“I’ll be there.”

Page’s eyes lingered on hers a second too long. “Good to meet you,” he said to Rebus.

“No interest at all in why I’m here?”

“John…” Clarke’s tone was warning Rebus off, but too late. He’d taken a step towards Page.

“I assume you’re in charge, so you should know that there could be a link between Annette McKie and a series of other MisPers.”

“Oh?” Page looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. But the phone he was holding had started to vibrate, and he focused his attention on its screen. “Need to take this,” he apologized. Then, to Clarke: “Write me a short briefing, will you?” He turned back into the office, raising the phone to his ear.

There was silence in the corridor for a few seconds.

“Need any help with that briefing?” Rebus asked.

“Thanks for adding another brick to the hod.” She folded her arms again; he wondered if it was a defensive gesture. He hadn’t paid much attention to the “Reading Body Language” classes at police college. Through the doorway, Rebus had a good view of Page’s back. Neat haircut, no creases in the jacket. He wouldn’t be much more than thirty, maybe thirty-five tops. The DCIs were getting younger…

“Thought you had someone in Newcastle you were seeing?” Rebus asked casually.

Clarke glared at him. “You’re not my dad.”

“If I was, I might have a few words of advice at the ready.”

“You’re really going to stand there and lecture me about relationships?”

Rebus pretended to wince. “Maybe not,” he conceded.

“Good.”

“So the only thing we need to discuss is this briefing for Mr. Dazed and Confused.” He tried for a conciliatory tone and a kindly face. “You’ll want it to be thorough. Nobody better placed than me to help with that, I’d have thought.”

She stood her ground for a further moment or two, then made a sound that mixed frustration with resignation.

“You’d better come in then,” she said.

The cramped office was busy with detectives on their phones or staring hard at their computer screens. Rebus knew a few faces and offered a wink or a nod. He got the feeling desks and chairs had been requisitioned from elsewhere. It was a narrow, mazy walk to Clarke’s corner spot, with waste bins and electrical cables to be negotiated. She sat down and sifted through the papers next to her keyboard.

“Here,” she said, handing him a copy of a blurry photograph. It showed a field and a line of trees beyond, with hills in the distance. “Sent from her phone at just after ten p.m. the day she went missing. Wasn’t when the picture was taken, of course. I’d say late afternoon. Nobody on the bus remembers her taking pictures out of the window, but then nobody paid her much attention till she said she was going to throw up.”

Rebus studied the landscape. “Could be just about anywhere. Have you released it to the media?”