‘Fair enough. I’ve been doing some ringing round. There are people who know the Craft far better than I do, I thought maybe they could shed some light.’

His tone told her what she needed to know. ‘No joy?’

‘Not as such. But a couple of folk have still to get back to me. Nobody home, so I left messages. Nil desperandum: that’s what they say, isn’t it?’

Her smile was bleak. ‘Some of them probably do, yes.’ Hopeless optimists, for example.

‘So you can expect another call tomorrow. What time’s the cut-off?’

‘Late morning.’

‘Then I’ll make some follow-up calls first thing.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s nice to feel useful again.’ He paused. ‘Things getting you down, Siobhan?’

‘I’ll cope.’

‘I’d put money on it. Speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

She put the phone down. Her drink was finished. This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it? Grant’s words to her during their argument. Now here she was with an empty glass in her hand, sitting in the dark, staring out the window.

‘I’m not like him at all,’ she said out loud, then she picked up the phone again and called his number. Got his answering machine. She knew she could try his mobile. Maybe he was out on the bevvy; almost certainly he was out on the bevvy. She could meet up with him, explore the city’s late openers, each dimly lit howff protection against the dark.

But he’d want to talk about Grant, about the clinch he thought he’d found them in. It would be there between them, no matter what the conversation.

She thought about it for a minute, then called his mobile anyway, but it was switched off. Another answering service; another message not left. Last-chance saloon was his pager, but she was winding down now. A mug of tea … she’d take it to bed with her. She switched the kettle on, looked for the tea-bags. The box was empty. All she had were some little sachets of herbal stuff: camomile. She wondered if the petrol station at Canonmills would be open … maybe the chip shop on Broughton Street. Yes, that was it … she could see the answer to her problems! She slipped her shoes and coat on, made sure she had keys and money. When she went out, she checked that the door had locked behind her. Down the stairs and out into the night, searching for the one ally she could depend on, no matter what.

Chocolate.

9

It had just gone seven-thirty when the phone woke her up. She staggered from bed, padded through to the living room. She had one hand on her forehead; the other reached for the handset.

‘Hello?’

‘Good morning, Siobhan. Didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘No, I was just making breakfast.’ She blinked a few times, then stretched her face, trying to get her eyes open. The Farmer sounded like he’d been up for hours.