‘Which would be great,’ Rebus said, ‘if there was anything worth the effort.’

Bain nodded. ‘Lots of sympathy calls to start with, friends and family. Impressively low number of crackpots. Not being listed in the book probably helps.’

‘Just remember,’ Rebus warned, ‘the person we’re looking for might be a crackpot too.’

‘Probably no shortage of nutters around here,’ Campbell said, crossing her legs. She was seated on one of the room’s three sofas, copies of Caledonia and Scottish Field spread out in front of her. There were other magazines on a table behind her sofa. Rebus got the feeling they belonged to the house, and that she’d read each and every one of them at least once.

‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Been through the village yet? Albinos in the trees picking at banjos?’

Rebus smiled. Bain looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t see any,’ he said.

Campbell’s look said it all: that’s because in some parallel world, you’re up in the trees with them …

‘Tell me something,’ Rebus said, ‘at the press conference, Mr Balfour mentioned his mobile phone …’

‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ Bain said, shaking his head. ‘We’d asked him not to.’

‘Not so easy to trace a mobile call?’

‘They’re more flexible than land-lines, aren’t they?’

‘But still traceable?’

‘Up to a point. Lot of dodgy mobiles out there. We could trace one to an account, only to find it’d been nicked the previous week.’

Campbell suppressed a yawn. ‘You see how it is?’ she told Rebus. ‘Thrill after thrill after thrill …’