Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Welcome
- Dedication
- Prologue
- i
- ii
- iii
- Part One
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- Part Two
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- Part Three
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- Part Four
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- Part Five
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- Part Six
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- About the Author
- Also by Ian Rankin
- Thank you for buying this e-book, published by Hachette Digital.
- Contents
Page stared at him. “I dropped her home at quarter past nine, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Rebus pretended to show surprise. “No, nothing like that. I just thought—”
He was interrupted by his mobile phone. Siobhan Clarke’s name was on the screen.
“Talk of the devil,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Where are you?” Clarke asked.
“In the office. Why?”
“I’m parked outside. Better get down here.”
“What’s happened?”
“Robertson’s bunk’s not been slept in. He didn’t get back to the camp last night…”
24
24
The M90 again, but only once they’d escaped the sluggish morning traffic in Edinburgh. Heading towards Perth and the A9. A quick pit stop to pick up beakers of tea and dry croissants. Kate Bush still singing about snowmen. As they crossed the Forth Road Bridge, Rebus asked Clarke if she noticed anything different. She studied him and shook her head.
“No scaffolding on the rail bridge.”
She looked to her right and saw this was true.
“Can’t remember the last time I saw it without,” he added.
“Yes,” she agreed. Then: “Look, I’m sorry about last night.”
“Me too. Hope you didn’t have words with James afterward.”
She glanced towards him. “What makes you think that?”
“Nothing.” He paused for effect. “It’s just that I was in his bolt-hole when you phoned…”
“And?”
“He was giving me a slap on the wrist about the Complaints.”
“And?” she repeated, growing a little more irritated.
“And nothing,” Rebus stressed. “I just got a feeling the two of you had…you know…maybe had words…before he dropped you at your flat. And if that’s the case, I’m sorry I was the cause.”
“You can be a real bastard sometimes, John.” She shook her head slowly.
“It has been said,” he admitted. “And believe me, I’m not proud of the fact.”
“Thing is, though, you are proud of the fact.” She looked at him again. “You really are.”
They drove in silence after that, Rebus staring at the scenery—the elongated stretches of hillside near Kinross; the merest glimpse of Loch Leven; the way the view opened up as they rounded a curve in the road and entered Perthshire, snow visible along the topmost ridge of the distant Ochils. (He guessed they were the Ochils; didn’t feel like checking with Clarke.) When her phone rang, she pressed a button on the steering wheel and answered with a voice raised above the engine noise.
“DI Clarke,” she informed the caller.
“It’s Lightheart.” The inspector’s dull drone seemed to emanate from the same speaker as Kate Bush. Clarke pressed another button to mute the CD.
“Give me an update,” she said.