*

Actually, Rebus’s original plan had been to sleep in the car and claim the price of a B&B, pocketing the money. But the weather looked uninviting, and the thought of spending a night cramped in his car like a half-shut knife . . . So, on the way to the phone-box, he signalled to a stop outside a roadside cottage advertising bed & breakfast and knocked on the door. The elderly woman seemed suspicious at first, but finally agreed that she had a vacancy. Rebus told her he’d be back in an hour, giving her time to ‘air’ the room. Then he returned to his car and followed Moffat’s careful driving all the way to Cragstone Farm.

It wasn’t much of a farm actually. A short track led from the main road to a cluster of buildings: house, byre, some sheds and a barn. The phone-box was by the side of the main road, fifty yards along from the farm and on the other side of the road, next to a lay-by big enough to allow them to park their two cars. It was one of the original red boxes.

‘They daren’t change it,’ said Moffat. ‘Mrs Corbie up at the farm would have a fit.’ Rebus didn’t understand this at first, but then he opened the door to the phone-box – and he understood. For one thing, it had a carpet – a good carpet, too, a thick-piled offcut. There was a smell of air freshener, and a posy of field flowers had been placed in a small glass jar on the shelf beside the apparatus.

‘It’s better kept than my flat,’ Rebus said. ‘When can I move in?’

‘It’s Mrs Corbie,’ Moffat said with a grin. ‘She reckons a dirty phone-box would reflect badly on her, seeing her house is closest. She’s been keeping it spick and span since God knows when.’

A pity though. Rebus had been hoping for something, some hint or clue. But supposing there had been anything, it must certainly have been tidied away . . .

‘I’d like to talk to Mrs Corbie.’

‘It’s a Tuesday,’ said Moffat. ‘She’s at her sister’s on a Tuesday.’ Rebus pointed back along the road to where a car was braking hard, signalling to pull into the farm’s driveway. ‘What about him?’

Moffat looked, then smiled coldly. ‘Her son, Alec. A bit of a tearaway. He won’t tell us anything.’

‘Gets into trouble, does he?’

‘Speeding mostly. He’s one of the local boy racers. Can’t say I blame him. There’s not much to occupy the teenagers round here.’

‘You can’t be much more than a teenager yourself, Constable. You didn’t get into trouble.’

‘I had the Church, sir. Believe me, the fear of God is something to reckon with . . .’

Rebus’s landlady, Mrs Wilkie, was something to reckon with, too. It started when he was changing in his bedroom. It was a nice bedroom, a bit overdone on the frills and finery, but with a comfortable bed and a twelve-inch black and white television. Mrs Wilkie had shown him the kitchen, and told him he should feel free to make himself tea and coffee whenever he felt like it. Then she had shown him the bathroom, and told him the water was hot if he felt like a bath. Then she had led him back to the kitchen and told him that he could make himself a cup of tea or coffee whenever he felt like it.