“Is this me getting my desk back?” he asked.

Rebus nodded slowly.

“I’ll say goodbye, then.” Ormiston’s hand was out, but Rebus refused to take it and the man stiffened.

“Here’s the thing,” Rebus said. “All that nosiness of yours on the phone, it got me thinking about Big Ger Cafferty.”

“Oh aye?”

“See, Cafferty knew about that CCTV from the bus station when there was no way he should have.”

“It’s an open secret he’s a pal of yours.”

“But you and I know differently, don’t we, Dave? We know he’s got someone in his pocket—someone based right here.” Rebus leaned in towards Ormiston until their faces were only a couple of inches apart. “Time you stopped being so chatty, or I might have to gather up a few brownie points from the Complaints. Ever seen them in action, Dave? They’ll go through your phone and computer. They’ll look at your spending habits. They’ll find stuff. And that’ll be the big cheerie-bye to your pension.” Rebus paused. “Fair warning—walk away from Cafferty, and keep walking.”

Back at the Saab, Rebus reached across the dashboard and lifted the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. He started up the steps, readying to hand it back at the front desk. Then he paused. After all, no one had requested it, had they?

He had only driven fifty or so yards in the direction of Broughton Street when his phone buzzed. It was Siobhan Clarke.

“Problem with Dempsey?” he guessed, lifting the phone to his ear.

“Are you near a television?”

“No.” He looked to left and right. Plenty of pubs he could dart into.

“I’ll try for a screen-grab, then. Give me two minutes.”

The phone went dead. Rebus pulled over, slipped the sign back into place on the dashboard and walked into the nearest watering hole. When the barman asked what he could do for him, Rebus told him he could change channels for a start.

“Sky or BBC News,” he guessed.

There were no customers to complain, so the man did as he was told. When the BBC turned out to be focusing on a story about Afghanistan, he switched to Sky, where a reporter was interviewing Jim Mellon, the farmer from Edderton. But they were already cutting back to the studio, and Rebus hadn’t even caught the headline. He got on his phone and told Clarke what he’d seen.

“I’ve sent you a photo,” she said. “No 3G here, so it might take a while.”

“Has there been a break?”

“A break? No, they’re just talking to the farmer for want of anybody more interesting. Half the news teams have already skedaddled back to wherever they came from. Call me when the picture gets there.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Might be nothing.” She paused. “Probably is.”

The phone went dead again and Rebus stared at the screen, willing Clarke’s message to arrive. The barman asked if he wanted a drink while he waited.

“Half of IPA, then,” Rebus obliged. It was poured, presented to him, paid for and demolished before his phone let him know he had one new message. When he opened it, he was looking at the scene from the TV interview—newscaster plus Mellon. They were in the farmyard, and close behind them stood a small white van with a name on the side in thick black capitals.