‘You know what teenagers are like.’ It was as though she were talking about events from a week or two back. Rebus didn’t doubt that the memories stayed fresh, always ready to torment her waking hours, maybe even the sleeping ones too.

‘But he was ruled out?’

‘They gave up on him, yes. But he wasn’t the same after that, family moved from the area. He wrote to me for a few years …’

‘Mrs Farmer—’

‘It’s Ms Colquhoun now. Joe left me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Did it have … ?’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’

‘He never talked much about it,’ was all she said. Rebus wondered if Caroline’s father had been able to let her go, in a way her mother hadn’t.

‘This may seem a strange question, Ms Colquhoun, but did Dunfermline Glen have any significance for Caroline?’

‘I … I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Me neither. It’s just that something’s come to our attention, and we’re wondering if it might tie in with your daughter’s disappearance.’

‘What is it?’

He didn’t suppose she’d take the coffin in the Glen as good news; resorted instead to the old cliché: ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that at present.’

There was silence on the line for a few seconds. ‘She liked to walk in the Glen.’

‘By herself ?’

‘When she felt like it.’ Her voice caught. ‘Is it something you’ve found?’

‘Not the way you think, Ms Colquhoun.’

‘You’ve dug her up, haven’t you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What then?’ she shrieked.

‘I’m not at lib—’

She’d put the phone down. He stared at the mouthpiece, then did the same.

In the men’s toilets he splashed water on his face. His eyes were grey and puffy. Last night, he’d left Surgeons’ Hall and driven to Portobello, parking outside Jean’s house. Her lights had been off. He’d got as far as opening the car door, but had stopped. What was he planning to say to her? What was it he wanted? He’d closed the door again as quietly as he could, and just sat there, engine and headlamps off, Hendrix playing quietly: ‘The Burning of the Midnight Lamp’.

Back at his desk, one of the station’s civvy staff had just arrived with a large cardboard document-box. Rebus lifted the top off and peered inside. The box was actually not quite half full. He pulled out the topmost folder and examined the typed label: Paula Jennifer Gearing (née Mathieson); d.o.b. – 10.4.50; d.o.d. – 6.7.77. The Nairn drowning. Rebus sat down, pulled in his chair and started to read. About twenty minutes in, as he was scribbling another note on a lined A4 pad, Ellen Wylie arrived.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, shedding her coat.