‘Thirsty this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

‘You were telling me about Gregor Jack.’

She looked surprised. ‘Was I?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Yes, that’s right, I read about it in the papers. Horrible things they were saying. About him and Liz.’

‘Mrs Jack?’

‘Liz, yes.’

‘What’s she like?’

Cath Kinnoul seemed to shiver. She got up slowly and placed her empty cup on the tray. ‘More tea?’ Rebus shook his head. She poured milk, lots of sugar, and then a trickle of tea into her cup. ‘Thirsty,’ she said, ‘this morning.’ She went to the window, holding the cup in both hands. ‘Liz is her own woman. You’ve got to admire her for that. It can’t be easy, living with a man who’s in the public eye. He hardly sees her.’

‘He’s away a lot, you mean?’

‘Well, yes. But she’s away a lot, too. She has her own life, her own friends.’

‘Do you know her well?’

‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t believe what we got up to at school. Who’d have thought . . .’ She touched the window. ‘Do you like the house, Inspector?’

This was an unexpected turn in the conversation. ‘It’s . . . er, big, isn’t it?’ Rebus answered. ‘Plenty of room.’

‘Seven bedrooms,’ she said. ‘Rab bought it from some rock star. I don’t think he’d have bothered if it hadn’t been a star’s home. What do we need seven bedrooms for? There’s only the two of us . . . Oh, here’s Rab now.’

Rebus came to the window. A Land-Rover was bumping up the driveway. There was a heavy figure in the front, hands clenching the wheel. The Land-Rover gave a squeal as it stopped.

‘About these books,’ said Rebus, suddenly an efficient official. ‘You collect books, I believe?’

‘Rare books, yes. First editions, mostly.’ Cath Kinnoul, too, was starting to play another part, this time the woman who’s helping police with their . . .

The front door opened and closed. ‘Cath? Whose car’s that in the drive?’

Rab Kinnoul came massively into the room. He was six feet two tall, and probably weighed fifteen stone. His chest was huge, a predominantly red tartan shirt stretched across it. He wore baggy brown corduroys tied at the waist with a thin, straining belt. He’d started growing a reddish beard, and his brown hair was longer than Rebus remembered, curling over his ears. He looked expectantly at Rebus, who came towards him.

‘Inspector Rebus, sir.’

Kinnoul looked surprised, then relieved, then, Rebus thought, worried. The problem was those eyes; they didn’t seem to change, did they? So that Rebus began to wonder whether the surprise, relief and worry were in Kinnoul’s mind or in his own.

‘Inspector, what’s . . . I mean, is there something wrong?’

‘No, no, sir. It’s just that some books have been stolen, rare books, and we’re going around talking to private collectors.’

‘Oh.’ Now Kinnoul broke into a grin. Rebus didn’t think he’d seen him grin in any of his TV or film roles. He could see why. The grin changed Kinnoul from ominous heavy into overgrown teenager, lighting his face, making it innocent and benign. ‘So it’s Cath you want then?’ He looked over Rebus’s shoulder at his wife. ‘All right, Cath?’