‘If not dinner, then just desserts.’ he wrote. Utterly ambiguous, of course, but it sounded clever. He added his name and a row of kisses.

Chris Kemp had his scoop. A front-page scoop at that. The young reporter had worked hard after the visit from John Rebus. He’d tracked down Gail Crawley, a photographer in tow. She hadn’t exactly been forthcoming, but there was a photograph of her alongside a slightly blurred picture of a teenage girl: Gail Jack, aged fourteen or so. The story itself was riddled with get-out clauses, just in case it proved to be false. The reader was left more or less to make up his or her own mind. MP’s Visit to Mystery Prostitute – His Secret Sister? But the photos were the clincher. They were definitely of the same person, same nose, same eyes and chin. Definitely. The photo of Gail Jack in her youth was a stroke of genius, and Rebus didn’t doubt that the genius behind it was Ian Urquhart. How else could Kemp have found, and so quickly found, the photograph he needed? A call to Urquhart, explaining that the story was worth his cooperation. Either Urquhart himself searched out the picture, or else he persuaded Gregor Jack to find it.

It was in the morning edition. By tomorrow, the other papers would have their own versions; they could hardly afford not to. Rebus, having recovered his car from outside Pond’s flat, idling at traffic lights had seen the paper-seller’s board: Brothel MP Exclusive. He’d crossed the lights, and parked by the roadside, then jogged back to the newspaper booth. Returned to the car and read the story through twice, admiring it as a piece of work. Then he’d started the car again and continued towards his destination. I should have bought two copies, he thought to himself. He won’t have seen it yet . . .

The green Citroën BX was in its drive, the garage doors open behind it. As Rebus brought his own car to a halt, blocking the end of the driveway, the garage doors were being pulled to. Rebus got out of the car, the folded newspaper in one hand.

‘Looks like I just caught you,’ he called.

Ronald Steele turned from the garage. ‘What?’ He saw the car parked across his driveway. ‘Look, would you mind? I’m in a –’ Then he recognised Rebus. ‘Oh, it’s Inspector . . .?’

‘Rebus.’

‘Rebus, yes. Rasputin’s friend.’

Rebus turned his wrist towards Steele. ‘Healing nicely,’ he said.

‘Look, Inspector . . .’ Steele glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Was it anything important? Only I’m meeting a customer and I’ve already overslept.’

‘Nothing too important, sir,’ Rebus said breezily. ‘It’s just that we’ve found out your alibi for the Wednesday Mrs Jack died is a pack of lies. Wondered if you’d anything to say to that?’

Steele’s face, already long, grew longer. ‘Oh.’ He looked down at the toes of his well-scuffed shoes. ‘I thought it was bound to come out.’ He tried a smile. ‘Not much you can keep hidden from a murder inquiry, eh?’