‘I just don’t want someone else stealing our thunder.’

‘Even if it means finding Flip Balfour alive?’

She paused, screwed up her face. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it?’

Colour rose to her cheeks. ‘What does?’

‘Wanting to keep it all to yourself, like the whole investigation’s down to you and you alone.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You know it yourself; I can see it just by looking at you.’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

He stood up to face her. They were no more than a foot apart, the office empty. ‘You know it,’ he repeated quietly.

‘Look, all I was trying to say …’

‘… was that you don’t want to share, and if that doesn’t sound like Rebus, I don’t know what does.’

‘You know your trouble?’

‘I get the feeling I’m about to find out.’

‘You’re too chicken, always playing by the rule-book.’

‘You’re a cop, not a private detective.’

‘And you’re chicken. Blinkers on and toeing the line.’

‘Chickens don’t wear blinkers,’ he spat back.

‘They must, because you do!’ she exploded.

‘That’s right,’ he said, seeming to calm a little, head bobbing. ‘That’s right: I always play by the rules, don’t I?’

‘Look, all I meant was—’

He grabbed her arms, pulled her to him, his mouth seeking hers. Siobhan’s body went rigid, then her face twisted away. The grip he had on her arms, she couldn’t move them. She’d backed up against the desk, stuck there.

‘A good close working partnership,’ a voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s what I like to see.’

Grant’s grip on her fell away as Rebus walked into the room.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he continued. ‘Just because I don’t indulge in these new-fangled methods of policing doesn’t mean I don’t approve.’

‘We were just …’ Grant’s voice died. Siobhan had walked round the desk and was lowering herself shakily into her chair. Rebus approached.

‘Finished with this?’ He meant the Farmer’s chair. Grant nodded and Rebus wheeled it back towards his own desk. He noticed that on Ellen Wylie’s desk, the autopsy reports were tied back up with string: conclusions reached, and of no further use. ‘Did the Farmer get you a result?’ he asked.

‘Hasn’t called back,’ Siobhan said, trying to control her voice. ‘I was just about to phone him.’

‘But you mistook Grant’s tonsils for the receiver, eh?’

‘Sir,’ she said, keeping her voice level, though her heart was pounding, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression about what happened here …’

Rebus held up a hand. ‘Nothing to do with me, Siobhan. You’re dead right. Let’s say no more about it.’