He shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s almost exactly what I’d have said, that’s all.’

She turned towards him, held his eyes. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

Rebus’s face cracked into a smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide,’ he said, turning the ignition.

The gates at Junipers were being protected by two uniforms, including Nicola Campbell, the WPC he’d met on his first visit. A lone reporter had parked his car on the verge across the road. He was drinking something from a flask, watched Rebus and Siobhan draw up at the gates, then went back to his crossword. Rebus wound down his window.

‘No more phone taps?’ he asked.

‘Not now there’s no kidnap,’ Campbell replied.

‘What about Brains?’

‘Back at the Big House: something came up.’

‘I see there’s one vulture.’ Rebus meant the reporter. ‘Any ghouls?’

‘A few.’

‘Well, a couple more may be on their way. Who’s up there?’ Rebus pointed through the gates.

‘DCS Templer, DC Hood.’

‘Planning the next press conference,’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Who else?’ Rebus asked Campbell.

‘The parents,’ she told him, ‘house staff … someone from the funeral home. And a family friend.’

Rebus nodded. He turned to Siobhan. ‘Wonder if we’ve talked to the staff: sometimes they see and hear things …’ Campbell was opening the gates.

‘DS Dickie interviewed them,’ Siobhan said.

‘Dickie?’ Rebus put the car into gear, crawled through the gates. ‘That clock-watching wee nyaff ?’

She looked at him. ‘You want to do it all yourself, don’t you?’

‘Because I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.’

‘Thanks very much.’

He took his eyes off the windscreen. ‘There are exceptions,’ he said.

Four cars were parked in the driveway outside the house, the same driveway Jacqueline Balfour had come stumbling down, thinking Rebus her daughter’s abductor.

‘Grant’s Alfa,’ Siobhan commented.

‘Chauffeuring the boss.’ Rebus guessed that the black Volvo S40 belonged to the funeral home, leaving a bronze Maserati and a green Aston Martin DB7. He couldn’t decide which belonged to Ranald Marr and which to the Balfours, and said as much.

‘The Aston’s John Balfour’s,’ Siobhan told him. He looked at her.

‘Is that a guess?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘It’s in the notes.’

‘You’ll be telling me his shoe size next.’

A maid answered the door. They showed their warrant cards and were ushered into the hall. The maid headed off without saying anything. Rebus had never really seen anyone walking on tiptoe before. No voices could be heard anywhere.

‘This place is straight out of Cluedo,’ Siobhan murmured, studying the wood panelling, the paintings of Balfours past. There was even a suit of armour at the foot of the stairs. A stack of unopened mail sat on a table next to the armour. The same door the maid had disappeared through was opening now. A tall, middle-aged and efficient-looking woman walked towards them. Her face was composed but unsmiling.