“Yes?” she said.

“I’m looking for Kenny Magrath.”

“He’s at work. Is it to do with a job?”

“When will he be back?”

Her face remained friendly but puzzled. She had a rounded, pleasing figure and curly auburn hair, her eyes the same olive green as her brother-in-law’s Land Rover.

“Is it something I can help you with?” she asked.

Rebus took out his ID and held it towards her. “I’m with the Edderton team,” he explained. “Your husband was out at Jim Mellon’s farm yesterday.”

“That’s right.”

“It just occurred to us, the job he does, he might have noticed any suspicious activity or a stranger in the area.”

“Well, he’d have said something, wouldn’t he?” Her eyes had narrowed a little.

“Maybe he would,” Rebus countered. “But sometimes you don’t remember something until you’re asked about it.”

“Really?” She took a moment to consider this. Rebus decided to fill the silence with another question.

“Have you lived here long, Mrs. Magrath?”

“All my life.”

“Been married awhile?”

“Don’t remind me,” she said, making a joke of it.

Rebus managed a big, friendly smile. “You’ve got a couple of kids?”

Her demeanor stiffened.

“I saw photos at Gregor Magrath’s house,” he explained. “Are they still at home?”

“They’re in their twenties.” She had relaxed a little. “One’s in Inverness, the other Glasgow. So you’ve been talking to Gregor?”

“Not officially. I work with one of his old colleagues. The colleague told me to drop by and say hello.”

She seemed to have made up her mind about him. Taking a step back into the hall, she asked if he wanted to come in.

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble,” she said. “Kenny said he’d be home around one for a pit stop. The kettle’s already on…”

The house was bright and well furnished. Plenty of framed photos on the living room walls, mostly of the offspring in every stage of development from cradle to graduation. Rebus tried not to look as though he was snooping.

“Does your husband work from a shop?” he asked.

“More a sort of shed—just somewhere he can store all his bits and pieces.”

“That’s near here, is it?”

She nodded. “Opposite the pub.” She paused. “Sorry, I didn’t seem to catch your name.”

“Rebus,” he said.

“Rebus?”

“It’s Polish, if you care to go back far enough.”

“Lots of Poles in Scotland just now. Kenny’s noticed it in the building trade.”

“He’s got enough work, though?”

“Oh, yes. No complaints there.”

“Always local jobs?”

She looked at him, trying to fathom the reason for the question. Rebus tried out his smile again.

“Sorry, just me being nosy,” he said.

“Kenny has built a name for himself.” She poured tea from a pot and handed him the mug. There was a plate of shortbread, too, but he shook the offer away.

“He’s in demand?”

“Always.” She took a sip of her own tea. Rebus’s father would have called it a “sergeant major’s special”—the color of mahogany and giving a tannic coating to the inside of the mouth. He studied some of the photographs.