“Do you still want Jim to phone you?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. You’ve been a great help, Mrs. Mellon.”

Rebus ended the call, eyes still fixed on Siobhan Clarke.

“So?” she said.

“So Gregor Magrath retires and buys a place up north—despite the fact that he and his wife were always after holidays in the sun…”

“Making the Black Isle an odd choice.”

“Unless he has family there—which he does. But how come he never mentions as much to Peter Bliss? Even when Bliss visited, the brother never cropped up.”

“Maybe they’d had a falling-out somewhere down the line. It’s not unknown in families.”

“But there were photos on the wall unit—a mum and dad with a couple of young kids, plus the same kids after they’d grown a bit. That has to have been the brother and his family.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I’ve always loved that positive attitude of yours.”

“That used to be my line.” She paused, then asked him what he reckoned it all meant.

“I’m not sure.”

“Worth another word in Dempsey’s ear?”

He gave a shrug and concentrated on his beer. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

“A quick one?” Rebus suggested.

“Got a home life waiting for me,” she said with a shake of the head.

“Meaning…?”

“Post to open, bills to pay, washing to do.”

He nodded his understanding and glanced at his watch: he’d left it too late to collect his own laundry. “We’ll catch up again soon,” he said.

She had risen to her feet and extended her right hand towards him. Rebus took it and they shook, though it felt wrong, too formal. Was it her way of saying that their time together was done? Before he could ask, she was gone.

“Just you and me, eh?” he said to his pint glass. “Same as it ever was.” Then he leaned back and focused his attention on the wall opposite, thinking some more about Gregor Magrath, and families, and secrets.

It was mid evening at Jo-Jo Binkie’s. Frank Hammell had gone to see his dentist earlier for some repair work. Nobody had dared to ask him about the cuts on his face. He was watching from the balcony as the DJ twitched and danced behind his decks. Not that the man played records—it was all CDs, MP3s and laptops. The music wasn’t to Hammell’s taste, but Darryl was after a younger crowd, a crowd less careful with its money. The place was hipper these days, and people came from all over—sometimes in coaches from out west or Fife or the borders. A few dozen dancers gyrated below; Hammell checked out the talent. There was one skinny blonde, he could almost see down the front of her short, low-cut dress.

Almost.

A couple of staffers patrolled the periphery, on the lookout for trouble. Hammell didn’t know their names. They were new. Almost everybody was new. Darryl had explained—people not turning up on time; people bad-mouthing Hammell behind his back: they had to be replaced. People too old to handle the job; people who didn’t pull their weight. Tonight, as Hammell had walked into his own club, he hadn’t recognized a single person working the door. Even Rob the Reliable had gone AWOL. It was the same with the staff at his pubs: out with the old and in with the new. Darryl called it “refreshing the brand.” Still, there was money coming in—no mean feat in a recession, as Darryl himself had suggested—and thanks to some creative accounting, not all of it went out again.