She was shaking her head. ‘Have another scone, Inspector.’

He did, and chewed slowly, in silence. Mrs Corbie looked to be doing some thinking. She got up and checked in her oven. Then she poured the last of the tea from the pot, and returned to her seat, studying her hands again, laying them against her lap for inspection.

But she didn’t say anything. So Rebus did.

‘You were here last Wednesday?’

She nodded. ‘But not the Tuesday. I go to my sister’s on a Tuesday. I was here all day Wednesday though.’

‘What about your son?’

She shrugged. ‘He might have been here. Or maybe he was in Dufftown. He spends a lot of time off gallivanting . . .’

‘He’s not here just now?’

‘No, he’s gone to town.’

‘Which town?’

‘He didn’t say. Just said he was off . . .’

Rebus stood up and went to the kitchen window. It faced on to the yard, where chickens now pecked at Rebus’s tyres. One of them was sitting on the bonnet of the car.

‘Is it possible to see the kiosk from the house, Mrs Corbie?’

‘Eh . . . yes, from the sitting room. But we don’t spend much time in there. That is, I don’t. I prefer here in the kitchen.’

‘Could I take a look?’

Well, it was clear enough who did spend time in the living room. There was a direct line between sofa, coffee table and television set. The coffee table was marked with rings made by too many hot mugs. On the floor by the sofa there was an ashtray and the remains of a huge bag of crisps. Three empty beer cans lay on their sides beneath the coffee table. Mrs Corbie tut-tutted and went to work, lifting the cans. Rebus went to the window and peered out.

He could make out the kiosk in the distance, but only just. It was possible Alec Corbie might have seen something. Possible, but doubtful. Not worth sticking around for. He’d let DS Knox come and ask Corbie the questions.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for your help, Mrs Corbie.’

‘Oh.’ Her relief was palpable. ‘Right you are, Inspector. I’ll see you out.’

But Rebus knew he had one last bet worth laying. He stood with Mrs Corbie in the yard and looked around him.

‘I used to love farms when I was a lad. A pal of mine lived on one,’ he glibly lied. ‘I used to go up there every evening after tea. It was great.’ He turned his wide-eyed nostalgic smile towards her. ‘Mind if I take a wander round?’

‘Oh.’ No relief now; rather, sheer terror. Which didn’t stop Rebus. No, it pushed him on. So that before she knew it, he was walking up to the hutches and sties, looking in, moving on. On past the chickens and the roused ducks, into the barn. Straw underfoot and a strong smell of cattle. Concrete cubicles, coiled hosepipes, and a leaking tap. There were pools of water underfoot. One sick-looking cow blinked slowly at him from its enclosure. But the livestock wasn’t his concern. The tarpaulin in the corner was.