Then the camera was pointing at the patterned carpet.

And the screen went black.

Rebus stayed where he was until the team started to drift back into the office. Ogilvie shook his head at him, saving himself the effort of saying anything. Page looked annoyed at having been cut off in his prime—if the TV news concentrated on anything, it would be the walkout. He stabbed the key into the lock, opened his door and disappeared into his cupboard. Clarke made her way between the desks, catching her foot only once on a trailing cable. She handed Rebus a chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Mum,” he told her.

“Did you see it?”

He nodded. “No sound, though—did Page get round to mentioning the photos from the phones?”

“Seemed to slip his mind when the mother did a runner.” She unwrapped her own chocolate bar and bit into it.

“Who was the guy standing behind her?” Rebus asked.

“Family friend.”

“Is he the one putting up the reward?”

Clarke looked at him. “Okay, spit it out.”

“I’ve not started eating it yet.” When this failed to raise a smile, he relented. “His name’s Frank Hammell. Owns a couple of pubs and at least one club.”

“You know him?”

“I know his pubs.”

“But not the club?”

“It’s somewhere out in bandit country.”

“Meaning?”

“West Lothian.” Rebus nodded towards the monitor. “Pretty touchy-feely, I thought…”

“Not that sort of guy?”

“Not unless you’re really close.”

Clarke’s chewing slowed. She thought for a moment. “And what does any of this add?”

“A note of caution?” Rebus answered eventually. “If he’s the mum’s ‘friend’ and she’s upset, you can bet he’s upset too.”

“Hence the reward?”

“It’s not the reward we know about that worries me—it’s the one he might be putting out on the quiet.”

Clarke glanced towards Page’s door. “You think we should tell him?”

“Your call, Siobhan.” While she considered this, Rebus had another question. “Remind me what happened to Annette’s father?”

“Did a runner to Australia.”

“What’s his name?”

“Derek something…Derek Christie.”

“Not McKie?”

“That’s the mother—Gail McKie.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “And the lad at the conference…?”

“Darryl.”

“Still at school, is he?”

Clarke called across to Ronnie Ogilvie. “What does Darryl McKie do?”

“I think he said he was a bar manager,” Ogilvie replied. “And he calls himself Christie rather than McKie.”

Clarke looked at Rebus. “Eighteen is a bit young for a manager,” she commented.

Rebus gave a twitch of his mouth. “Depends whose bar it is,” he said, rising to give her back her chair.

9

Just like old times, eh?” Rebus said. “And at last I’m seeing a bit of Scotland.”

They were in Clarke’s car, a new-smelling Audi. The trip had been Rebus’s idea—take a look at the spot where Annette McKie had last been seen; check for possible matches to the photo. They had left Edinburgh, heading north across the Forth Road Bridge into Fife, crawling through what seemed like miles of roadworks with a 40 mph limit, then skirting Kinross on the way to Perth, where they connected with the A9. It wasn’t dualled, and they seemed to have hit the mid-afternoon rush. Rebus took a CD from his pocket and swapped it for the Kate Bush album Clarke had been playing.