“We’ve got to be accountable, Tony. Rebus and his ilk don’t see that. In point of fact, I think he gets his jollies sticking two fingers up to the rest of us.”

“Doesn’t make him the enemy,” Kaye repeated quietly.

Fox’s phone vibrated, letting him know he had a message. He looked at the screen, then at his colleague.

“Have you mentioned any of this to the Chief?”

Kaye shook his head. “Why?”

“Because he wants a word.” Fox’s eyes scanned the mass of paper-work. There were boxes of it on the floor next to his desk. Thousands of pages detailing dozens of infractions. But dozens of arrests, too. And no smoking gun. Same with the notes at Fox’s house—all of it circumstantial; easy to read into it anything you liked.

“You think it’s about Rebus?” Tony Kaye was asking.

“What else?” Fox said, making for the door.

“They could bounce me down the stairs for this,” Arnold complained, meeting Rebus outside Northern Constabulary HQ.

Rebus held out a brown paper bag, which Arnold took and opened, pulling out a croissant and biting into it. Then he gestured for Rebus to follow him into the building, where he was signed in as a visitor and handed a pass, “to be worn at all times.”

Arnold was still chewing as they reached the inquiry room. He made another gesture—letting Rebus know he should wait there—before disappearing through the door. When he came out again, he was holding a clear plastic envelope containing several CD-sized silver disks.

“Laptop?” he asked.

Rebus shook his head.

Arnold gave a twitch of the mouth as if to indicate that he’d expected this. He led Rebus along the corridor until he found a room with an unused desk. He gave the mouse a nudge, activating the monitor, then entered his password.

“CaleyThis?” Rebus inquired.

“Short for Caledonian Thistle.” Arnold pulled out the chair and nodded for Rebus to sit down. The disk drive was on the floor beneath the desk, and he crouched in front of it, sliding home the first of the disks.

“Eight hours’ worth,” he warned Rebus.

“Won’t take me nearly that long.”

“Anybody asks, you tell them whatever story you like.”

“Keeping your name out of it?” Rebus guessed. Then he held out his hand. “Thanks, Gavin.”

The two men shook, and Arnold left him to it.

Rebus reckoned he could focus on a specific hour of comings and goings on the petrol station’s forecourt—thirty minutes either side of Annette McKie’s arrival in Pitlochry. The first disk he tried was no help, being too early in the day. Ditto the second and third. When he got to the fourth, he fast-forwarded, keeping an eye on the clock in the corner of the screen. Eventually, when he was happy, he leaned forwards and watched intently.