Rebus held the photograph up so that Jack could see it. It showed Gregor Jack having his shirt removed by two women. Everyone’s eyes were red.

‘The first and last party I ever went to,’ Jack stated.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus.

‘Look, Inspector, my wife’s life is her own. What she chooses to get up to . . . well, it’s out of my hands.’ Anger was replacing embarrassment. ‘I might not like it, I might not like her friends, but it’s her choice.’

‘Right, sir.’ Rebus threw the photographs back into the bin. ‘Well, maybe your wife’s . . . friends will know where she is, eh? Meantime, I wouldn’t leave that lot in there, not unless you want to see yourself on the front pages again. The bins are the first place some journalists look. It’s not called “getting the dirt” for nothing. And as I say, Mr Jack, it’s none of our business . . . not yet.’

But it would be soon enough; Rebus felt it in his gut, which tumbled at the thought.

It would be soon enough.

Back inside the house, Rebus tried to concentrate on one thing at a time. Not easy, not at all easy. Jack wrote down the names and addresses of a few of his wife’s friends. If not quite high society, they were certainly more than a few rungs above the Horsehair. Then Rebus asked about Liz Jack’s car.

‘A black BMW,’ said Jack. ‘The 3-series. My birthday present to her last year.’

Rebus thought of his own car. ‘Very nice too, sir. And the registration?’ Jack reeled it off. Rebus looked a little surprised, but Jack smiled weakly.

‘I’m an accountant by training,’ he explained. ‘I never forget figures.’

‘Of course, sir. Well, we’d better be –’

There was a sound, the sound of the front door opening and closing. Voices in the hall. Had the prodigal wife returned? All three men turned towards the living room door, which now swung open.

‘Gregor? Look who I found coming up the drive . . .’

Ian Urquhart saw that Gregor Jack had visitors. He paused, startled. Behind him, a tired-looking man was shuffling into the room. He was tall and skinny, with lank black hair and round NHS-style spectacles.

‘Gregor,’ the man said. He walked up to Gregor Jack and they shook hands. Then Jack placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Meant to look in before now,’ the man was saying, ‘but you know how it is.’ He really did look exhausted, with dark-ringed eyes and a stoop to his posture. His speech and movements were slow. ‘I think I’ve clinched a nice collection of Italian art books . . .’

He now seemed ready to acknowledge the visitors’ presence. Rebus had been given Urquhart’s hand and was shaking it. The visitor nodded towards Rebus’s right hand.

‘You,’ he said, ‘must be Inspector Rebus.’

‘That’s right.’

‘How do you know that?’ said Gregor Jack, suitably impressed.

‘Scratch marks on the wrist,’ the visitor explained. ‘Vanessa told me an Inspector Rebus had been in, and that Rasputin had made his mark . . . his considerable mark, by the look of things.’