It looked to Rebus as though the title alone had been what had made Ronald Steele pluck it from the shelf and throw it with such venom. Yes, just that title (the title, too, of the young sculptor’s statue). The fish out of water was Liz Jack. But Rebus wondered whether she’d been out of water, or just out of her depth . . .

He drove to Cragstone Farm, parking in the yard to the rear of the farmhouse, scattering chickens and ducks before him. Mrs Corbie was at home, and took him into the kitchen, where there was a wondrous smell of baking. The large kitchen table was white with flour, but only a few globes of leftover pastry remained. Rebus couldn’t help recalling that scene in The Postman Always Rings Twice . . .’

Sit yourself down,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve just made a pot . . .’

Rebus was given tea, and some of yesterday’s batch of fruit scones, with fresh butter and thick strawberry jam.

‘Ever thought about doing B&B, Mrs Corbie?’

‘Me? I wouldn’t have the patience.’ She was wiping her hands on her white cotton apron. She seemed always to be wiping her hands. ‘Mind you, it’s not for shortage of space. My husband passed away last year, so now there’s just Alec and me.’

‘What? Running the whole farm?’

She made a face. ‘Running it down would be more like it. Alec just isn’t interested. It’s a sin, but there you are. We’ve got a couple of workers, but when they see he’s not interested, they can’t see why they should be. We’d be as well selling up. That’s what Alec would like. Maybe that’s the only thing that stops me from doing it . . .’ She was looking at her hands. Then she slapped them against her thighs. ‘Goodness, would you listen to me! Now, Inspector, what was it you wanted?’

After all his years on the force, Rebus reckoned that at last he was in the presence of someone with a genuinely clear conscience. It didn’t usually take so long for people to ask what a policeman was after. When it did take so long, the person either knew already what was wanted, or else had absolutely nothing to fear or to hide. So Rebus asked his question.

‘I notice you keep the telephone kiosk sparkling, Mrs Corbie. I was wondering if you’d noticed anything suspicious recently? I mean, anything up at the box?’

‘Oh, well, let me think.’ She placed the flat of one hand against her cheek. ‘I can’t say . . . what sort of thing exactly, Inspector?’

Rebus couldn’t look her in the eye – for he knew that she had started to lie to him.

‘A woman perhaps. Making a telephone call. Something left in the box . . . a note or a telephone number . . . anything at all.’

‘No, no, nothing in the box.’

His voice hardened a little. ‘Well, outside the box then, Mrs Corbie. I’m thinking specifically of a week ago, last Wednesday or maybe the Tuesday . . .?’