Which was precisely what he did find. He wondered idly about deliveries: how did the postman get on? Probably not something that concerned a man like John Balfour. He’d walked a full five minutes before the house came into view. Its walls had aged the colour of slate, an elongated two-storey Gothic confection with turrets either end. Rebus didn’t bother getting too close, couldn’t even be sure there’d be anyone home. He supposed there’d be security of some kind – maybe a police officer manning the phone – but if so it was low-key. The house looked on to a spread of manicured lawn, flowerbeds either side. There was what looked like a paddock beyond the far end of the main building. No cars or garages, probably out of sight around the back. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually being happy in such a dour setting. The house almost seemed to have a frown on it, a warning against gaiety and ill manners. He wondered if Philippa’s mother felt like an exhibit in some locked museum. Then he caught sight of a face at an upstairs window, but as soon as he saw it, it vanished again. Some apparition maybe, but a minute later the front door was hauled open and a woman came running down the steps and on to the gravel driveway. She was heading towards him, wild hair obscuring her face. When she tripped and fell, he ran forwards to help her, but she saw him coming and got quickly to her feet, ignoring her skinned knees and the chippings still sticking to them. A cordless phone had slipped from her hand. She picked it up.

‘Stay away!’ she shrieked. When she pushed the hair away from her face, he saw that it was Jacqueline Balfour. As soon as the words were out, she seemed to regret them, and put up two pacifying hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Just … just tell us what it is you want.’

And then he realised, realised that this stricken woman standing before him thought he was her daughter’s abductor.

‘Mrs Balfour,’ he said, raising his own hands, palms out towards her, ‘I’m a police officer.’

She had stopped crying finally, the pair of them seated on the front step, as if she were unwilling to let the house take possession of her again. She kept saying she was sorry, and Rebus kept saying he was the one who should be apologising.

‘I just didn’t think,’ he said. ‘I mean, I didn’t think anyone would be home.’

Nor was she alone. A WPC had come to the door, but had been ordered firmly by Jacqueline Balfour to ‘just go away’. Rebus had asked if she wanted him to go too, but she’d shaken her head.