Not family.

Trailing Annette…arguing with her…

But not family.

Rebus considered this as he finished what was in his glass and decided against another. Instead, he made tea, and used it to wash down a couple of paracetamol. After which, despite the lateness of the hour, he called Frank Hammell. An automated female voice told him the number had not been recognized. He checked and tried again—same result. So he took Darryl Christie’s card from his pocket and punched that number into his phone.

“Already?” Christie said, answering straight away.

“I need to speak to Hammell. I thought I had a number for him.”

“He changes it every few weeks—he’s worried your lot might be tapping him. Is it anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“Care to give me a clue?”

Rebus could hear soft music in the background. As far as he knew, Darryl still lived at home. Maybe he was in his bedroom. “It’s nothing important,” Rebus said.

“Do you always call people at midnight with stuff that isn’t important?”

Christ, this kid was sharp. “Sorry to bother you,” Rebus said, readying to end the call. But Christie told him to wait. He seemed to be weighing something up. Rebus heard sounds of glasses and coughing. Some sort of bar or club, but nowhere busy. The music sounded recorded.

“Is that jazz?” Rebus asked.

“You like jazz?”

“Not hugely. And I’d have thought you were about three decades too young for it.”

“Got a pen on you?”

“Yes.”

Christie recited Hammell’s new number, which Rebus added to the back of the card before thanking him.

“I’ll let you in on the secret of jazz,” the young man said, “if you like.”

“Go on then.”

“It’s all about control…”

When the music died, Rebus realized that Christie had ended the call.

He stared at the number jotted on the card, suddenly unwilling to talk to Hammell. He would sleep on it—after adding the number to the list of contacts on his phone.

There was an inch and a half of whisky left in the bottle.

He decided to leave it there and call it a moral victory. “It’s all about control,” he said to himself, sliding the guitar pick back into his pocket and heading for bed.

56

Rebus was leaving the house next morning when a horn sounded. Hammell was beckoning to him from the white Range Rover Sport. Rebus crossed the road as Hammell wound the driver’s-side window down.

“I need to change addresses,” Rebus complained. “Seems every bugger in creation knows where I live. When did you get back?”

“Middle of the night. Didn’t seem to be any point sticking around.” Hammell hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and hadn’t had much sleep either. “Darryl seemed to think you’d be calling me.”

“I was planning to.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Rebus couldn’t help but agree. Hammell was waiting for more. Rebus looked up and down the empty street. “Phone might be better, though…”