? Can’t an old pal just drop by for a catch-up?”

She stared him out, chewing her food slowly.

“Okay then,” he admitted. “It’s someone who came to see you first thing this morning.”

“Sally Hazlitt?”

“Sally’s the daughter,” he corrected her. “Nina’s the one you talked to.”

“After which she came running straight to you? How did she know?”

“Know what?”

“That we used to be colleagues.”

He’d thought for a second that she was about to say “close.” But she hadn’t; she’d opted for “colleagues” instead, just as earlier she had used the word “civilians.”

“She didn’t. A guy called Magrath used to run SCRU and she was looking for him.”

“A sympathetic shoulder?” Clarke guessed.

“The woman’s daughter hasn’t been seen in a dozen years.”

Clarke looked around the cramped café to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then lowered her voice anyway. “We both know she should have put it behind her a long time back. Maybe that’s not possible anymore, but it’s therapy she needs rather than us.”

There was silence between them for a moment. Clarke seemed to have lost interest in what remained of her meal. Rebus nodded towards the plate.

“Two ninety-five that cost me,” he complained. Then: “She seemed to think you brushed her off too readily.”

“Forgive me if I’m not always sweetness and light at eight thirty in the morning.”

“But you did listen to her?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Rebus let the silence lie for a few seconds. People were hurrying past on the pavement outside. He didn’t suppose there was one of them without a story to tell, but finding a sympathetic ear wasn’t always easy.

“So how’s the investigation?” he asked eventually.

“Which one?”

“The kid who’s gone missing. I’m assuming that’s how she ended up speaking to you…”

“She told the front desk she had information.” Clarke reached into her jacket and produced a notebook, flipped it open to the relevant page. “Sally Hazlitt,” she intoned, “Brigid Young, Zoe Beddows. Aviemore, Strathpeffer, Auchterarder. 1999, 2002, 2008.” She snapped the book shut again. “You know as well as I do it’s thin stuff.”