Magrath flinched at this and began to trudge back up the beach, Rebus close behind.

“Your brother does some work at Jim Mellon’s farm. He knows the area pretty well, I’d guess, the amount of driving he must do between jobs.”

“What are you getting at?” Magrath’s pace had increased and he was breathing heavily.

“We both know,” Rebus said.

“I’ve not the faintest bloody idea!”

“Which house is Kenny’s, Mr. Magrath? I’d like to have a word with him.”

“Just leave us alone.”

“Mr. Magrath…”

The man stopped and spun towards Rebus. “Can I see your warrant card? I can’t, can I? Because you’re not a bloody cop! Maybe I should phone and register a complaint. Go back home, Rebus. Just leave us be!”

He stomped away again, Rebus at his heels.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” Rebus inquired. He received no answer. “Fine, if you want Dempsey and her team here, that can be arranged.”

Magrath had climbed the concrete steps connecting beach to roadway and was making for his cottage, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket.

“You brought Peter Bliss into SCRU,” Rebus persisted, “so he could be your eyes and ears. That way you’d always know which cases were being reopened. Of course, you could have achieved the selfsame result by staying put, but you needed to be here, somewhere near your brother, rather than the hot countries you preferred. Blood’s thicker than suntan oil, eh, Gregor?”

“I’m not listening to you.”

“Just think for a second,” Rebus argued. “It’s a lot easier this way.”

But the door was slammed shut in his face. He watched through the glass as Magrath opened a second door and disappeared into the body of the house. There was a newspaper on the chair inside the porch, folded open at the latest report on the Edderton case. The papers spilling across the floor seemed to be open at similar stories. Rebus thumped on the door with his fist, then rattled the letter box. After a few moments, he took a step back and approached the living room window, just in time to see Gregor Magrath drag the curtains closed. He waited a full minute, then walked to the next cottage along and rang the doorbell. A woman who looked to be in her eighties answered, drying her hands on a tea towel.

“Sorry,” Rebus told her with a smile, “I was looking for Mr. Magrath.”

“He lives next door.”

“I mean Kenny—the electrician.”

She pointed along the street. “The garden with the swing,” she explained. “But the front door’s round the far side.”

Rebus thanked her and began to stride along the seafront. Beyond the row of cottages stood a few modern detached houses with steeply sloping gardens. The neighbor was right: these homes backed onto the view. Someone had added an octagonal conservatory to one, in front of which stood a metal frame for a swing, but with its seat missing, the frame itself rusting. Rebus headed up the lane at the end of the promenade and then took a left until he found the front door he was looking for. He pressed the bell and heard it ringing somewhere inside. A middle-aged woman opened the door.