The forensics team had come up with a match for the prints on the microwave: Julian Kaymer. He’d swiped Jamie Kilpatrick’s keys and driven to Deer Lodge in the dead of night, smashing the window to gain entry.

Why? To tidy away evidence of anything too scandalous. Which meant the cocaine-stained hand-mirror and two pairs of tights tied to a four-poster. Why? Simple: to protect what he could of a friend’s reputation . . . a dead friend’s reputation. Pathetic, but noble, too, in a way. Stealing the microwave was outrageous really. PC Plod was supposed to put the whole thing down to kids, smashing their way into an empty house on the off-chance . . . and making off not with the hi-fi (always a favourite), but with the microwave. He’d driven off with it, then thrown it away, only to have it found by the magpie himself, Alec Corbie.

Yes, Steele would be in London by now. His shop operated in the sphere of cash. There would have been some hidden somewhere; perhaps quite a lot. He might be on a flight out of Heathrow or Gatwick, a train to the coast and the boat over to France.

‘Trains and boats and planes . . .’

‘Somebody sounds happy.’ It was Brian Holmes, standing in the doorway to Rebus’s office. Rebus was seated at his desk, feet resting on the desk itself, hands behind his head. ‘Mind if I come in, or do we need to reserve tickets to touch your hem?’

‘You leave my hem out of this. Sit down.’ Holmes was halfway to the chair when he tripped over a gash in the linoleum. He put his hands out to save himself, and found himself sprawled on Rebus’s desktop, an inch from one of the shoes.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘you may kiss them.’

Holmes managed something between a smile and a grimace. ‘This place really should be condemned.’ He slumped into the chair.

‘Mind out for the shoogly leg,’ warned Rebus. ‘Any progress on Steele?’

‘Not much.’ Holmes paused. ‘None at all, really. Why didn’t he take his car?’

‘We know it too well, remember? I thought you were responsible for putting together that list? Everybody in the world’s car make, colour and registration number. Oh no, I forgot, you delegated the work to a detective constable.’

‘What was it for anyway?’ Rebus stared at him. ‘Seriously. I’m just a sergeant, as you’ll recall. Nobody tells me anything. Lauderdale was vaguer even than usual.’

‘Mrs Jack’s BMW was parked in a lay-by,’ explained Rebus.

‘That much I knew.’

‘So was another car. An eye witness said it might be blue. It wasn’t, it was green.’

‘That reminds me,’ said Holmes, ‘I meant to ask you: what was she waiting around for?’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Jack. At that lay-by, what was she hanging around there for?’ While Rebus considered this, Holmes thought of another question. ‘What about Mr Jack’s car?’

Rebus sighed. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, I didn’t get a good look at it that night you dragged me out there . . . I mean, it was in the garage, and there were lights to the front and back of the house, but not to the side. But you did say to have a snoop. The side door to the garage was open, so I wandered in. Too dark really, and I couldn’t find the light switch. . .’