‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mr Urquhart?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Urquhart’s not here right at the moment –’

But of course by now Rebus recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Mr Jack? It’s Inspector Rebus here. We met yester –’

‘Why yes, hello, Inspector. You’re in luck. We plugged the phone back in this morning, and Ian’s spent all day taking calls. He’s just taken a break. He thought we should unplug the thing again, but I plugged it back in myself when he’d gone. I hate to think I’m completely cut off. My constituents, after all, might need to get –’

‘What about Miss Greig?’

‘She’s working. Work must go on, Inspector. There’s an office to the back of the house where she does the typing and so on. Helen’s really been a –’

‘And Mrs Jack? Any news?’

Now the flow seemed to have dried up. There was a parched cough. Rebus could visualize a readjustment of facial features, maybe even a scratching of finger, a running of fingers through hair . . .

‘Why . . . yes, funny you should mention it. She phoned this morning.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, poor love. Said she’d been trying for hours, but of course the phone was disconnected all day Sunday and busy most of today –’

‘She’s at your cottage then?’

‘That’s right, yes. Spending a week there. I told her to stay put. No point in her getting dragged into all this rubbish, is there? It’ll soon blow over. My solicitor –’

‘We’ve checked Deer Lodge, Mr Jack.’

Another pause. Then: ‘Oh?’

‘She doesn’t seem to be there. No sign of life.’

There was sweat beneath the collar of Rebus’s shirt. He could blame it on the heating of course. But he knew the heating wasn’t all to blame. Where was this leading? What was he wandering into?

‘Oh.’ A statement this time, a deflated sound. ‘I see.’

‘Mr Jack, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

‘Yes, Inspector, there is, I suppose.’

Carefully: ‘Would you like me to come over?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just sit tight, all right?’

No answer.

‘All right, Mr Jack?’

‘Yes.’

But Gregor Jack didn’t sound it.

Of course, Rebus’s car wouldn’t start. The sound it made was more and more like an emphysema patient’s last hacking laugh. Herka-herka-her-ka-ka. Herka-herka-her.

‘Having trouble?’ This was yelled from across the car park by Brian Holmes, waving and about to get into his own car. Rebus slammed his car door shut and walked briskly over to where Holmes was just – with a first-time turn of the ignition – starting his Metro.

‘Off home?’

‘Yes.’ A nod towards Rebus’s doomed car. ‘Doesn’t sound as if you are. Want a lift?’

‘As it happens, Brian, yes. And you can come along for the ride if you like.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Rebus was trying to open the passenger-side door, without success. Holmes hesitated a moment before unlocking it.

‘It’s my turn to cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Nell’ll be up to high doh if I’m late . . .’