“Do you know where he was yesterday morning?”

“No.”

“He was answering some questions at a police station in Perth.”

“About the girl who went missing?”

“What makes you say that?”

Andrews gave a snort. “You’re not exactly in downtown Chicago. She counts as big news. Word’s out that the police were up at the construction site.”

“Did you know that Mr. Robertson has a criminal record?”

“He told me he’d been in jail.”

“Did he say why?”

“Rammy outside a nightclub. Tommy steps in and ends up being the one you lot lift.” She had filled one tray and was starting on another.

“It was attempted rape,” Rebus told her. She froze for a moment.

“Victim was pretty traumatized,” Clarke added.

“And that makes him a suspect?” She had gone back to the task, but with slightly less enthusiasm.

“He’s always been okay with you?” Clarke inquired.

“Nice as ninepence.” She thought for a second. “Did you tell him you were going to put me in the picture?”

“Does it matter?”

“Might explain why he lost his bottle. Got as far as the car park but couldn’t bring himself to face me.”

“So why abandon the car?” Clarke asked.

“No idea.”

“Mind if I take a look at it?” Rebus added.

“Help yourself.”

Clarke nodded at Rebus to let him know he could go. She would be staying; questions still to be asked.

Outside, Rebus got a cigarette lit and made for the rear of the building. The gravel car park had space for only four vehicles, a sign explaining that it was reserved for staff. That wouldn’t have bothered Robertson: as far as he was concerned, he was practically family. The only car there now was a beat-up Ford Escort, mostly blue in color, though one door panel and a front wing were of different shades. The rear bumper was missing, one taillight smashed. It was a private enough spot, no buildings overlooking it. Rebus examined the gravel surface around the car for any obvious signs of a struggle, then peered in through the windows. The car itself was locked, the interior messy: empty crisp bags and soft-drink cans; newspapers and petrol receipts. He jotted down the details of the license plate and did another circuit of the vehicle. The tax disk’s time was almost up, and it would take a friendly mechanic and possibly a backhander to see the Escort through any MOT. At least two of the tires were balder than Bobby Charlton on a windy day. When he planted the toe of his shoe against the modified exhaust, it wobbled badly.

Back inside the pub, the cleaner was taking her leave. Rebus held the door open for her. Andrews had finished one chore and started another, loading clean glasses into their shelves. Rebus gave Clarke a shrug to let her know he had nothing for her. She responded with the exact same gesture.