Urquhart was still standing. Or, rather, was on his feet but in constant movement. Over to the window to peer through the net curtains. Over to a glass-topped table to examine some papers lying there. Over to a smaller table where the telephone sat, disconnected at the wall. So that even if Mrs Jack did try to call . . . Neither Urquhart nor Jack seemed to have thought of that. Curious. The room, the taste it displayed, seemed to Rebus not Jack’s but his wife’s. Jack looked like a man for older established pieces of furniture, safe comfy armchairs and a chesterfield sofa. A conservative taste. Look at the car he chose to drive . . .

Yes, Jack’s car: now there was an idea, or rather an excuse, an excuse for Rebus’s presence.

‘Maybe if we could get that statement out by lunchtime, Gregor,’ Urquhart was saying. ‘Sooner we dampen things down the better, really.’

Not very subtle, thought Rebus. The message was: state your business and leave. Rebus knew the question he wanted to ask: Do you think you were set up? Wanted to ask, but daren’t. He wasn’t here officially, was a tourist merely.

‘About your car, Mr Jack,’ he began. ‘Only, I noticed when I stopped that it’s sitting there in the drive, on full view so as to speak. And there are photographers out there. If any pictures of your car get into the papers . . .’

‘Everyone will recognize it in future?’ Jack nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at, Inspector. Yes, thank you. We hadn’t thought of that, had we, Ian?’ Better put it in the garage. We don’t want everyone who reads a newspaper to know what kind of car I drive.’

‘And its registration,’ Rebus added. ‘There are all sorts of people out there . . . terrorists . . . people with a grudge . . . plain nutters. Doesn’t do any good.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ The door swung open and Helen Greig entered, carrying two large mugs of tea. A far cry from the silver salver routine at the gates. She handed one to Urquhart and one to Gregor Jack, then removed a slim box from where it had been held between her arm and her side. It was a fresh box of ginger nuts. Rebus smiled.

‘Lovely, Helen, thanks,’ said Gregor Jack. He eased two biscuits from the packet.

Rebus rose to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d better be going. Like I say, I only dropped in . . .’

‘I do appreciate it, Inspector.’ Jack had placed mug and biscuits on the floor and was now standing, too, hand held out again towards Rebus. A warm, strong and unflawed hand. ‘I meant to ask, do you live in the constituency?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘One of my colleagues does. I was staying with him last night.’

Jack raised his head slowly before nodding. The gesture could have meant anything. ‘I’ll open the gates for you,’ Ian Urquhart was saying.