“I don’t think so.”

“My instinct’s usually right.”

“And yet you couldn’t be more wrong about John Rebus.”

“That remains to be seen. Meantime, take care around him—I mean that. And feel free to call me anytime you think he’s floundering—floundering or diving to the bottom…”

She released the intercom button and walked back into her living room, crossing to the window and peering down onto the street, craning her neck left and right.

“Where the hell did he go?” she said to herself, failing to see Malcolm Fox anywhere. Then she looked at the message on her phone:

I’m 5 minutes away and hope we can discuss your friend some more—Fox.

They had her home address and her mobile number.

And they knew about Page.

She sat back down in front of the TV, but her head was swimming.

“Gym,” she said, rising again and looking around for her holdall.

17

Rebus was most of the way home when he got a text message. It was from Nina Hazlitt:

Missoni Hotel. Too late for a drink?

He stayed on Melville Drive and took a left at the junction with Buccleuch Street. Then he thought of something and pulled over. Checked his phone again and opened the list of recent callers, adding Hammell’s mobile to his contacts page. Five minutes later he was parking on George IV Bridge. A member of the hotel staff asked him if he was checking in. The man was young and toned and wearing a kilt with a zigzag pattern. Rebus shook his head.

“Just visiting,” he said.

There was a bar off the main reception. Rebus couldn’t see Nina Hazlitt, so he texted to let her know he had arrived. The people in the bar seemed to have a thirst for cocktails. Rebus decided one more whisky wouldn’t do any harm, except to his chances of passing a Breathalyzer test. Two minutes later, Hazlitt joined him, pecking him on the cheek as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Have you eaten?” she asked. “The restaurant’s supposed to be good—or there’s a fish place next door.”

“I’m fine,” Rebus assured her. “How about you?”

“I ate on the train.”

One of the bar staff asked her what she was drinking. She studied Rebus. “Not really your kind of place?” she guessed.

“Not really,” he agreed.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

“There’s the Bow Bar, right around the corner.”

She waited for him to finish the whisky, and placed her arm in his as they exited the hotel.

“How’s your brother?” Rebus asked.

She looked flustered, as if trying to remember how Rebus knew about him.

“He answered the phone that night,” Rebus explained.

“Ah,” she said. Then: “He’s all right.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Alfie.”

“Is he just visiting, or…?”

“Are you always this inquisitive?” she asked with a laugh. Then, stretching out an arm to point at the Bow Bar: “Is this the place?”

Rebus opened the door for her. She took one look at the interior and declared it “charming.” There was a table by the window, recently vacated. Rebus took the empties to the bar and ordered IPA for himself and a vodka tonic for her. The place was just noisy enough—no chance of anyone eavesdropping on their conversation. Back at the table, they chinked glasses.