‘Not much you should keep hidden, sir.’

‘Do you want me to come down to the station?’

‘Maybe later, sir. Just so we can get everything on record. But for the moment your living room would do.’

‘Right.’ Steele started to walk slowly back towards the bungalow.

‘Nice area this,’ commented Rebus.

‘What? Oh, yes, yes it is.’

‘Lived here long?’ Rebus wasn’t interested in Steele’s answers. His only interest was in keeping the man talking. The more he talked, the less time he had in which to think, and the less time he had to think, the better the chances of him coming out with the truth.

‘Three years. Before that I had a flat in the Grassmarket.’

‘They used to hang people down there, did you know that?’

‘Did they? Hard to imagine it these days.’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’

They were indoors now. Steele pointed to the hall phone. ‘Do you mind if I call the customer? Make my apologies?’

‘Whatever you like, sir. I’ll wait in the living room, if that’s all right.’

‘Through there.’

‘Fine.’

Rebus went into the room but left the door wide open. He heard Steele dialling. It was an old bakelite telephone, the kind with a little drawer in the bottom containing a notepad. People used to want rid of them; now they wanted them back, and were willing to pay. The conversation was short and innocent. An apology and a rescheduling of the meeting. Rebus opened his morning paper wide in front of him and made show of reading the inside pages. The receiver clattered back into its cradle.

‘That’s that,’ said Steele, entering the room. Rebus read on for a moment, then lowered the paper and began to fold it.

‘Good,’ he said. Steele, as he had hoped, was staring at the paper.

‘What’s that about Gregor?’ he said.

‘Hm? Oh, you mean you haven’t seen it yet?’ Rebus handed over the paper. Steele, still standing, devoured the story. ‘What do you reckon, sir?’

He shrugged. ‘Christ knows. I suppose it makes sense. I mean, none of us could think what Gregor was doing in a place like that. I can’t think of a much better reason. The photos certainly look similar . . . I don’t remember Gail at all. Well, I mean, she was always around, but I never paid much attention. She never mixed with us.’ He folded the paper. ‘So Gregor’s off the hook then?’

Rebus shrugged. Steele made to hand the paper back. ‘No, no, you can keep it if you like. Now, Mr Steele, about this non-existent golfing fixture . . .’

Steele sat down. It was a pleasant, book-lined room. In fact, it reminded Rebus strongly of another room, a room he’d been in recently . . .

‘Gregor would do anything for his friends,’ Steele said candidly, ‘including the odd telling of a lie. We made up the golf game. Well, that’s not strictly true. At first, there was a weekly game. But then I started seeing a . . . a lady. On Wednesdays. I explained it to Gregor. He didn’t see why we shouldn’t just go on telling everyone we were playing golf.’ He looked up at Rebus for the first time. ‘A jealous husband is involved, Inspector, and an alibi was always welcome.’