It wasn’t a room after all, but a suite, with a connecting door to the suite next to it. Rebus caught a glimpse of Theresa Costello before her husband closed the door. The living area was compact: sofa, chair, table, TV … There was a bedroom off, and a bathroom down the hall. Rebus could smell soap and shampoo, and behind them the unaired smell you sometimes got in hotel rooms. There was a basket of fruit on the table, and David Costello, seated there, had just helped himself to an apple. He had shaved, but his hair was unwashed, lank and greasy. His grey T-shirt looked new, as did the black denims. The shoelaces on both his trainers were untied, either by accident or design.

Thomas Costello was shorter than Rebus had imagined him, a boxer’s roll to his shoulders when he walked. His mauve shirt was open-necked, and his trousers were held up with pale pink braces.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ‘sit yourselves down.’ He gestured towards the sofa. Rebus, however, took the armchair, while Wylie stayed standing. There was nothing for the father to do but sink into the sofa himself, where he spread his arms out either side of him. But a split second later he brought his hands together in a single sharp clap and exclaimed that they needed something to drink.

‘Not for us, Mr Costello,’ Rebus said.

‘You’re sure now?’ Costello looked to Ellen Wylie, who managed a slow nod.

‘Well then.’ The father once again arranged his arms either side of him. ‘So what can we be doing for you?’

‘I’m sorry we have to intrude at a time like this, Mr Costello.’ Rebus glanced towards David, who was showing about as much interest in proceedings as Wylie.

‘We quite understand, Inspector. You’ve got a job to do, and we all want to help you catch the sick bastard who did this to Philippa.’ Costello clenched his fists, showing he was ready to do some damage to the culprit himself. His face was almost wider than it was long, the hair cut short and brushed straight back from the forehead. The eyes were narrowed slightly, and Rebus guessed that the man wore contact lenses, and was ever fearful of them falling out.

‘Well, Mr Costello, we just have some follow-up questions …’

‘And do you mind me staying while you ask them?’

‘Not at all. It may even be that you can help.’

‘Go ahead then.’ His head snapped round. ‘Davey! Are you listening?’

David Costello nodded, ripping another bite from the apple.

‘The stage is all yours, Inspector,’ the father said.

‘Well, maybe I could start by asking David a couple of things.’ Rebus made a show of easing the notebook from his pocket, though he knew the questions already and didn’t think he’d need to write anything down. But sometimes the presence of a notebook could work a little magic. Interviewees seemed to trust the written word: if you had something in your notebook, then it had probably been verified. Additionally, if they thought their replies were going to be recorded, they gave each utterance more consideration, or else became flustered and blurted out the truth.