‘Cosy,’ said Rebus. He actually thought he meant it. But Kemp looked around and made a face.

‘I’m supposed to be cleaning this place up today.’

‘Good luck.’

Coffee was spooned into the mugs, the milk splashed in after it. The kettle came to the boil and switched itself off, and Kemp poured.

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’ Rebus had settled on the arm of the sofa, as if to say: don’t worry, I’m not about to linger. He accepted the mug with a nod. Kemp threw himself on to the armchair and gulped at the coffee, screwing up his face as it burned his mouth and throat.

‘Christ,’ he gasped.

‘Heavy night?’

‘Heavy week.’

Rebus wandered over in the direction of the dining table. ‘It’s a terrible thing, drink.’

‘Maybe it is, but I was talking about work.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He turned from the table and headed over to the sink . . . the cooker . . . stopping beside the fridge. Kemp had left the carton of milk sitting on top of the fridge, next to the kettle. ‘I’d better put this away,’ he said, lifting the carton. He opened the fridge. ‘Oh, look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There already is milk in the fridge. Looks fresh enough, doesn’t it? I needn’t have bothered going to the shop.’

He put the new carton of milk in beside the other, slammed shut the door, and returned to the arm of the sofa. Kemp was attempting something like a grin.

‘You’re sharp for a Monday.’

‘But I can be blunt when I need to. What were you hiding from old Uncle Rebus, Chris? Or did you just need the time to check there was nothing to hide? A bit of blaw? That sort of thing. Or maybe something else, eh? Some story you’re working on . . . working on late into the night. Something I should know about. How about it?’

‘Come on, Inspector. I’m the one who’s doing you a favour, remember?’

‘You’ll have to refresh my memory.’

‘You wanted me to see what I could find about the brothel story, about how the Sundays knew it was breaking.’

‘But you never got back to me, Chris.’

‘Well, I’ve been pressed for time.’

‘You still are. Remember, you’ve got that meeting at three. Better tell me what you know, then I can be on my way.’ Now Rebus slid off the arm and on to the sofa proper. He could feel the springs probing at him through what was left of the patterned covering.

‘Well,’ said Kemp, sitting forward in his chair, ‘it looks like there was a kind of mass tip-off. All the papers thought they were getting an exclusive. Then, when they all turned up they knew they’d been had.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, if there was a story, they had to publish. If they didn’t, and their rivals did . . .’

‘Editors would be asking questions about how come they got scooped?’

‘Exactly. So whoever set the story up was guaranteed maximum exposure.’