“Hello?” Rebus decided this was as much information as the caller needed.

“You just phoned me.”

“Alasdair Blunt?”

“That’s right. Who am I speaking to?”

“My name’s Rebus, sir. I’m calling from Lothian and Borders Police.”

“Oh yes…?”

“It’s concerning Zoe Beddows.”

“Has she turned up?”

“I just need to confirm a few details about the picture she sent you from her phone.”

“You mean the case is still open?” He sounded incredulous.

“Isn’t that what her family and friends would want?”

Blunt seemed to consider this, and his tone softened. “Yes, of course. Sorry, rough day.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Blunt?”

“I’m in sales. Though not for much longer if things don’t pick up.”

“Might help if you answered your phone—I could have been a new client.”

“Then you’d have called me on my other mobile, the one I use for business. That’s why I was busy when you rang.”

“Understood.”

Blunt exhaled noisily. “So how can I help?”

“I’ve been looking through the records and there doesn’t appear to be a copy of the photograph Ms. Beddows sent you.”

“That’s because it got deleted.”

Rebus rested his weight on the arm of his sofa. “That’s a pity. There was no message? Just a picture?”

“That’s right.”

“Showing what exactly?”

Blunt seemed to struggle to remember. “Hills…sky…a sort of track off to one side.”

“Trees?”

“Maybe.”

“You didn’t recognize the spot?”

Blunt hesitated. “No,” he said eventually.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m positive.”

Rebus stayed silent for a moment, inviting Blunt to continue.

“Are we done?” the man asked.

“Not quite. What time of day did you receive the photo?”

“Sometime in the evening.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“Nine, ten o’clock, something like that.”

“And when do you think the picture was taken?”

“I’ve really no idea.”

“Was it bright sunlight, or maybe the sky was growing dark…?”

“The quality wasn’t great.” Blunt paused. “Twilight, I suppose.”

Same as with Annette McKie, Rebus noted. Then: “Can I ask, how did you know Ms. Beddows?”

“She cut my hair.”

“But you were friends?”

“She cut my hair,” Blunt repeated. Rebus thought for a moment. How many hairdressers kept their clients’ contact details on their mobile? How many forwarded them photographs…?

“Which of your phones was the photo sent to, Mr. Blunt?”

“What does it matter?”

“Was it your wife who saw it when it arrived? Asked you who Zoe was? Then maybe deleted it?”

“This has got nothing to do with anything.” Blunt was sounding irritated again.

“But is that what happened? You’d been spending a bit of time with Zoe? Maybe in your car—a wee drive to a farm track somewhere…?”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Blunt said quietly. “I don’t think the photo meant anything to us. It wasn’t anywhere we’d been…”

“Did any of this come out at the time?”

“Some.”

Rebus was looking at the Zoe Beddows file. Incomplete. Like most cases. You were a cop, at the end of another long day you wrote up only the stuff you thought was important.