‘Get in,’ he said.

‘Hand-job’s fifteen, blow’s twenty-five, thirty-five the other.’

Naïve. He could have arrested her on the spot. You never, never talked money till you were sure the punter was straight.

‘Get in,’ he repeated. She had a lot to learn. She got in. Rebus fished out his ID. ‘Detective Inspector Rebus. I’d like a word, Gail.’

‘You lot never give up, do you?’ There was still Cockney in the accent, but she’d been back north long enough for her native Fife to start reasserting itself. A few more weeks, and that final ‘you’ would be a ‘yiz’: youse lot nivir gie up, dae yiz . . .?

She was a slow learner. ‘How come you know my name?’ she asked at last. ‘Were you on that raid? After a freebie, are you, is that it?’

That wasn’t it at all. ‘I want to talk about Gregor.’

The colour drained from her face, leaving only eye makeup and slick red lipstick. ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘He’s your brother. We can talk down the station, or we can talk at your flat, either suits me.’ She made a perfunctory attempt at getting out of the car. It only needed a touch of his hand to restrain her.

‘The flat then,’ she said levelly. ‘Just don’t be all night about it, eh?’

It was a small room in a flat full of bed-sits. Rebus got the feeling she never brought men back here. There was too much of her about the place; it wasn’t anonymous enough. For a start, there was a picture of a baby on the dressing table. Then there were newspaper cuttings pinned to the walls, all of them detailing the fall of Gregor Jack. He tried not to look at them, and instead picked up the photograph.

‘Put that down!’

He did so. ‘Who is it?’

‘If you must know, it’s me.’ She was sitting on the bed, her two arms stretched out behind her, her mottled legs crossed. The room was cold, but there was no sign of any means of heating it. Clothes spilled from an open chest of drawers, and the floor was littered with bits and pieces of make-up. ‘Get on with it then,’ she said.

There being nowhere to sit, he stood, keeping his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘You know that the only reason your brother was in that brothel was so he could talk to you?’

‘Yeah?’

‘And that if you’d told this to anyone –’

‘Why should I?’ she spat. ‘Why the fuck should I? I don’t owe him no favours!’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Because he’s an oily git’s why not. Always was. He’s got it made, hasn’t he? Mum and Dad always liked him better than me . . .’ Her voice trailed off into silence.

‘Is that why you left home?’

‘None of your business why I left home.’

‘Ever see any old friends?’

‘I don’t have any “old friends”.’

‘You came back north. You must have known there was a chance you’d bump into your brother.’