“It’s about all those dead women, Mrs. Magrath,” Rebus obliged.

Magrath bared his teeth and took another step forward. “You want me to throw you out?”

Rebus knew that a struggle would make a mess of Maggie Magrath’s impeccable room. His eyes were fixed on Magrath’s.

“Maybe we should talk outside.”

“We’re not talking anywhere!” Magrath clamped his fingers around Rebus’s forearm.

“Let go of me,” Rebus said quietly.

“Answer me first.”

“I’m going,” Rebus assured him. “Just as soon as you take your hand away and save me breaking it.”

“That sounds like a threat.” Magrath released his grip on Rebus’s arm and stepped away from him. “Best walk out of here while you still can.”

“Now who’s making threats?”

“Not me,” Magrath told him. “And I’ve got my wife as witness.”

Maggie Magrath couldn’t look Rebus in the face, and he realized suddenly that she knew—knew or had had her suspicions. “Just go,” she said, her voice cracking.

“One way or another, we’ll talk,” Rebus told Kenny Magrath, making for the doorway.

“Like hell we will!” the man responded.

Outside sat the small white van with the name on the side: MAGRATH. There were windows in the back but they’d been painted over. Nothing in the front but a few loose tools and an out-of-date tabloid newspaper. Rebus tapped the details of the license plate into his phone’s notebook before retracing his steps towards the seafront and his Saab.

60

What are you doing here?” Gillian Dempsey asked.

“Trying to see you,” Rebus said. He’d been waiting for her outside Northern Constabulary HQ for over an hour. “I got the front desk to buzz up to you.”

“I’ve been rather busy.” She was walking towards her car. Her driver already had the rear door open for her. Dempsey was trying to control the sheaf of papers tucked under her arm while still hanging on to her shoulder bag and briefcase. The few journalists waiting on the pavement seemed to know better than to expect any of their questions to be answered. They were kept at a distance anyway, courtesy of two uniformed officers who had somehow merited their thankless task.

“They wouldn’t let me in,” Rebus went on, walking beside Dempsey. “My ID wasn’t good enough.”

“We’ve had our fair share of gawpers,” Dempsey explained. “Even a few reporters trying their luck.”

“Including your nephew?” Rebus couldn’t help asking. She stopped and gave him a hard stare.

“What is it you want, Rebus?”

“I think I’m onto something.”

“So write it up and Page can run it by me.”

“We need to cut a few corners here.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise we’re giving him time to dispose of any evidence.”

She thought for a moment. “In other words, he knows you suspect him?”

“Sorry about that.”

Dempsey sighed and rolled her eyes. “Get in the car,” she said. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

Rebus didn’t know the destination or how long he might have, so he spoke quickly, making a few mistakes which he then had to go back and correct. Dempsey sat next to him, the armrest pulled down between them. Classical music was playing softly—her choice rather than the driver’s, Rebus reckoned. She asked the occasional question, and only met his eyes when he’d finished talking.