“She doesn’t want to see you,” he told her. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s got any intention of telling the world about her father.”

Nina Hazlitt flinched, her head jerking up. “Where is she?” she said.

Rebus shook his head as he straightened up.

“You’ve seen her?”

He was turning away towards the door. She was on her feet now. “I’m begging you!” she called out. “I just want to say sorry, that’s all! Will you tell her I’m sorry? John! Will you tell her…?”

But Rebus had pulled open the door, leaving her world well and truly behind him.

During the drive back to his flat, he expected any number of calls or messages, but none came. Once he’d parked his car, he took out his phone and found the number for Sally Hazlitt’s mobile. He tapped in a text—She says sorry—and sent it, unsure if it would ever find a reader.

After Bert Jansch, it was the turn of the Stones, and after that some Gerry Rafferty. Rebus had emptied a fair amount of Highland Park into himself, and didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse. He had taken the nylon plectrum from his pocket, the one made all those years ago by Jim Dunlop’s company, and was rubbing it between his fingers while he did some thinking about Nina Hazlitt. Had he told her the truth out of simple spite? Would it have been better to leave it unsaid? He’d almost called his own daughter, just to hear her voice for five minutes, but it was too late in the day.

Five families, able finally to grieve properly, but with accompanying horror. Five victims plucked from the world, stripped and buried. Was their killer keeping his trophies—his store of clothing, purses, phones? Rebus really hoped so. He knew that Dempsey would make an appeal at her next press conference. It would be based on detailed descriptions of the women’s belongings when they’d disappeared. He wondered if Dempsey was married—she didn’t wear a ring, but that was hardly conclusive these days. Maybe she had children. Rebus’s phone was on the arm of the chair and he kept checking it, wondering if he could maybe call Siobhan Clarke, just to tell her about his evening. Instead, he flipped the vinyl to side two, turned the volume down a shade, and trickled a final measure of malt into his glass.

The TV was playing silently: a news channel. The A9 story had lost its top billing to a new political crisis in Europe. There was a fresh interview with Frank Hammell, but they only played half a minute of it. Already he was losing his novelty. When they cut back to the studio, a still frame of Hammell from the Edderton cordon was behind the newscaster’s shoulder. Hammell’s eyes bulged, flecks of saliva either side of his open mouth, finger stabbing at the viewer, as if ready to gouge out an eye. If a suspect ever did come to light, only to go missing, Hammell would get both blame and acclamation. Rebus was trying to work Hammell out. Was he so fiery because it was in his nature, or was he trying to impress Annette’s mother? Did he maybe just like all the media attention? The other families had learned stoicism, or had come to embrace defeat. Not Frank Hammell, even though he wasn’t family.