‘We have a visitor, Gregor.’

The effect was that of a talented actor changing roles – tragedy to comedy. Gregor Jack stood up and fixed a smile on to his face. His eyes now sparkled, looking interested, his whole face speaking sincerity. Rebus marvelled at the ease of the transformation.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said, taking the proffered hand.

‘Inspector, what can we do for you? Here, sit down.’ Jack gestured towards a squat black chair, matching the sofa in design. It was like sinking into marshmallow. ‘Something to drink?’ Now Jack seemed to remember something and turned to Helen Greig. ‘Helen, you took the tea out to our friends?’

She nodded.

‘Excellent. Can’t have the gentlemen of the press going without their elevenses.’ He smiled towards Rebus, then lowered himself on to the edge of the sofa, arms resting on his knees so that the hands remained mobile. ‘Now, Inspector, what’s the problem?’

‘Well, sir, it’s really just that I happened to be passing, and saw that gang at the gates, so I stopped.’

‘You know why they’re here though?’

Rebus was obliged to nod. Urquhart cleared his throat again.

‘We’re going to prepare a statement for them over lunch,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t be enough to see them off, but it might help.’

‘You know, of course,’ said Rebus, aware that he had to tread carefully, ‘that you’ve done nothing wrong, sir. I mean, nothing illegal.’

Jack smiled again and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t need to be illegal, Inspector. It just has to be news.’ His hands kept fluttering, as did his eyes and head. It was as though his mind were elsewhere. Then something seemed to click. ‘You didn’t say, Inspector,’ he said, ‘tea or coffee? Something stronger perhaps?’

Rebus shook his head slowly. His hangover was a dull presence now. No point swaddling it. Jack raised his soulful eyes to Helen Greig.

‘I’d love a cup of tea, Helen. Inspector, you’re sure you won’t . . .?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Ian?’

Urquhart nodded towards Helen Greig.

‘Would you, Helen?’ said Gregor Jack. What woman, Rebus wondered, would refuse? Which reminded him . . .

‘Your wife’s not here then, Mr Jack?’

‘On holiday,’ Jack said quickly. ‘We’ve a cottage in the Highlands. Not much of a place, but we like it. She’s probably there.’

‘Probably? Then you don’t know for sure?’

‘She didn’t make out an itinerary, Inspector.’

‘So does she know . . .?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Inspector. Maybe she does. She’s an insatiable reader of newsprint. There’s a village nearby stocks the Sundays.’

‘But she hasn’t been in touch?’

Urquhart didn’t bother clearing his throat this time before interrupting. ‘There’s no phone at the lodge.’

‘That’s what we like about it,’ Jack explained. ‘Cut off from the world.’

‘But if she knew,’ Rebus persisted, ‘surely she’d get in touch?’

Jack sighed, and began scratching at his finger again. He caught himself doing it and stopped. ‘Eczema,’ he explained. ‘Just on the one finger, but it’s annoying all the same.’ He paused. ‘Liz . . . my wife . . . she’s very much a law unto herself, Inspector. Maybe she’d get in touch, maybe she wouldn’t. She’s just as likely not to want to talk about it. Do you see what I mean?’ Another smile, a weaker one, seeking the sympathy vote. Jack ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. Rebus wondered idly whether the perfect teeth were capped. Maybe the thatch was capped, too. The open-necked shirt didn’t look like chain-store stuff . . .