‘Still, the house looks in good nick.’

‘Oh, aye, but you’ll see there’s a few slates missing, and the gutters could do with patching up.’

Moffat spoke with the confidence of the DIYer. They were circling the house. It was a two-storey affair of solid-looking stone. To Rebus’s mind, it wouldn’t have been out of place on the outskirts of Edinburgh; it was just a bit odd to find it in a clearing in the wilderness. There was a back door, beside which sat a solitary dustbin.

‘Do the bins get emptied around here?’

‘They do if you can get them down to the roadside.’

Rebus lifted the lid. The smell was truly awful. A rotting side of salmon, by the shape of it, and some chicken or duck bones.

‘I’m surprised the animals haven’t been at those,’ Moffat said. ‘The deer or the wildcats . . .’

‘Looks as though it’s been in the bin long enough, doesn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say they were last week’s leavings, sir, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

Rebus looked at Moffat. ‘That’s what I’m getting at,’ he agreed. ‘The whole of last week, and for a few days before that, Mrs Jack was away from home. Driving a black BMW. Supposedly staying here.’

‘Well, if she did, nobody I’ve spoken to saw her.’

Rebus held up a door key. ‘Let’s see if the inside of the house tells a different story, eh?’ But first he returned to his car and produced two pairs of clear polythene gloves. He handed one pair to the constable. ‘I’m not even sure these’ll fit you,’ he told him. But they did. ‘Right, try not to touch anything, even though you’re wearing gloves. It might be you could smear or wipe a fingerprint. Remember, this is murder we’re talking about, not joyriding or cattle rustling. Okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Moffat sniffed the air. ‘Did you enjoy your chips? I can smell the vinegar from here.’

Rebus slammed shut the car door. ‘Let’s go.’

The house smelt damp. At least, the narrow hallway did. The doors off this hallway were wide open, and Rebus stepped through the first, into a room which stretched from the front of the house to the back. The room had been decorated with comfort in mind. There were three sofas, a couple of armchairs, and beanbags and scatter cushions. There were TV and video, and a hi-fi system sitting on the floor, one of its speakers lying side on. There was also mess.

Mugs, cups and glasses for a start. Rebus sniffed one of the mugs. Wine. Well, the vinegary stuff left in it had once been wine. Empty bottles of burgundy, champagne, armagnac. And stains – on the carpet, on the scatter cushions, and on one wall, where a glass had landed with some force, shattering on impact. Ashtrays overflowed, and there was a small hand-mirror half hidden under one of the floor cushions. Rebus bent down over it. Traces of white powder around its rim. Cocaine. He left it where it was and approached the hi-fi, examining the choice of music. Cassettes, mostly. Fleetwood Mac, Eric Clapton, Simple Minds . . . and opera. Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro.