‘From which we infer . . .?’

‘Same answer: nothing. She could still be off at some Iona spiritual retreat, or shacked up with a Gaelic crofter, or doing the Munros. She could be pissed-off at her hubby, or not know a thing about any of it.’

‘And all that kit I found, the sex-shop stock clearance?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well . . .’ Holmes seemed stuck for an answer. ‘Nothing really.’

‘And there you’ve put your finger on it, Sergeant. Nothing really. Meantime, I’ve got work enough to be getting on with.’ Rebus laid a solemn hand on the pile of reports and case-notes in front of him. ‘How about you?’

Holmes was out of his chair now. ‘Oh, I’ve plenty keeping me busy, sir. Please, don’t worry yourself about me.’

‘It’s natural for me to worry, Brian. You’re like a son to me.’

‘And you’re like a father to me,’ Holmes replied, heading for the door. ‘The fa-ther I get from you, the easier my life seems to be.’

Rebus screwed a piece of paper into a ball, but the door closed before he had time to take aim. Ach, some days the job could be a laugh. Well, okay, a grin at least. If he forgot all about Gregor Jack, the load would be lighter still. Where would Jack be now? At the House of Commons? Sitting on some committee? Being fêted by businesses and lobbyists? It all seemed a long way from Rebus’s office, and from his life.

William Glass . . . no, the name meant nothing to him. Bill Glass, Billy Glass, Willie Glass, Will Glass . . . nothing. Living at 48 Semple Street. Hold on . . . Semple Street in Granton. He went to his filing cabinet and pulled out the file. Yes, just last month. Stabbing incident in Granton. A serious wounding, but not fatal. The victim had lived at 48 Semple Street. Rebus remembered it now. Bedsits carved from a house, all of them rented. A rented bedsit. If William Glass was living at 48 Semple Street, then he was staying in a rented bedsit. Rebus reached for his telephone and called Lauderdale, to whom he told his story.

‘Well, someone there vouched for him when the patrol car dropped him off. The officers were told to be sure he did live there, and apparently he does. Name’s William Glass, like he said.’

‘Yes, but those bedsits are short-let. Tenants get their social security cheque, hand half the cash over to the landlord, maybe more than half for all I know. What I’m saying is, it’s not much of an address. He could disappear from there any time he liked.’

‘Why so suspicious all of a sudden, John? I thought you were of the opinion we were wasting our time in the first place?’

Oh, but Lauderdale always knew the question to ask, the question to which, as a rule, Rebus did not have an answer.

‘True, sir,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d let you know.’