‘Threw it into the river.’

‘Come on, sir . . .’

‘She didn’t have any money. That’s what made him so angry.’

‘He’s making it up.’

‘Sounds plausible to me –’

‘No! With respect, sir, what it sounds like is a quick solution, one that’ll please Sir Hugh Ferrie. Doesn’t it matter to you that it isn’t the truth?’

‘Now look here . . .’ Lauderdale’s face was reddening with anger. ‘Look here, Inspector, all I’ve had from you so far is . . . well, what is it? It’s nothing really, is it? Nothing solid or concrete. Nothing you could hang a shirt on, never mind a case in a court of law. Nothing.’

‘How did she get to Queensferry? Who drove her there? What sort of state was she in?’

‘For Christ’s sake, I know it’s not cut and dried. There are still gaps –’

‘Gaps! You could fit Hampden into them three times over!’

Lauderdale smiled. ‘There you go again, John, exaggerating. Why can’t you just accept there’s less to this than meets your eye?’

‘Look, sir . . . fine, charge Glass with the Dean Bridge murder, that’s okay by me. But let’s keep an open mind on Mrs Jack, eh? At least until forensics are finished with the car.’

Lauderdale thought about it.

‘Just till they finish the car,’ Rebus pressed. He wasn’t about to give up: Monday mornings were hell for Lauderdale, and the man would agree to just about anything if it meant getting Rebus out of his office.

‘All right, John,’ Lauderdale said, ‘have it your way. But don’t get bogged down in it. Remember, I’ll keep an open mind if you will. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Lauderdale seemed to relax a little. ‘Have you seen the Chief Superintendent this morning?’ Rebus had not. ‘I’m not even sure he’s in yet. Maybe he had a heavy weekend, eh?’

‘None of our business really, sir.’

Lauderdale stared at him. ‘Of course, none of our business. But if the Chief Super’s personal problems start interfering with his –’

The phone rang. Lauderdale picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ He straightened suddenly in his chair. ‘Yes, sir. Was I, sir?’ He flipped open his desk diary. ‘Oh yes, ten.’ He checked his watch. ‘Well, I’ll be there right away. Yes, sir, sorry about that.’ He had the good grace to blush as he put down the receiver.

‘The Chief Super?’ guessed Rebus. Lauderdale nodded.

‘I was supposed to be in a meeting with him five minutes ago. Forgot all about the bloody thing.’ Lauderdale got to his feet. ‘Plenty to keep you occupied, John?’

‘Plenty. I believe DS Holmes has some cars for me to look at.’

‘Oh? Thinking of getting rid of that wreck of yours? About time, eh?’

And, this being his idea of wit, Lauderdale actually laughed.

Brian Holmes had cars for him, cars aplenty. Well actually, a Detective Constable seemed to have done the work. Holmes, it appeared, was already learning to delegate. A list of the cars owned and run by friends of the Jacks. Make, registration, and colour. Rebus glanced down it quickly. Oh great, the only possessor of a colour blue was Alice Blake (The Pack’s Sexton Blake), but she lived and worked in London. There were whites, reds, blacks, and a green. Yes, Ronald Steele drove a green Citroën BX. Rebus had seen it parked outside Gregor Jack’s house the night Holmes had gone through the bins . . . Green? Well, yes, green. He remembered it more as a greeny-blue, a bluey-green. Keep an open mind. Okay, it was green. But it was easier to mistake green for blue than, say, red for blue, or white, or black. Wasn’t it?