‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘He seems very plausible.’

‘In other words, you believe him?’

‘I think I do, yes.’

‘What about his car boot?’

‘You mean the mud? He told you himself, John, Mrs Kinnoul and he go for walks. That hillside’s hardly what you’d call paved. You need wellies, and wellies get muddy. It’s their purpose.’

‘He admitted he was seeing Cath Kinnoul?’

‘He admitted nothing of the sort. He just said there was a “woman”.’

‘That’s all he’d say when I brought him in. But he admitted it back in his house.’

‘I think it’s quite noble of him, trying to protect her.’

‘Or could it be that he knows she couldn’t back up his story anyway?’

‘You mean it’s a pack of lies?’

Rebus sighed. ‘No, I think I believe it, too.’

‘Well then.’ Lauderdale sounded – for Lauderdale – genuinely gentle. ‘Sit down, John. You’ve had a hard twenty-four hours.’

Rebus sat down. ‘I’ve had a hard twenty-four years.’

Lauderdale smiled. ‘Tea?’

‘I think some of the Chief Superintendent’s coffee would be a better idea.’

Lauderdale laughed. ‘Kill or cure, certainly. Now look, you’ve just admitted yourself that you believe Steele’s story –’

‘Up to a point.’

Lauderdale accepted the clause. ‘But still, the man wanted to leave. How the hell was I going to hold him?’

‘On suspicion. We’re allowed to hang on to suspects a bit longer than ninety minutes.’

‘Thank you, Inspector, I’m aware of that.’

‘So now he toddles back home and gives the boot of his car a damned good clean.’

‘You need more than mucky wellies for a conviction, John.’

‘You’d be surprised what forensics can do . . .’

‘Ah, now that’s another thing. I hear you’ve been getting up people’s noses faster than a Vick’s inhaler.’

‘Anybody in particular?’

‘Everybody in the field of forensic science, it seems. Stop hassling them, John.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take a break. Just for the afternoon, say. What about the Professor’s missing tomes?’

‘Back with their owner.’

‘Oh?’ Lauderdale waited for elucidation.

‘A turn-up for the books, sir,’ Rebus said instead. He stood up. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else –’

The telephone rang. ‘Hold on,’ Lauderdale ordered. ‘The way things have been going, that’ll probably be for you.’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Lauderdale.’ Then he listened. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said at last, before replacing the receiver. ‘Well, well, well. Take a guess who’s downstairs.’

‘The Dundonald and Dysart Pipe Band?’

‘Close. Jeanette Oliphant.’

Rebus frowned. ‘I know the name . . .’

‘She’s Sir Hugh Ferrie’s solicitor. And also, it seems, Mr Jack’s. They’re both down there with her.’ Lauderdale had risen from his chair and was straightening his jacket. ‘Let’s see what they want, eh?’

Gregor Jack wanted to make a statement, a statement regarding his movements on the day his wife was murdered. But the prime mover was Sir Hugh Ferrie; that much was obvious from the start.

‘I saw that piece in the paper this morning,’ he explained. ‘Phoned Gregor to ask if it was true. He says it was. I felt a sight better for knowing it, though I told him he’s a bloody fool for not telling anyone sooner.’ He turned to Gregor Jack. ‘A bloody fool.’