“What does he say about the stop for petrol?”

“He was on his way back from visiting his son in Glasgow and his tank was low.”

“You don’t think that’s quite a coincidence?”

“As it happens, I do, and so did he—he told his wife as much when Annette McKie became news, asked her if he should maybe come forward. She reasoned there wasn’t much point if he hadn’t seen anything.”

“Funny she didn’t mention that to me.” Rebus closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across them.

“You think she’s covering for him?”

“Sometimes that’s what families do.”

“Well,” Dempsey went on, “unless the lab finds something, we’re at a bit of a dead end, aren’t we?”

“Did you look at him in the interview room? I mean, really look him in the eye?”

“I did more than that. I had a psychologist watching the camera feed. They didn’t see anything that rang alarm bells. This is a family man, Rebus. Two grown-up kids and a doting wife. Neighbors full of praise and not so much as a speeding ticket to his name.”

“Will you at least do a bit more digging? Check where he was when the other victims were snatched…”

“I’ve asked him. He’s going to have to go back through his paper-work to find out.”

“Shouldn’t that be your job?”

“We’ve sent an officer to the house to fetch it all,” she said coldly. “But as of this moment, we’re still at that same dead end.” She paused. “Incidentally, can I ask where you are? Doesn’t sound like you’re driving.”

“I’m not. I stopped at House of Bruar for a break.”

“You’re heading back to Edinburgh, then?”

“Just as you ordered.” Rebus rattled the cup in its saucer, so she could hear it. “But you’ll let me know if there’s any news?”

“Of course. Oh, and by the way—giving that impromptu statement to my nephew? Not your brightest move, despite the manifest competition…”

She hung up on him, and he set the phone down on the table next to the teapot. He was the only person in the lounge. The papers had been gone through from cover to cover, and the TV was still showing footage of some football manager’s fall from grace. It seemed as if the story was on a fifteen-minute loop, same pictures each and every time, and nothing about Edderton, not even on the ticker tape of breaking news along the bottom of the screen.

“What the hell do I do now?” Rebus asked himself. The answer came to him. “Cigarette,” he said, rising to his feet.

Forty minutes later, he was seated in the lounge again, staring into space, his mind swirling with thoughts, when he saw a face he knew: Gavin Arnold, in full uniform, cap tucked beneath one arm.

“What are you doing here?” Rebus asked him.

“Looking for you, at DCS Dempsey’s behest. This was second on my list.”

“After?”

“The Lochinver.”

“Want to sit down?”

Arnold shook his head, looming over Rebus.