‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered to himself, making for the crossing. He had to wait for the traffic to stop, and only caught sight of her when he reached Charlotte Square: she was over the other side, walking briskly. By the time he was on George Street, he’d lost her. He smiled to himself: some detective. Walked along as far as Castle Street, then doubled back. She could be in one of the shops or cafés. To hell with it. He unlocked the Saab and drove out of the hotel car park.

Some people had their demons. He got the feeling Ellen Wylie was among them. He was a good judge of character that way. Experience always told.

Back in St Leonard’s, he phoned a contact on a Sunday newspaper’s business pages.

‘How sound is Balfour’s?’ he asked, no preamble.

‘I’m assuming you mean the bank?’

‘Yes.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘There are rumours in Dublin.’

The journalist chuckled. ‘Ah, rumours, where would the world be without them?’

‘Then there’s no problem?’

‘I didn’t say that. On paper, Balfour’s is ticking along as ever. But there are always margins where figures can be buried.’

‘And?’

‘And their half-year forecast has been revised downwards; not quite enough to give big investors the jitters, but Balfour’s is a loose affiliation of smaller investors. They have a tendency towards hypochondria.’

‘Bottom line, Terry?’

‘Balfour’s should survive, a hostile takeover notwithstanding. But if the balance sheet looks murky at year’s end, there may have to be one or two ritual beheadings.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Who would go?’

‘Ranald Marr, I should think, if only to show that Balfour himself has the ruthlessness necessary for this day and age.’

‘No place for old friendships?’

‘Truth be told, there never was.’

‘Thanks, Terry. A large G and T will be waiting for you behind the bar of the Ox.’

‘It may wait a while.’

‘You on the wagon?’

‘Doctor’s orders. We’re being picked off one by one, John.’

Rebus commiserated for a couple of minutes, thinking of his own doctor’s appointment, the one he was missing yet again by making this call. When he put the phone down, he scribbled the name Marr on to his pad and circled it. Ranald Marr, with his Maserati and toy soldiers. You’d almost have thought he’d lost a daughter … Rebus was beginning to revise that opinion. He wondered if Marr knew how precarious his job was, knew that the mere thought of their savings catching a cold might spur the small investors on, demanding a sacrifice …

He switched to a picture of Thomas Costello, who’d never had to work in his life. What must that be like? Rebus couldn’t begin to answer the question. His parents had been poor all their lives: never owned their own house. When his father had died, he’d left four hundred quid for Rebus to split with his brother. A policy had taken care of the funeral. Even back then, pocketing his share of the notes in the bank manager’s office, he’d wondered … half his parents’ life savings represented one of his week’s wages.