Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Welcome
- Dedication
- Prologue
- i
- ii
- iii
- Part One
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- Part Two
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- Part Three
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- Part Four
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- Part Five
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- Part Six
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- About the Author
- Also by Ian Rankin
- Thank you for buying this e-book, published by Hachette Digital.
- Contents
“Your way works too, John—Edderton; Susie Mercer. Those were shoe-leather results. So don’t go thinking you’re obsolete.” She pointed to his near-empty glass. “Are we having another?”
“Might as well, eh?”
He watched her as she queued at the bar. Then his phone rang again, and he decided he might as well answer.
“John?”
“Hello, Nina.”
“I called you a few minutes back.”
“Signal’s patchy here.”
“You sound like you’re in a pub.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You sound tired, too. Is everything all right?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“And the inquiry?”
“See my previous answer.”
There was silence on the line for a moment. “Do you mind me calling?”
He closed his eyes. “No,” he told her.
“And when you get news, you’ll tell me?”
“Didn’t I promise?” I think your daughter’s alive…
“Promises aren’t always kept, John. Should I come north again? I’d like to see you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Your daughter’s alive, but why did she leave?
“You sound…”
“Tired?”
“No, not just tired—strange. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I have to go, Nina.” Why would she not get in touch when she knows you’re out there, desperate and searching?
“John, I—”
He ended the call just as Clarke returned to the table.
“Let me guess,” she said, watching him switch off the phone and place it on the table. Then, sitting down: “You really don’t want to tell her about Susie Mercer?”
“No.”
“I can see how it might make things worse. On the other hand…”
Rebus ignored her and picked up the fresh pint.
“Cheers,” he said. “Here’s tae us.”
As he drank, he couldn’t help but think of the rest of the toast.
Wha’s like us?
Gey few—
And they’re a’ deid…
39
39
Malcolm Fox’s drink of choice was Appletiser. He never touched alcohol, not these days. He always recycled the empty bottles, along with paper, cans, plastic and cardboard. Now the council was asking him to recycle kitchen waste too, and he was running out of room in his bungalow for all the boxes and bags. He already had a compost bin in his back garden, though it was only ever added to in the summer—lawn trimmings and the few weeds he could be bothered to dig up. Fox wasn’t convinced any of it made a difference, yet he found himself unable not to comply. Though the bungalow had no party walls, he always kept the volume low on the TV, and seldom listened to music. He liked reading—almost as much as he liked work.