‘And to know she had at least a chance of solving each puzzle?’

‘I think maybe there were other players … not for me, but when Flip was playing. That would put them up against not just the clock, but each other.’

‘Quizmaster won’t say?’

‘No.’

‘I wonder why.’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’

Rebus rested his knuckles on the desk. ‘I was wrong. We need him after all, don’t we?’

She looked at him. ‘“We”?’

He held up his hands. ‘All I meant was, the case needs him.’

‘Good, because if I thought you were trying your usual stunt …’

‘Which is?’

‘Grabbing at every strand and calling it your own.’

‘Perish the thought, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re going to be talking to her friends …’

‘Yes?’

‘Would that include David Costello?’

‘We already talked to him. He said he didn’t know anything about the game.’

‘But you’re planning to talk to him again anyway?’

She almost smiled. ‘Am I so easy to read?’

‘It’s just that maybe I could tag along. I’ve got a few more questions for him myself.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you …’

That evening, John Balfour, accompanied by a family friend, made the formal identification of his daughter Philippa. His wife was waiting for him in the back of a Balfour’s Bank Jaguar driven by Ranald Marr. Rather than wait in the car park, Marr had driven the car around nearby streets, returning twenty minutes later – the length of time suggested by Bill Pryde, who was there to accompany Mr Balfour on the uneasy journey to the Identification Suite.

A couple of resolute reporters were on hand, but no photographers: the Scottish press still had one or two principles left. Nobody was going to ask questions of the bereaved; all they wanted was some colour for later reports. When it was over, Pryde gave Rebus a call on his mobile to let him know.

‘That’s us then,’ Rebus told the room. He was in the Oxford Bar with Siobhan, Ellen Wylie and Donald Devlin. Grant Hood had turned down the offer of a drink, saying he had to do a quick crash course in the media – names and faces. The conference had been moved to nine p.m., by which time it was hoped the autopsy would be complete, initial conclusions reached.

‘Oh, dear,’ Devlin said. He’d removed his jacket, and now bunched his fists into the capacious pockets of his cardigan. ‘What a terrible shame.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jean Burchill said, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she approached. Rebus was out of his chair, taking the coat from her, asking what she wanted to drink.

‘Let me buy a round,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘My invitation. That makes it my duty to get in the first round at least.’