“Nothing,” he said, turning to close the door. “No one saw her.” Then, laying a hand on Skiladz’s shoulder: “Everything all right, Stefan?”

“Can I go now?” Skiladz asked Rebus.

“Ask her, not me.” Rebus indicated Clarke. She nodded at Skiladz and he got up to leave.

“What’s been going on?” Soames asked.

Rebus waited until Skiladz was outside. “Mr. Skiladz has been helping us with our inquiries,” he told Soames. “Necessitating another visit.” He rose and held out his hand for Soames to take.

Soames looked as though he had questions, but Rebus was already opening the door. Clarke shook Soames’s hand and asked a final question of her own.

“How far do we have to drive before we can start heading south again?”

“A bit over half a mile, if you don’t mind doing a U-turn on a dangerous bend.”

“I don’t mind that in the slightest.” Clarke gave him a smile as she made to follow Rebus.

Back in the car, she asked him for his thoughts.

“We can’t just barge in and interview them,” he obliged. “Tayside Police need to be told.”

“Agreed.”

“So you talk to Tayside in the morning and come back later in the day. That way everything’s aboveboard.”

“You don’t want to be involved?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m just the hired help.”

“Earning your keep so far.”

“Maybe let Communication Breakdown know that.”

Clarke smiled. “What about Stefan Skiladz?”

“Worth doing a background check, but I doubt anything will come up.”

She nodded to herself and started the car. “I might have to buy you a pint when we get back to Edinburgh.”

“What makes you think I don’t have plans?”

“You’re not the type,” she answered, signaling to pull out, always supposing a gap would eventually emerge in what looked like a solid convoy of lorries.

11

Rebus let her buy him two drinks in the end. Afterward, he walked her back to her car and turned down the offer of a lift home.

“It’s hardly on your route,” he explained.

“So you’re either going to take a taxi or keep on drinking.”

“Flexing those sleuthing muscles of yours, eh?”

“Today went pretty well. But if you start coming into Gayfield Square with the sweat of the previous night’s ale on you…”

“Understood.” He gave her a mock salute, then watched until the Audi disappeared from view. The town was quiet, with plenty of cabs plying for the largely nonexistent trade. Rebus held up a hand and waited. Twenty minutes later he was paying the driver his money, adding a quid as a tip, and stepping on to the pavement outside a pub called the Gimlet. It was situated next to a busy roundabout off Calder Road, one of the main routes into the city from the west. The area was a mix of commercial and residential—car showrooms, low-rise industrial units; but also two-story terraces with the usual array of satellite dishes pointing up at the sky.

The Gimlet dated back to the 1960s. It was a squat, freestanding box of a place, with a sandwich board outside advertizing quiz and karaoke nights and a cheap all-day breakfast. Rebus hadn’t been there in years. He wondered if it still operated as a glorified bazaar for shoplifters and housebreakers.