Then there was the question of that particular Wednesday. Everyone had been asked: where were you that morning, that afternoon? Some of the answers were vaguer than others. In fact, Gregor Jack’s alibis were more watertight than most. Steele, for example, had been uncertain about the morning. His assistant, Vanessa, had been off work that day, and Steele himself couldn’t recall whether or not he’d gone into the shop. There was nothing in his diary to help him remember either. Jamie Kilpatrick had been sleeping off a hangover all day – no visitors, no phone calls – while Julian Kaymer had been ‘creating’ in his studio. Rab Kinnoul, too, was hesitant; he recalled meetings, but not necessarily the people he’d met. He could check, but it would take time . . .

Time, the one thing Rebus didn’t have. He, too, needed all the friends he could get. So far, he’d ruled out two suspects: Tom Pond, who was abroad, and Andrew Macmillan, who was in Duthil. Pond was a nuisance. He wasn’t back from the States yet. He had been questioned by telephone of course, and he knew all about the tragedy, but he had yet to be fingerprinted.

Anyone who might have been at Deer Lodge had been, or was being, or would be, fingerprinted. Just, so they were reassured, for processes of elimination. Just in case there were any fingerprints left in the lodge, any that couldn’t be accounted for. It was painstaking work, this collection and collation of tiny facts and tiny figures. But it was how murder cases worked. Mind you, they worked more easily when there was a distinct scene of crime, a locus. Rebus wasn’t in much doubt that Elizabeth Jack had been killed, or as good as, in the lay-by. Had Alec Corbie seen something, something he was holding back? Was there something he might know, without knowing he knew? Maybe something he didn’t think was important. What if Liz Jack had said something to Andrew Macmillan, something he didn’t realize might be a clue? Christ, Macmillan still didn’t know she was dead. How would he react were Rebus to tell him? Maybe it would jog his memory. Then again, maybe it would have an altogether different effect. And besides, could anything he said be trusted? Wasn’t it possible that he held a grudge against Gregor Jack, the way Gail Crawley did? The way others might, too . . .

Who, really, was Gregor Jack? Was he merely a tarnished saint, or was he a bastard? He’d ignored Macmillan’s letters; he’d tried to keep his sister from disgracing him; he was embarrassed by his wife. Were his friends really friends? Or were they truly a ‘pack’? Wolves ran in packs. Hounds ran in packs. And so did newshounds. Rebus remembered that he’d still to track down Chris Kemp. Maybe he was clutching at straws, but it felt more as if they were clutching at him . . .

And speaking of clutch, that was something else to be added to his car’s list of woes. There was a worrying whirring and grinding as he pushed the gear-shift from neutral into first. But the car wasn’t behaving badly (windscreen wipers aside – they’d begun sticking again). It had taken him north and back without so much as a splutter. All of which worried Rebus even more. It was like a terminal patient’s final rally, that last gleam of life before the support machines took over.