‘Thank you,’ said Lauderdale. ‘Maybe I will . . .’

*

She was sitting on a bench in the concourse, conspicuous in sunglasses which were supposed to disguise her identity.

‘That bastard,’ she said, ‘putting the papers on to me like that.’ She was talking of her brother, Gregor Jack. Rebus didn’t say anything. ‘One yesterday,’ she went on, ‘then this morning, half a dozen of the bastards. Picture plastered all over the front pages . . .’

‘Maybe it wasn’t your brother,’ Rebus said.

‘What? Who else could it be?’ Behind the dark lenses, Rebus could still make out Gail Crawley’s tired eyes. She was dressed as though in a hurry – tight jeans, high heels, baggy t-shirt. Her luggage seemed to consist of a large suitcase and two carrier bags. In one hand she clutched her ticket to London, in the other she held a cigarette.

‘Maybe,’ Rebus suggested, ‘it was the person who knew who you were, the person who told Gregor where to find you.’

She shivered. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you about. God knows why. I don’t owe the bastard any favours . . .’

Nor do I, thought Rebus, yet I always seem to be doing them for him.

‘What about a drink?’ she suggested.

‘Sure,’ said Rebus. He picked up her suitcase, while she clip-clopped along carrying the bags. Her shoes made a lot of noise, and attracted glances from some of the men lolling about. Rebus was quite relieved to reach the safety of the bar, where he bought a half of export for himself and a Bacardi and Coke for her. They found a corner not too near the gaming machine or the frazzled loudspeaker of the jukebox.

‘Cheers,’ she said, trying to drink and inhale at much the same time. She spluttered and swore, then stubbed out the cigarette, only seconds later to light another.

‘Good health,’ said Rebus, sipping his own drink. ‘So, what was it you wanted to get off your chest?’

She snorted. ‘I like that: get off your chest.’ This time she remembered to swallow her mouthful of rum before drawing on the cigarette. ‘Only,’ she said, ‘what you were saying, about how somebody might have known who I was . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I remembered. It was a night a while back. Like, a couple of months. Six weeks . . . something like that. I hadn’t been up here long. Anyway, the usual trio of pissed punters comes in. Funny how they usually come in threes . . .’ She paused, snorted. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’

‘So three men came to the brothel?’

‘Just said so, didn’t I? Anyway, one of them liked the look of me, so off we went upstairs. I told him my name was Gail. I can’t see the point of all those stupid names everybody else uses – Candy and Mandy and Claudette and Tina and Suzy and Jasmine and Roberta. I’d just forget who I was supposed to be.’