‘Stay here and drink your tea,’ Helen Greig said. ‘I’ll see the Inspector out.’

‘If you like, Helen,’ Urquhart said slowly. Was there a warning in his voice? If there was, Helen Greig seemed not to sense it. He fished in his pocket for the keys and handed them to her.

‘Right then,’ Rebus said. ‘Goodbye, Mr Jack . . . Mr Urquhart.’ He took Urquhart’s hand for a moment and squeezed it. But his attention was on the man’s left hand. Wedding ring on one finger, and a signet ring on another. Gregor Jack’s left hand sported just the one thick band of gold. Not, however, on his wedding finger, but on the finger next to it. The wedding finger was the one with the eczema . . .

And Helen Greig? A few trinket rings on both hands, but she was neither married nor engaged.

‘Goodbye.’

Helen Greig was first out of the house, but waited for him beside the car, jangling the keys in her right hand.

‘Have you worked for Mr Jack long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Hard work, being an MP, isn’t it? I expect he needs to unwind from time to time –’

She stopped and glared at him. ‘Not you too! You’re as bad as that lot!’ She gestured with the keys towards the gates and the figures beyond. ‘I won’t hear a word said against Gregor.’ She started walking again, more briskly now.

‘He’s a good employer then?’

‘He’s not like an employer at all. My mother’s been ill. He gave me a bonus in the autumn so I could take her for a wee holiday down the coast. That’s the sort of man he is.’ There were tears in her eyes, but she forced them back. The reporters were passing cups between them, complaining about sugar or the lack of it. They didn’t seem to expect much from the approach of the two figures.

‘Talk to us, Helen.’

‘A word with Gregor and we can all go home. We’ve got families to think of, you know.’

‘I’m missing communion,’ joked one of them.

‘Yes, communion with your lunchtime pint,’ returned another.

One of the local reporters – by the accents, there weren’t many of them present – had recognized Rebus.

‘Inspector, anything to tell us?’ A few ears pricked up at that ‘Inspector’.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, causing Helen Greig to stiffen. ‘Bugger off.’

There were smiles at this and a few groans. The gates opened and were about to close, leaving Rebus on the outside again. But he pressed his weight against the gate and leaned towards the young woman, his mouth close to her ear.

‘I forgot, I’ll have to go back in.’

‘What?’

‘I forgot, or rather Mr Jack did. He wanted me to check on his wife, in case she was taking the news badly . . .’

He waited for the notion of this to sink in. Helen Greig puckered her lips in a silent O. The notion had sunk in.