“Unlike the skin of that potato,” Rebus offered. “And yes, I agree, it’s thin stuff—as it stands. So tell me about the latest installment.”

Clarke shook her head. “Not if you’re going to think of it in that way.”

“All right, it’s not an ‘installment.’ It’s a MisPer.”

“Of three days’ standing, which means there’s still a decent chance she’ll wander home and ask what all the fuss is.” Clarke got up and walked over to the counter, returning moments later with an early copy of the Evening News. The photo was on page five. It showed a scowling girl of fifteen with long black hair and a fringe almost covering her eyes.

“Annette McKie,” Clarke continued, “known to her friends as ‘Zelda’—from the computer game.” She saw the look on Rebus’s face. “People play games on computers these days; they don’t have to go to the pub and put money in a machine.”

“There’s always been a nasty streak in you,” he muttered, going back to his reading.

“She was taking the bus to Inverness for a party,” Clarke went on. “Invited by someone she met online. We’ve checked and it pans out. But she told the driver she was feeling sick, so he stopped by a petrol station in Pitlochry and let her off. There was another bus in a couple of hours, but she told him she’d probably hitch.”

“Never arrived in Inverness,” Rebus said, looking at the photo again. Sulky: was that a suitable description? But to his eyes it seemed overly posed. She was copying a look and a style, without quite living it. “Home life?” he asked.

“Not the best. She had a record of truancy, took a few drugs. Parents split up. Dad’s in Australia, mum lives in Lochend with Annette’s three brothers.”

Rebus knew Lochend: far from the bonniest neighborhood in the city, but the Edinburgh address explained Clarke’s involvement. He finished reading the report but left the paper open on the table. “Nothing from her mobile phone?”

“Just a photo she sent to someone she knows.”

“What sort of photo?”

“Hills…fields. Probably the outskirts of Pitlochry.” Clarke was staring at him. “There’s really not a lot for you to do here, John,” she said, not unsympathetically.

“Who said I wanted to do anything?”

“You’re forgetting: I know you.”

“Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Maybe you have. But in that case, someone needs to quash the rumor I’ve been hearing.”

“And what rumor is that?”

“That you’ve applied to return to the fold.”

He stared at her. “Who’d want a crock like me?”

“A very good question.” She pushed her plate away from her. “I need to be getting back.”

“Aren’t you impressed?”

“By what?”

“That I didn’t drag you into the first pub we passed.”

“As it happens, we didn’t pass any pubs.”

“That must be the answer,” Rebus said, nodding to himself.

Back at Gayfield Square, he opened the Saab and made to hand her the sign.

“Keep it,” she told him. “Might come in handy.” Then she surprised him with a hug and a final peck on the cheek before disappearing into the station. Rebus got into the car and placed the sign on the passenger seat, staring at it.