“I had a quiet one—just a bit of reading.”

“Those papers Christine got off the internet?”

“Christ, no.”

“What then?”

“Hell are you smiling for? I can read, you know.”

Someone behind them cleared his throat. He stood in the doorway, doing everything but tap his watch.

“When you’re ready,” he told them.

He was a uniformed inspector by the name of Peter Lightheart, same cop who had been with Clarke the previous day at Pitlochry. Clarke had introduced Rebus to him on their arrival this morning, Rebus taking the proffered hand briefly before advising that he would need a quick cigarette before they got started.

Lightheart’s demeanor belied his name. Clarke had already warned Rebus that the man lacked patience, wit and cunning: “So we need to crowd him out of the interview if we can.”

“Two ticks,” Rebus told Lightheart, indicating that he’d almost finished with the cigarette. To deflect the man’s attention, Clarke asked if the search team had been given its orders.

“Of course,” Lightheart replied. “Probably been at it for the past hour.”

“How many officers?”

“A dozen.”

“Search warrant for the sleeping quarters?”

Lightheart nodded, looking annoyed that she would think it necessary to check.

“Why here?” Rebus asked, getting rid of his cigarette butt.

“Sorry?” Lightheart inquired.

“Doesn’t Pitlochry have a perfectly usable cop shop? We could have talked to him there.”

“No proper interview room,” Clarke explained. “And no technology.”

Meaning: video camera and audio equipment. A uniformed officer was checking both as Lightheart, Clarke and Rebus filed into the ground-floor room. There was nothing on the cream-colored walls except a NO SMOKING sign and some attempts at scratchwork graffiti. The camera was high up in a corner, pointing towards the table and three chairs. Thomas Robertson was seated, hands gripping the edge of the table, one knee bouncing nervously. He would be thinking to himself: this is all looking serious. Which was the whole point, of course.

“All set?” Lightheart asked the officer.

“Yes, sir. Already recording.”

Lightheart settled himself opposite Robertson, Clarke taking the only free chair left. That was fine with Rebus. He rested his back against a wall, facing Robertson and quite visible to him. Lightheart waited for the officer to leave, then got busy with the formalities: making introductions for the benefit of the camera, and announcing location, date and time. As soon as he was finished, Robertson spoke.

“They’re going to kick me off the job,” he complained.

“Why’s that?”

“Twice in two days you’ve dragged me away from my shift.”

“There’s a reason for that, Mr. Robertson,” Clarke told him. She had printed out the details of his arrest and conviction. “If you’d told us the truth yesterday, we might not be here.”

“I did tell you the truth.”

“Let’s be charitable and say you played down the seriousness of the assault.” Clarke began to read from the charge sheet. Robertson’s eyes met Rebus’s, but saw no sympathy in them. When Clarke had finished, the room was silent for a moment.