It was easy to spot the crew from the leaving do: local chemists had probably sold out of aspirin, vitamin C and patented hangover cures. Dehydration seemed a major factor. Rebus had seldom seen so many bottles of Irn-Bru, Lucozade and Coke in the grip of so many pallid hands. The sobersides – who’d either not been to the party or who’d stuck to soft drinks – were gloating, whistling shrilly and slamming drawers and cupboards wherever possible. The main incident room for the Philippa Balfour inquiry was based at Gayfield Square – much closer to her flat – but with so many officers involved, space was an issue, so a corner of the CID room at St Leonard’s had been set aside. Siobhan was there now, busy at her terminal. A spare hard disk sat on the floor, and Rebus realised that she was using Balfour’s computer. She held a telephone receiver between cheek and shoulder, and typed as she talked.

‘No luck there either,’ Rebus heard her say.

He was sharing his own desk with three other officers, and it showed. He brushed the remnants from a bag of crisps on to the floor and deposited two empty Fanta cans in the nearest bin. When the phone rang he picked it up, but it was just the local evening paper trying to pull a flanker.

‘Talk to Press Liaison,’ Rebus told the journalist.

‘Give me a break.’

Rebus was thoughtful. Liaison had been Gill Templer’s speciality. He glanced across towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘Who’s in charge of PL anyway?’

‘DS Ellen Wylie,’ the journalist said.

Rebus said thanks and cut the connection. Liaison would have been a step up for Siobhan, especially on a high-profile case. Ellen Wylie was a good officer based at Torphichen. As a liaison specialist, Gill Templer would have been asked for advice on the appointment, maybe even made the decision herself. She’d chosen Ellen Wylie. He wondered if there was anything in it.

He rose from the desk and studied the paperwork now pinned to the wall behind him. Duty rosters, faxes, lists of contact numbers and addresses. Two photos of the missing woman. One of them had been released to the press, and it was duplicated in a dozen news stories, clipped and displayed. Soon, if she wasn’t found safe and well, space would be at a premium on the wall, and those news stories would be discarded. They were repetitious, inaccurate, sensationalised. Rebus lingered on one phrase: the tragic boyfriend. He checked his watch: five hours until the news conference.