Which didn’t do anything to stop him trying to strip Gregor Jack, his lifelong friend, ally in his bookshop, all-round good guy, to strip him completely and utterly naked. The brothel plan was simple and knife-sharp. Find out the time of the planned raid . . . a call to Gregor Jack . . . and calls beforehand to the Docklands dirt-diggers.

The set-up. And Gregor Jack shed his first layer.

Did Steele try to keep it from Liz? Maybe, maybe not. He thought it would be the final screw in the marriage-coffin. It nearly was. But he couldn’t be north with her all the time, telling her how great they could be together, what a shit Gregor was, et cetera, et cetera. And during the time she was alone, Liz Jack wavered, until finally she made up her mind not to leave Gregor but to leave Steele. Something like that. She was unpredictable after all. She was fire. And they argued. In his interview, he’d alluded to the argument itself: She always accused me of not being enough fun . . . and I never had enough money either . . . So they argued, and he stormed off, leaving her in the lay-by. Alec Corbie’s blue car had been a green car, the green Citroën BX. Steele had sped off, only to return and continue the argument, an argument which became violent, violence which went a little too far . . .

The next bit was, to Rebus’s mind, the cleverest, either that or the most fortuitous. Steele had to dump the body. The first thing to do was to get it away from the Highlands: there were too many clues up there to the fact that they’d spent time together. So he headed back towards Edinburgh with her in the boot. But what to do with her? Wait, there had been another killing, hadn’t there? A body dumped in a river. He could make it look the same. Better still, he could send her body out to sea. So he headed for someplace he knew: the hill above the Kinnoul house. He’d walked up there with Cathy so many times. He knew the small road, a road never used. And he knew that even if the body were found, the first suspect would be the Dean Bridge killer. So, at some point, he gave her that blow to the head, the blow so like the one administered to the Dean Bridge victim.

And the beautiful irony was: his alibi for the afternoon was provided by Gregor Jack himself.

‘And that’s how you see it, is it?’

The meeting was in Watson’s office: Watson, Lauderdale and Rebus. On the way in, Rebus had passed Brian Holmes.

‘I hear there’s a meeting in the Farmhouse.’

‘You’ve got good hearing.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘You mean you’re not on the guest list, Brian?’ Rebus winked. ‘Too bad. I’ll try to bring you a doggie-bag.’

‘Big of you.’

Rebus turned. ‘Look, Brian, the paint’s hardly dry on your promotion as it is. Relax, take it easy. If you’re looking for a quick road to Detective Inspector, go track down Lord Lucan. Meantime, I’m expected elsewhere, okay?’