“I’ve got plans,” he’d said.

“The weekend, then?”

Bliss had shaken his head. “Let’s just call it a day, eh? It’s not like we’ve anything to celebrate.”

“Peter…”

But Bliss had made up his mind. He couldn’t even find it in himself to meet Rebus’s eyes. Not until the Friday afternoon, when they were emptying the contents of their desk drawers into carrier bags, readying to walk out of the office for the last time. Daniel Cowan had already said his goodbyes—he’d gone to a meeting of the new unit, a spring in his step. Robison was in the loo. Bliss had picked his moment and confronted Rebus.

“Gregor Magrath was one of the good guys,” he stated. “In my books, he still is and always will be. What you’re trying to do is take a dump all over his legacy. I won’t have any part of that, and I’ll never forgive you for it.”

“Have you talked to him?” Rebus asked.

“He’s in agonies about this. Taken in for questioning on your say-so.” Color was rising to Bliss’s cheeks, his voice beginning to shake with emotion.

“He’s been covering his brother’s arse for years.”

“You’re like a stuck record, Rebus.”

“Maybe so, but the song’s still a smash. Magrath played you, Peter—is that what sticks in your craw?”

“The man deserves some dignity.”

“And what do the victims deserve, eh?”

Bliss made a guttural sound and snatched the carrier bag from his desk, shoving his way past Rebus and stalking down the corridor. Robison came back to find Rebus waiting for her.

“Guess this is it,” she said. Then she noted Bliss’s absence.

“He was in a hurry,” Rebus apologized. She tried giving him a hard look, but her heart wasn’t in it. They embraced and she pecked his cheek.

“Here’s to fresh pastures,” she said, squeezing his arm. Rebus closed the door after them.

That evening, after one too many drinks, he made the usual call. The phone rang at the other end, and kept ringing until the automated voice told him to leave a message.

“We have to talk, Gregor. You know we do. This has to end.” Then he repeated his phone number before hanging up. The first half-dozen times, Magrath had actually answered, ending the call only when Rebus identified himself. Since then, however, he had let the machine pick up for him.

Rebus studied his reflection in the living room window. “Friday night in the big city, eh?” he told it, as rain dribbled down the panes. The copies of the missing persons files were still sitting on his dining table, and he pulled out a chair and seated himself in front of them. One day soon he would feel able to bin them, but not just yet. So far nothing had been found that could place Kenny Magrath near the other women on the days they’d been abducted. His paperwork had proved incomplete, but then whose wasn’t? He didn’t keep a diary or hang on to calendars and notebooks, and neither did his wife. Rebus reached across to the bottle of beer and took a slug from it. His hand rested against a letter that had been sitting there a couple of days, the one inviting him to interview by Lothian and Borders Police Applications Board. There was a date for his medical, plus a sheet to be signed and returned, once its boxes had been ticked. Rebus read through it for the umpteenth time as he rubbed the guitar pick between his fingers.