“I didn’t mean that.” She took a deep breath, composing herself. “You know I didn’t.”

“It’s okay.”

“If you don’t want me to talk to them, just tell me.”

“DCI Page is about to give a statement. See what he has to say, then make up your own mind, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’re still staying in town tonight?”

“Changed my mind—I’m on the six o’clock train.” She hesitated. “I should have thought before I spoke to that journalist. I hope you’ll still feel able to trust me.”

“Let’s see.”

“You promised I’d be first to know, John. I’m assuming you always keep your word.”

“Say hello to your brother for me.”

“I hope I’ll see you again sometime, John. Remember to keep in touch.”

He ended the call.

Back in the CID suite, there was no sign of Page or Clarke. Rebus went over to Christine Esson’s desk and asked if she wanted a coffee.

“Don’t drink the stuff.”

“Tea?”

She shook her head. “Hot water, that’s what I like. You should see the looks I get in cafés.”

So he made himself a coffee and brought her her chosen drink.

“You’re a cheap date,” he commented. She seemed to have Twitter up on her screen again.

“How does it work?” he asked, drawing over a chair.

So she showed him, and he told her to get the photo from Sally Hazlitt’s phone up there.

“Twitter, Facebook, YouTube—and anywhere else you can think of.”

“No problem,” she said. “And the message to go with it…?”

“We need to know where it was taken, that’s all.”

“Anything else?”

Rebus thought for a moment, then nodded. “Any way I can watch Custard Pie while he does his thing for the great unwashed?” She looked uncomprehending. “Page’s meet-the-press,” Rebus elucidated.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Esson said.

“With sound, if at all possible.”

“Of course.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Custard Pie?”

“Page and Plant,” Rebus said. Then, seeing the look on her face: “Never mind. Just get me that feed, eh?”

22

22

Rebus spent the early evening reading more of the book Nina Hazlitt had given him, concentrating on the Scottish chapters, filling his head with stories of cannibals, shape-shifters, witches and monsters. When the buzzer sounded, telling him someone was outside the main door of the tenement, he went to the window. He couldn’t quite make out the figure, but it wasn’t Cafferty. His phone pinged with a text. It was from Clarke.

Going to let me in?

Rebus went into the hall and pressed the button next to the intercom. As he opened his own door, he could hear her pushing at the main door. He went out onto the landing and leaned over the rail.

“What happened to you after the press conference?” he called out.