He sat for the length of one final drink, adding it to his tab. His phone was on the table in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He could call Nina Hazlitt. Or Frank Hammell. Or Darryl Christie. By morning the news would be out there, broken by Dempsey’s nephew. No, he decided eventually—give them one last night of unknowing, one last sleep sprinkled with hope. When he tried getting to his feet, the backs of his legs ached: too much standing around in the cold. There were some books on a shelf in the bar area, and he asked if it was all right to borrow one.

“That’s what they’re there for, sir.”

The one he picked—for its title more than anything—was Cracking the Code. He took it upstairs to bed with him, the barman’s last words echoing in his head:

Pleasant dreams…

46

46

The first news crew arrived at breakfast time.

Rebus was out front, smoking a cigarette. Rain had arrived in heavy gusts, and he was sheltering next to the hotel’s entrance. The crew chatted among themselves as they sprinted past him. They didn’t have reservations, but were hopeful; an early check-in would be a bonus; quick shower and something to eat, then they could get on the road to Edderton. English accents; unshaven; bleary-eyed: Rebus got the idea they’d driven through the night to get there. He flicked away his cigarette and headed for the breakfast room. Page was busy on his phone, while Clarke started on the second pot of coffee.

“Slight problem,” Rebus told her, nodding towards the open doorway. Clarke had a clear view of the reception desk. One of the arrivals held a full-sized news camera at his side. Page saw it too, and told the person he was speaking to that he would call back.

“If they’re staying, we’re not,” he commented.

“Agreed,” Clarke said. Then: “Any news from Dempsey?”

Page nodded slowly. “First autopsy will start in an hour. Pathologist reckons it’ll take a couple of days to get through them. Meantime, forensics are busy at the locus.”

“Weather won’t be helping,” Rebus interrupted.

“They’ve covered what they can with plastic sheeting,” Page informed him.

“I need to buy some wellies,” Clarke said.

“Me too.” Rebus lifted one foot so she could see his rudimentary attempt at shoe-cleaning. “And trousers, while I’m at it.” The reception desk had provided a needle and thread, but his repair wasn’t going to hold.

“How about the tetanus?”

Rebus shrugged. “What are the symptoms?”

“Headache, dry mouth…” She examined his sewing. “Lack of hand/eye coordination.”

Page was busy checking messages. “Are Christine and Ronnie on the road home?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clarke confirmed.

“Dempsey’s going to want the families brought to Inverness,” Page said. “It’s a murder investigation now.”