Rebus thought of things he could say, things like: “I was solving murders when you were in your pram.” He didn’t, though. He just gave a little bow of the head in Clarke’s direction, as if to wish her the best of British, then flicked the cigarette to the ground and did as he was told.

When he reemerged, Mrs. Scanlon—makeup immaculate as usual—came with him and wished him well on the journey south. Page and Clarke were gone. Rebus watched as Mrs. Scanlon closed the door, then decided on another cigarette before the off. When his phone rang, he considered not answering, but it was Gayfield Square.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Christine Esson.”

“Hiya, Christine. If you’ve not already heard, I’ll be joining you shortly.”

“Any news to report?”

“Way this thing’s going, the internet’ll know before I do.”

“I did see that photo of you with Hammell and Hazlitt…”

“And you thought you’d call me to gloat?”

“What is there to gloat about?”

“Nothing.” He crushed the butt of his cigarette underfoot and got into the Saab. Would this be the day it refused to start?

The engine growled into life; none of the dashboard’s warning lights came on.

“So, anyway,” Esson was saying, “I said I’d pass on her number.”

“Sorry, Christine, I missed the start of that. Whose number?”

“The woman who phoned wanting to speak to you about Sally Hazlitt.”

Rebus rolled his eyes. Another sighting. “How much of a crank did she sound?”

“She seemed perfectly sane. Told me to give you her name and get you to call her.”

Rebus sighed, but reached into his pocket for his notebook and pen. When Esson read the woman’s name out, he stiffened. Then he asked her to repeat it.

“Susie Mercer,” she obliged, keeping her intonation nice and clear.

“That’s what I thought you said first time,” Rebus told her.

53

Glasgow.

Rebus had told the woman who called herself Susie Mercer: “This has to be in person.”

She’d asked him why.

“I need to be sure.”

She was in Glasgow. A9 south, then M80 west. It was lunchtime before Rebus arrived, parking in a multi-story near the bus station and walking the short distance to Buchanan Street. As arranged, he called her again.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Where?”

“Heading down Buchanan Street.”

“Turn left at Royal Exchange. You’ll see a café there called Thompson’s. Sit at the counter by the window.”

“I’m hardly James Bond material.”

“Just do it or I walk.”

So Rebus did it—ordered a coffee and an orange juice and sat with them, staring out at the passing parade of shoppers. Glasgow wasn’t his patch. It was a sprawl compared to Edinburgh. As long as he stuck to a half-dozen streets, he could navigate his way around; outside that tight circumference, he’d be lost.

It was a good five minutes before she came in. She eased herself onto the stool next to him.

“Had to be sure you weren’t bringing her,” she announced.