It was Nina Hazlitt.

“Guess where I am,” she was saying.

55

They met at an old-fashioned bar behind the railway station. She was booked onto the sleeper service down to London, a couple of hours still to kill before boarding. She was seated at the bar when he arrived. The pint she’d bought him had been there some time and had gone flat. Rebus said it would be fine anyway.

“I thought you’d still be in Inverness,” she told him.

“Surplus to requirements.”

“They’ve identified all the bodies now?”

He nodded and took a sip of beer.

“No sign of Sally,” she went on, lowering her eyes.

“Meaning she’s unconnected to the case,” he offered.

“But she has to be! Wasn’t I the first person to see it?”

The barman cast a warning look towards them: this wasn’t a place for raised voices. Rebus noticed that the couple at the table next to the window were readying to leave. He picked up his own glass and Nina Hazlitt’s suitcase. After a moment she followed him, carrying her vodka and tonic. When they were settled, she waited for him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face sallow and taut, lacking sleep and answers.

“What did you think of Frank Hammell?” Rebus asked.

“He seems very caring.”

“He’s a gangster.”

“That’s certainly what the papers imply.”

“He’s not someone you want in your life.”

“He’s not in my life.”

“The two of you looked pretty cozy in Inverness—which one of you arranged that bit of filming?”

“What does it matter?

“Just trying to get things straight in my head.”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern, John.”

“Maybe not.” He paused. “What about the other guy—I suppose he’s none of my business either?”

She gave a sigh. “Which ‘guy’ are we talking about now?”

“The one who lives with you—is his name really Alfie?”

“I told you, he’s my brother.”

“You don’t have any brothers, Nina.”

Her mouth opened a little. He watched as color flooded her cheeks.

“What makes you say that?” she was eventually able to ask.

“I’m a cop; we’re good at finding stuff out.” Rebus paused. “So who is he?”

“He…lives with me.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “Why did you lie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you reckon your feminine charms wouldn’t work on me if there was someone else in the picture?”

She had lowered her eyes again. Her hands had dropped into her lap, resting there palms up. “Perhaps,” she conceded quietly.

“Plus the grieving mother probably plays better with the media if there isn’t somebody else waiting at home.”

“John…”

He gestured for her not to go on. He wasn’t even halfway down the pint but knew he was going to leave it. His stomach felt queasy, filled with undigested meat and swelling rice. He rose to his feet. Nina Hazlitt didn’t move. She seemed fascinated by her hands. Or maybe it was just that the pose had worked for her in the past. Rebus rested his knuckles against the edge of the small table and leaned down towards her, lowering his voice.