‘What have you got, George?’

‘Well, I’ve got the trots, since you ask. I blame it on that curry I had at Gunga’s last night. I’ve also got the information you requested, Inspector.’

‘Is that so, Inspector? Well would you mind passing it the hell on!’

Flight snorted. ‘That’s all the thanks I get, after a hard day’s graft.’

‘We all know the kind of graft the Met’s interested in, George.’

Flight tut-tutted. ‘Wires have ears, John. Anyway, the address was a no-show. Yes, a friend of Miss Crawley’s lives there. But she hasn’t seen her for weeks. Last she heard, Crawley was in Edinburgh.’ He pronounced it head-in-burrow.

‘Is that it?’

‘I tried asking a couple of sleazebags connected with Croft.’

‘Who’s Croft?’

Flight sighed. ‘The woman who ran the brothel.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Only, we’ve had dealings with her before, you see. Maybe that’s why she moved her operation north. So I talked to a couple of her “former associates”.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. Not even a trade discount on French with spanking.’

‘Right. Well, thanks anyway, George.’

‘Sorry, John. When are we going to see you down here?’

‘When are we going to see you up here?’

‘No offence, John, but it’s all that square sausage and fizzy beer. It doesn’t agree with me.’

‘I’ll let you get back to your smoked salmon and Scotch then. Night, George.’

He put the phone down, and considered for a moment. Then he got out of bed and started to dress. The cat looked satisfied with this arrangement, and stretched himself out. Rebus searched for paper and a pen and scribbled a note to Patience. ‘Lonely without you. Gone for a drive. John.’ He thought about adding a few kisses. Yes, a few kisses were definitely in order.

‘xxx’

Checking that he had car keys, flat keys and money, he let himself out, locking the door behind him.

If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t see.

It was a pleasant enough night for a drive, as it happened. The cloud cover kept the air mild, but there was no sign of rain or wind. It wasn’t at all a bad night for a drive. Inverleith, then Granton, an easy descent to the coast. Past what had been William Glass’s digs . . . then Granton Road . . . then Newhaven. The docks.

If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t see.

He was a lonely man, just out driving, just out driving slowly. They stepped out of shadowy doorways, or else crossed and recrossed at the traffic lights, like a sodium-lit fashion show. Crossed and recrossed. While drivers slowly drove, and slower yet, and slower. He saw nothing he wanted, so he took the car the length of Salamander Street, then turned it. Oh, he was a keen one. Shy, lonely, quiet and keen. Driving his beaten-up old car around the night-time streets, looking for . . . well, maybe just looking at, unless he could be tempted . . .

He stopped the car. She came walking smartly towards him. Not that her clothes were smart. Her clothes were cheap and cheerless, a pale raincoat, one size too big, and beneath it a bright red blouse and a mini-skirt. The mini-skirt, Rebus felt, was her big mistake, since her legs were bare and thinly unattractive. She looked cold; she looked as if she had a cold. But she tried him with a smile.