‘But what’s he saying?’

‘He’s saying he did them – both of them!’

‘He’s saying what?’

Rebus started calculating. Barnton . . . not so far from Queensferry when you thought about it. They were thinking he’d have headed north or west, but in fact he’d started crawling back into town . . . supposing he’d ever got as far as Queensferry in the first place.

‘He’s admitting both murders.’

‘Who’s with him?’

‘Chief Inspector Lauderdale and Inspector Dick.’

Lauderdale! Christ, he’d be loving it. This would be the making of him, the final nail in the Chief Super’s coffee-maker. But Rebus had other things to be doing. He wanted Jack’s sister found, for a start. Gail Jack, but she wouldn’t be calling herself that, would she? He went through the Operation Creeper case-notes. Gail Crawley. That was her. She’d been released, of course. And had given a London address. He found one of the officers who’d interviewed her.

‘Yes, she said she was heading south. Couldn’t keep her, could we? Didn’t want to either. Just gave her a kick up the arse and told her not to come back up here again. Isn’t it incredible? Catching Glass like that!’

‘Incredible, yes,’ said Rebus. He photocopied what notes there were, along with Gail Crawley’s photograph, and scribbled some further notes of his own on to the copy. Then he telephoned an old friend, an old friend in London.

‘Inspector Flight speaking.’

‘Hello George. When’s the retirement party then?’

There was laughter. ‘You tell me, you were the one who persuaded me to stay on.’

‘Can’t afford to lose you.’

‘Meaning you want a favour?’

‘Official business, George, but speed is of the –’

‘As usual. All right, what is it?’

‘Give me your fax number and I’ll send you the details. If she’s at the address, I’d like you to talk to her. I’ve put down a couple of phone numbers. You can reach me anytime on one or the other.’

‘Two numbers, eh? Got yourself in deep, have you?’

In deep . . . jettisoning what I don’t need . . .

‘You could say that, George.’

‘What’s she like?’ By which he meant Patience, not Gail.

‘She likes domesticity, George. Pets and nights in, candles and firelight.’

‘Sounds perfect.’ George Flight paused. ‘I’ll give it three months max.’

‘Sod you,’ said Rebus, grinning. Flight was laughing again.

‘Four months then,’ he said. ‘But that’s my final offer.’

That done, Rebus headed for the nerve centre, the one place he needed to station himself – the gents’ toilets. Part of the ceiling had fallen down and had been replaced with a piece of brown cardboard on which some joker had drawn a huge eyeball. Rebus washed his hands, dried them, chatted to one of the other detectives, shared a cigarette. In a public toilet, he’d have been picked up for loitering. He was loitering, too, loitering with intent. The door opened. Bingo. It was Lauderdale, a frequent user of rest rooms when he was on an interrogation.