There was nobody home. Or nobody was answering. Or the apparatus had been unplugged. Or . . .

‘Hello?’

Rebus glanced at his watch. Just after quarter past seven. ‘Miss Greig?’ he said. ‘Inspector Rebus here. He does keep you working late, doesn’t he?’

‘You seem to work fairly late hours yourself, Inspector. What is it this time?’

Impatience in her voice. Perhaps Urquhart had warned her against being friendly. Perhaps it had been discovered that she’d given Rebus the address of Deer Lodge . . .

‘A word with Mr Jack, if possible.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ She didn’t sound afraid; she sounded if anything a bit smug. ‘He’s speaking at a function this evening.’

‘Oh. How did his meeting go this morning?’

‘Meeting?’

‘I thought he had some meeting in his constituency . . .?’

‘Oh, that. I think it went very well.’

‘So he’s not for the chop then?’

She attempted a laugh. ‘North and South Esk would be mad to get rid of him.’

‘All the same, he must be relieved.’

‘I wouldn’t know. He was on the golf course all afternoon.’

‘Nice.’

‘I think an MP is allowed one afternoon off a week, don’t you, Inspector?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely. That’s what I meant.’ Rebus paused. He had nothing to say, really; he was just hoping that if he kept her talking Helen Greig herself might tell him something, something he didn’t know . . . ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘about those telephone calls . . .’

‘What calls?’

‘The ones Mr Jack was getting. The anonymous ones.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, I’ve got to go now. My mum’s expecting me home at quarter to eight.’

‘Right you are then, Miss Gr –’ But she had already put the phone down.

Golf? This afternoon? Jack must be keen. The rain had been falling steadily in Edinburgh since midday. He looked out of his unwashed window. It wasn’t falling now, but the streets were glistening. The flat felt suddenly empty, and colder than ever. Rebus picked up the phone and made one more call. To Patience Aitken. To say he was on his way. She asked him where he was.

‘I’m at home.’

‘Oh? Picking up some more of your stuff?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You could do with bringing a spare suit if you’ve got one.’

‘Right.’

‘And some of your precious books, since you don’t seem to approve of my taste.’

‘Romances were never my thing, Patience.’ In fiction as in life, he thought to himself. On the floor around him were strewn some of his ‘precious books’. He picked one up, tried to remember buying it, couldn’t.

‘Well, bring whatever you like, John, and as much as you like. You know how much room we’ve got here.’

We. We’ve got.

‘Okay, Patience. See you later.’ He replaced the receiver with a sigh and took a look around him. After all these years, there were still gaps on the wall-shelves from where his wife Rhona had removed her things. Still gaps in the kitchen, too, where the tumble-drier had sat, and her precious dishwasher. Still clean rectangular spaces on the walls where her posters and prints had been hung. The flat had last been redecorated–when?–in ’81 or ’82. Ach, it still didn’t look too bad though. Who was he kidding? It looked like a squat.