‘Okay.’

Too cocky by half, thought Rebus. But speaking of cocky, he was doing a bit of strutting himself, wasn’t he? Sitting here in Watson’s office, spouting forth, while Lauderdale looked worriedly towards his suddenly caffeine-free superior.

‘And that’s how you see it, is it?’ The question was Watson’s. Rebus merely shrugged.

‘It sounds plausible,’ said Lauderdale. Rebus raised half an eyebrow: having Lauderdale’s support was a bit like locking yourself in with a starved alsatian . . .

‘What about Mr Glass?’ asked Watson.

‘Well, sir,’ said Lauderdale, shifting a little in his seat, ‘psychiatric reports don’t show him to be the most stable individual. He lives in a sort of fantasy world, you might say.’

‘You mean he made it up?’

‘Very probably.’

‘Which brings us back to Mr Steele. I think we’d better have him in for a word, hadn’t we. Did you say you brought him in yesterday, John?’

‘That’s right, sir. I thought we might give the boot of his car a once-over. But Mr Lauderdale seemed convinced by Steele’s story and let him go.’

The look on Lauderdale’s face would remain long in Rebus’s memory. Man bites alsatian.

‘Is that so?’ said Watson, also seeming to enjoy Lauderdale’s discomfort.

‘We’d no reason to hold him then, sir. It’s only information received this morning which has allowed us –’

‘All right, all right. So have we picked him up again?’

‘He’s not at home, sir,’ said Rebus. ‘I checked last night and then again this morning.’

Both men looked at him. Watson’s look said: Very efficient. Lauderdale’s look said: You bastard.

‘Well,’ said Watson, ‘we’d better get a warrant out, hadn’t we? I think there’s quite enough that needs explaining by Mr Steele.’

‘His car’s still in its garage, sir. We could get forensics to take a look at it. Most probably he’ll have cleaned it, but you never know . . .’

Forensics? They loved Rebus. He was their patron saint.

‘Right you are, John,’ said Watson. ‘See to it, will you?’ He turned to Lauderdale. ‘Another cup of coffee? There’s plenty in the pot, and you seem to be the only one drinking it . . .’

Strut, strut, strut. He was the little red rooster. He was the cock of the north. He’d felt it all along, of course: Ronald Steele. Suey, who had once tried to commit suicide when found by a girl masturbating in his hotel room.

‘Bound to be a bit screwed up.’ Who needed a psychology degree? What Rebus needed now was a combination of orienteering skills and old-fashioned man-hunting. His instincts told him that Steele would have headed south, leaving the car behind. (What use was it, after all? The police already had its description and licence number, and he’d known they were closing in. Or rather, he’d known Rebus was closing in.)

‘Ain’t nothing but a bloodhound,’ he sang to himself. He’d just phoned the hospital where Cathy Kinnoul was now a patient. Early days, he’d been told, but she’d had a peaceful night. Rab Kinnoul, however, hadn’t been near. Maybe this was understandable. It could be that she’d go for him with a broken water jug or try to strangle him with pyjama cord. All the same, Kinnoul was as shitty as the rest of them. Gregor Jack, too, risking all for a career in politics, a career he’d planned from birth, it seemed. Marrying Liz Ferrie not for herself but for her father. Completely unable to control her, so that he just stuffed her into a compartment, dusting her off for photo-shoots and the occasional public engagement. Yes, shitty. Only one person, to Rebus’s mind, came out of this with anything like dignity intact, and that person was a burglar.