‘Didn’t kill her.’

‘Nobody’s saying you did.’

‘No?’ He looked up again, directly into Rebus’s eyes.

‘No,’ Rebus assured him, that being his job after all.

‘The search warrant …’ Costello began.

‘It’s standard, any case of this kind,’ Rebus explained. It was, too: suspicious disappearance, you checked all the places the person might be. You went by the book: all the paperwork signed, clearance given. You searched the boyfriend’s flat. Rebus could have added: we do it because nine times out of ten, it’s someone the victim knows. Not a stranger, plucking prey from the night. It was your loved ones who killed you: spouse, lover, son or daughter. It was your uncle, your closest friend, the one person you trusted. They’d been cheating on you, or you’d cheated them. You knew something, you had something. They were jealous, spurned, needed money.

If Flip Balfour was dead, her body would turn up soon; if she was alive and didn’t want to be found, then the job would be more difficult. Her parents had appeared on TV, pleading with her to make contact. Police were at the family home, intercepting calls in case any ransom demand should arrive. Police were wandering through David Costello’s flat on the Canongate, hoping to turn up something. And police were here – in Flip Balfour’s flat. They were ‘babysitting’ David Costello – stopping the media from getting too close. This was what the young man had been told, and it was partly true.

Flip’s flat had been searched the previous day. Costello had keys, even to the alarm system. The phone call to Costello’s own flat had come at ten p.m.: Trist, asking if he’d heard from Flip, only she’d been on her way to Shapiro’s and hadn’t turned up.

‘She’s not with you, is she?’

‘I’m the last person she’d come to,’ Costello had complained.

‘Heard you’d fallen out. What is it this time?’ Trist’s voice had been slurred, ever-so-slightly amused. Costello hadn’t answered him. He’d cut the call and tried Flip’s mobile, got her answering service, left a message asking her to phone him. Police had listened to the recording, concentrating on nuance, trying to read falseness into each word or phrase. Trist had phoned Costello again at midnight. The group had been to Flip’s flat: no one home. They’d been ringing round, but none of her friends seemed to know anything. They waited until Costello himself arrived at the flat, unlocking it. No sign of Flip inside.