“Oh aye?”

Redfern almost blushed. “Online games,” he clarified. “Showing off how good she was.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“Games are all right, but I prefer books.”

“That’s refreshing,” Clarke said with a smile.

“What did you think when you got the photo?” Rebus handed back the phone.

“Didn’t really think anything.”

“Bit surprised, maybe? Ten o’clock at night—not the sort of thing she’d done before.”

“I suppose so.”

“And you texted her back?”

Redfern looked at him and nodded. “I thought she’d hit the wrong button, meant it for someone else in her contacts.”

“But she never answered?”

“No. She’d been sending texts to Timmy from the bus. Last one just said she was feeling queasy.” The boy paused. He looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“We don’t know that,” Clarke answered softly.

“But she is, though.” Redfern’s eyes were fixed on Rebus, and Rebus wasn’t about to lie.

Rebus tried the door to James Page’s room, but it was locked. He was on his own in the CID suite. There was no TV, but Clarke had shown him how to watch the press conference on her computer. He opened a few desk drawers, finding nothing of interest. The press conference was coming from a hotel round the corner from Gayfield Square. Rebus had picked up a couple of chicken slices from Gregg’s on the trip back from the school. They were long gone, though a few crumbs of pastry lingered on his shirt and jacket. Lothian and Borders Police had their own camera at the hotel, its unedited feed—minus sound—appearing on Clarke’s monitor. Rebus had failed to find any kind of volume control, which was why he was prowling the office rather than sitting at the desk. He’d unearthed some Nurofen in Clarke’s drawer and popped a couple in his breast pocket—always handy to have. He’d drunk enough coffee and there didn’t seem to be any tea bags, other than mint and redbush.

Back at the monitor, proceedings had started. Rebus gave the plastic casing a thump, but there was still no sound. No sign of a radio anywhere either. He knew he could go listen in his car, but that was supposing one of the local stations was covering it. Instead he sat himself down and watched. Whoever was manning the camera needed either an instruction manual or a trip to Specsavers. The focus was all over the place, and Rebus was shown more of the table than the people seated behind it. Others were standing. Page was flanked by Siobhan Clarke and a detective constable called Ronnie Ogilvie. Behind Annette McKie’s mother and the oldest of her brothers stood a man Rebus half recognized. The man squeezed the mother’s shoulder whenever he sensed she was flagging. At one point she covered his hand with her own, as if in thanks. Annette’s brother did some of the talking, too, reading from a prepared statement. He seemed confident enough, gaze surveying the room, giving the photographers plenty of opportunities for a decent shot while his mother dabbed her reddened, sore-looking eyes. Rebus didn’t know the lad’s name, guessed him to be seventeen or eighteen: short hair spiked at the front with gel, face bearing some residual acne. Pale and gaunt and streetwise. But now the camera was a blur of movement. It was Page’s turn. He seemed ready—eager even—to start fielding questions. After a couple of minutes, however, there was an interruption, Page turning to his left. The camera caught Annette McKie’s mother as she staggered from the room, hand held to her mouth, either overcome with grief or about to be sick. The man went with her, leaving her son still seated. He was looking towards Page, as if seeking advice: should he stay or should he go? The camera swept the room, taking in other cameras, journalists, detectives. The double doors had swung shut behind the mother.