‘What about it, Mr Summers? Care to revise your version of events? What were you talking about with Mr Lintz? Was he looking for female company? I believe that’s your particular area of expertise.’

‘Inspector, I must insist ...’

‘Insist away, Mr Groal. It won’t change the facts. I’m just wondering what Mr Summers will say in court when he’s asked about the phone call, the meeting ... when the witnesses identify him. I’m sure he’s got a fund of stories, but he’ll have to find a bloody good one.’

Summers slapped the desk with both palms, half-rose to his feet. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Veins stood out on the backs of his hands.

‘I told you, I’ve never met him, never talked to him. Period, end of story, finito. And if you’ve got witnesses, they’re lying. Maybe you’ve told them to lie. And that’s all I’ve got to say.’

He sat back down, put his hands in his pockets.

‘I’ve heard,’ Rebus said, as though attempting to liven up a flagging conversation between friends, ‘that you run the more upmarket girls, the three-figure jobs rather than the gam-and-bam merchants.’

Summers snorted and shook his head.

‘Inspector,’ Groal said, ‘I can’t allow these accusations to continue.’

‘Was that what Lintz wanted? Did he have expensive tastes?’

Summers continued shaking his head. He seemed about to say something, but caught himself, laughed instead.

‘I would like to remind you,’ Groal went on, unheeded by anyone, ‘that my client has co-operated fully throughout this outrageous ...’

Rebus caught Pretty-Boy’s eyes, held their stare. There was so much he wasn’t telling ... so much he very nearly wanted to tell. Rebus thought of the length of rope in Lintz’s house.

‘He liked to tie them up, didn’t he?’ Rebus asked quietly.

Groal stood up, yanking Summers to his feet.

‘Brian?’ Rebus asked.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Groal said. He was stuffing his notepad into his case, closing its brass locks. ‘If you should find yourselves with any questions worth my client’s time, we’ll be pleased to assist. But otherwise, I’d advise you to ...’

‘Brian?’

PC Preston had turned off the tape recorder and gone to open the door. Summers picked up his car keys, slipped his sunglasses on.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it’s been educational.’

‘S&M,’ Rebus persisted, getting in Pretty-Boy’s face. ‘Did he tie them up?’

Pretty-Boy snorted, shook his head again. He paused as his lawyer led him past Rebus.

‘It was for him,’ he said in an undertone.

It was for him.

Rebus drove to the hospital. Sat with Sammy for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of meditation and head-clearing. Twenty reviving minutes, at the end of which he squeezed his daughter’s hand.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said.

Back at the flat, he thought of ignoring the answering-machine until after he’d had a bath. His shoulders and back were aching from the drive to Inverness. But something made him press the button. Jack Morton’s voice: ‘I’m on for a meeting with TT. Let’s meet after. Half-ten at the Ox. I’ll aim for that, but can’t promise. Wish me luck.’