‘Are you all right, Mr Rebus? Oh dear, that’s never happened before. Dear me no . . .’

Rebus lifted the cup and saucer from her hand and began pouring the tea back from saucer into cup. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkie.’ He made show of sniffing. ‘Is something cooking?’

‘Oh dear, yes. Breakast.’ And off she toddled, back down the stairs. Rebus felt a bit guilty for having pulled the ‘locked-door’ stunt. He’d show her after breakfast that the door was all right really, that she didn’t need to phone for cowboy carpenters to put it right. But for now he had to continue the process of waking up. It was seven thirty. The tea was cold but the day seemed unseasonally warm. He sat on the bed for a moment, collecting his thoughts. What day was it? It was Wednesday. What needed to be done today? What was the best order to do it in? He’d to return to the cottage with the Three Stooges. Then there was Mrs Corbie to speak to. And something else . . . something he’d been thinking about last night, in the melting moment between waking and sleep. Well, why not? He was in the area anyway. He’d telephone after breakfast. A fry-up by the smell of it, rather than Patience’s usual choice of muesli or Bran Crunch. Ah, that was another thing. He’d meant to phone Patience last night. He’d do it today, just to say hello. He thought about her for a little while, Patience and her collection of pets. Then he finished dressing and made his way downstairs . . .

He was first to arrive at the lodge. He let himself in and wandered into the living room. Immediately, he knew something was different. The place was tidier. Tidier? Well, say then that there was less debris around than before. Half the bottles looked to have disappeared. He wondered what else had vanished. He lifted the scatter cushions, searching in vain for the hand-mirror. Damn. He fairly flew through to the kitchen. The back window was lying in shards in the sink and on the floor. Here, the mess was as bad as before. Except that the microwave had gone. He went upstairs . . . slowly. The place seemed deserted, but you never could tell. The bathroom and small bedroom were as before. So was the main bedroom. No, hold on. The tights had been untied from their bedposts and were now lying innocently on the floor. Rebus crouched and picked one up. Then dropped it again. Thoughtfully, he made his way back downstairs.

A burglary, yes. Break in and steal the microwave. That was the way it was supposed to look. But no petty thief would take empty bottles and a mirror with him, no petty thief would have reason to untie pairs of tights from bedposts. That didn’t matter though, did it? What mattered was that the evidence had to disappear. Now it would merely be Rebus’s word.