‘What I want to know is, how the hell did Telford land something like this?’

‘Good question,’ Claverhouse said.

‘It’s way out of his previous sphere, isn’t it?’

‘As far as we know.’

‘A chauffeur service for Jap companies ...’

‘Maybe he’s after the contract to supply their gaming machines.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Not your problem, John, remember that.’

‘I suppose so.’

There was a knock at the door. ‘Sounds like Ormiston.’

‘I doubt it. He’s just left.’

Rebus stared at the door. ‘Claverhouse, wait on the line.’

He left the receiver on the bedside table. The knock was repeated. Rebus motioned for Candice, who’d been flicking through a magazine on the sofa, to move into the bathroom. Then he crept up to the door and put his eye to the spyhole. A woman: the day-shift receptionist. He unlocked the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Letter for your wife.’

He stared at the small white envelope which she was trying to hand him.

‘Letter,’ she repeated.

There was no name or address on the envelope, no stamp. Rebus took it and held it to the light. A single sheet of paper inside, and something flat and square, like a photograph.

‘A man handed it in at reception.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Two, three minutes.’

‘What did he look like?’

She shrugged. ‘Tallish, short brown hair. He was wearing a suit, took the letter out of a briefcase.’

‘How do you know who it’s for?’

‘He said it was for the foreign woman. He described her to a T.’

Rebus was staring at the envelope. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he mumbled. He closed the door, went back to the telephone.

‘What is it?’ Claverhouse asked.

‘Someone’s just dropped off a letter for Candice.’

Rebus tore open the envelope, holding the receiver between shoulder and chin. There was a Polaroid photo and a single sheet, handwritten in small capitals. Foreign words.

‘What does it say?’ Claverhouse asked.

‘I don’t know.’

Rebus tried a couple of words aloud. Candice had emerged from the bathroom. She snatched the paper from him and read it quickly, then fled back into the bathroom.

‘It means something to Candice,’ Rebus said. ‘There’s a photo, too.’

He looked at it. ‘She’s on her knees gamming some fat bloke.’

‘Description?’

‘The camera’s not exactly interested in his face. Claverhouse, we’ve got to get her away from here.’

‘Hang on till Ormiston arrives. They might be trying to panic you. If they want to snatch her, one cop in a car isn’t going to cause much of a problem. Two cops just might.’

‘How did they know?’

‘We’ll think about that later.’

Rebus was staring at the bathroom door, remembering the locked cubicle at St Leonard’s. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Be careful.’

Rebus put down the receiver.

‘Candice?’

He tried the door. It was locked. ‘Candice?’

He stood back and kicked. The door wasn’t as strong as the one in St Leonard’s; he nearly took it off its hinges. She was seated on the toilet, a plastic safety razor in her hand, slashing it across her arms. There was blood on her t-shirt, blood spraying the white tiled floor.