At the end of an hour, Devlin decided that a previous incarnation had been closer. Thankfully, Tibbet had stored each and every version.

‘Yes,’ Devlin said. ‘It’s far from perfect, but I suppose it’s satisfactory …’ He made to rise from his chair.

‘While you’re here, sir …’ Rebus was reaching into a drawer. He pulled out a fat dossier of photographs. ‘Some pictures we’d like you to look at.’

‘Pictures?’

‘Photos of Ms Balfour’s neighbours, friends from university.’

Devlin was nodding slowly, but with no show of enthusiasm. ‘The process of elimination?’

‘If you feel you’re up to it, Professor.’

Devlin sighed. ‘Perhaps some weak tea to aid concentration … ?’

‘I think we can manage weak tea.’ Rebus looked over to Tibbet, who was busy with his mouse. As Rebus got closer, he saw a face on the screen. It was a pretty good resemblance of Devlin’s own, save for the addition of horns. ‘DC Tibbet will fetch it,’ Rebus said.

Tibbet made sure to save the image before rising from his chair …

By the time Rebus got back to St Leonard’s, news was coming in of another thinly veiled search, this time of the lock-up on Calton Road where David Costello garaged his MG sports car. The forensic unit from Howdenhall had been in, finding nothing of apparent consequence. They already knew Flip Balfour’s prints would be all over the car. No surprise either that some of her belongings – a lipstick, a pair of sunglasses – were in the glove compartment. The garage itself was clean.

‘No chest freezer with a padlock on it?’ Rebus guessed. ‘No trapdoor leading to the torture dungeon?’

Distant Daniels shook his head. He was playing errand boy, transferring paperwork between Gayfield and St Leonard’s. ‘A student with an MG,’ he commented, shaking his head again.

‘Never mind the car,’ Rebus told him. ‘That lock-up probably cost more than your flat.’

‘Christ, you could be right.’ The smile they shared was sour. Everyone was busy: highlights of yesterday’s news conference – with Ellen Wylie’s performance edited out – had been broadcast on the nightly news. Now, sightings of the missing student were being followed up, meaning lots of phone calls …

‘DI Rebus?’ Rebus turned towards the voice. ‘My office.’

And it was her office. Already, she was making it her own. Either the bunch of flowers on the filing cabinet had freshened the air, or she’d used something out of a can. The Farmer’s chair had gone, too, replaced by a more utilitarian model. Where the Farmer had often slouched, Gill sat straight-backed, as if poised to rise to her feet. She held a piece of paper out, so that Rebus had to get out of the visitor’s chair to reach it.

‘A place called Falls,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Me neither,’ she confided.