The old man’s really showing his age now, thought Rebus, as he waited to follow Lauderdale out of the office. Hill Street Blues was a long, long time ago. In the corridor, after the door was closed behind them, Lauderdale grasped Rebus’s arm. His voice was an excited hiss.

‘Looks like the Chief Super’s on the way out, doesn’t it? Can’t be long before the high heidyins see what’s going on and pension him off.’ He was trying to control his glee. Yes, Rebus was thinking, one or two very public foul-ups, that’s all it would take. And he wondered . . . he wondered if Lauderdale was capable of engineering a balls-up with this in mind. Someone had tipped off the papers about Operation Creeper. Christ, it seemed such a long time ago. But wasn’t Chris Kemp supposed to be doing some digging into that? He’d have to remember to ask Kemp what he’d found. So much still needed to be done . . .

He was shrugging his arm free of Lauderdale when Watson’s door opened again, and Watson stood there staring at the two of them. Rebus wondered if they looked as guilty and conspiratorial as he himself felt. Then Watson’s eyes settled on him.

‘John,’ he said, ‘telephone call. It’s Mr Jack. He says he’d be grateful if you’d go and see him. Apparently, there’s something he’d like to talk to you about . . .’

Rebus pressed the bell at the locked gate. The voice over the intercom was Urquhart’s.

‘Yes?’

‘Inspector Rebus to see Mr Jack.’

‘Yes, Inspector, be right with you.’

Rebus peered through the bars. The white Saab was parked outside the house. He shook his head slowly. Some people never learned. A reporter had been sent from one of the line of cars to ask who Rebus was. The other reporters and photographers took shelter in the cars themselves, listening to the radio, reading newspapers. Soup or coffee was poured from flasks. They were here for the duration. And they were bored. As he waited, the wind sliced against Rebus, squeezing through a gap between jacket and shirt collar, trickling down his neck like ice water. He watched Urquhart emerge from the house, apparently trying to sort out the tangle of keys in his hand. The reconnaissance reporter still stood beside Rebus, twitching, readying himself to ask Urquhart his questions.

‘I shouldn’t bother, son,’ advised Rebus.

Urquhart was at the gate now.

‘Mr Urquhart,’ blurted the reporter, ‘anything to add to your previous statement?’

‘No,’ said Urquhart coolly, opening the gate. ‘But I’ll repeat it for you if you like – bugger off!’

And with that, Rebus safely through the gate, he slammed it shut and locked it, giving the bars an extra shake to make sure they were secure. The reporter, smiling sourly, was heading back to one of the cars.

‘You’re under siege,’ Rebus observed.

Urquhart looked like he’d done without sleep for a night or two too many. ‘It’s diabolical,’ he confided as they walked towards the house. ‘Day and night they’re out there. God knows what they think they’re going to get.’