‘I don’t believe it,’ she said as he walked into the kitchen. ‘I really don’t believe you actually kept a date.’ She was standing beside the microwave. Inside, something was cooking. Rebus pulled her to him and gave her a wet kiss on the lips.

‘Patience,’ he said, ‘I think I love you.’

She pulled back from him a little, the better to look at him. ‘And there’s not a drop of alcohol in the man either. What a night for surprises. Well, I think I should tell you that I’ve had a foul day and as a result I’m in a foul mood . . . that’s why we’re eating chicken.’ She smiled and kissed him. ‘“I think I love you,’” she mimicked. ‘You should have seen the look on your face when you said that. A picture of sheer puzzlement. You’re not exactly the last of the red-hot romantics, are you, John Rebus?’

‘So teach me,’ said Rebus, kissing her again.

‘I think,’ said Patience . . . ‘I think we’ll have that chicken cold.’

He was up early next morning. More unusually, he was up before Patience herself, who lay with a satisfied, debauched look on her sleeping face and with her hair wild around her on the pillow. He let Lucky in and gave him a bigger than normal bowl of food, then made tea and toast for himself and Patience.

‘Pinch me, I must be dreaming,’ she said when he woke her up. She gulped at the tea, then took a small bite from one buttered triangle. Rebus half refilled his own cup, drained it, and got up from the bed.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’m off.’

‘What?’ She looked at her clock. ‘Night shift is it this week?’

‘It’s morning, Patience. And I’ve a lot on today.’ He bent over her to peck her forehead, but she pulled at his tie, tugging him further down so that she could give him a salty, crumbly kiss on the mouth.

‘See you later?’ she asked.

‘Count on it.’

‘It would be nice to be able to.’ But he was already on his way. Lucky came into the room and leapt on to the bed. The cat was licking his lips.

‘Me too, Lucky,’ said Patience. ‘Me too.’

He drove straight to Ronald Steele’s bungalow. The traffic was heavy coming into town, but Rebus was heading out. It wasn’t yet quite eight. He didn’t take Steele for an early riser. This was a grim anniversary: two weeks to the day since Liz Jack was murdered. Time to get things straight.

Steele’s car was still in its garage. Rebus went to the front door and pressed the bell, attempting a jaunty rhythm of rings – a friend, or the postman . . . someone you’d want to open your door to.

‘Come on, Suey, chop-chop.’

But there was no answer. He peered through the letter box. Nothing. He looked in through the living room window. Exactly as it had been yesterday evening. The curtains hadn’t even been pulled shut. No sign of life.