There were two more newspapers, both telling a similar tale graced by similar (sometimes even identical) photos, THE DISHONOURABLE MEMBER; MP’S VICE SHAME. Ah, the great British Sunday headline, coined by an elect of teetotal virgins boasting the combined wisdom of Solomon and the magnanimity of a zealot. Rebus could be as prurient as the next man, but this stuff was a class above. He prised himself out of bed and stood up. The alcohol inside him stood up too; then it began to pogostick its way around his head. Red wine and whisky. Bad news and a chaser. What was the phrase? Never mix the grain and the grape. Never mind, a couple of litres of orange juice would sort him out.

But first there was the little matter of the fry-up. Nell looked as though she’d spent all night in the kitchen. She had washed up the debris of the previous night, and now was providing a breakfast of hotel proportions. Cereal, toast, bacon, sausage and egg. With a pot of coffee taking pride of place on the dining table. Only one thing was missing.

‘Any orange juice?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Sorry,’ said Brian. ‘I thought the paper shop would have some, but they’d run out. There’s plenty of coffee though. Tuck in.’ He was busy with another paper, a broadsheet this time. ‘Didn’t take them long to stick the knife in, did it?’

‘You mean Gregor Jack? No, well, what can you expect?’

Holmes turned a page. ‘Strange though,’ he said, and let it lie at that, wondering whether Rebus would know . . .

‘You mean,’ Rebus replied, ‘it’s strange that the London Sunday’s knew about Operation Creeper.’

Another page was turned. It didn’t take long to read a newspaper these days, not unless you were interested in the adverts. Holmes folded the paper into four and laid it down on the table beside him.

‘Yes,’ he said, lifting a piece of toast. ‘Like I say, it’s strange.’

‘Come on, Brian. Papers are always getting tip-offs to juicy stories. A copper looking for beer money, something like that. Chances are, you raid a posh brothel you’re going to come out with some weel-kent faces.’

Hold on though . . . Even as he spoke, Rebus knew there was something more. That night, the reporters had been biding their time, hadn’t they? Like they knew exactly who or what might be walking out of the door and down the steps. Holmes was staring at him now.

‘What are you thinking?’ Rebus asked.

‘Nothing. No, nothing at all . . . yet. Not our business, is it? And besides, this is Sunday.’

‘You’re a sly bugger, Brian Holmes.’

‘I’ve got a good tutor, haven’t I?’

Nell came into the room carrying two plates, filled with glistening fried food. Rebus’s stomach pleaded with its owner not to do anything rash, anything he would regret later on in the day.

‘You’re working too hard,’ Rebus told Nell. ‘Don’t let him treat you like a skivvy.’