‘Did she make any phone calls?’ he asked. Petrec shook his head. ‘What about strangers hanging around the street?’

‘I would have noticed. After Sarajevo, it’s hard to feel safe, Inspector.’

He opened his arms. ‘And here’s the proof nowhere’s safe.’

‘Did you tell anyone about Dunya?’

‘Who would we tell?’

Who knew? That was the question. Rebus did. And Claverhouse and Ormiston knew about the place, because Colquhoun had mentioned it.

Colquhoun knew. The nervy old Slavic Studies specialist knew ... On the way back to Edinburgh, Rebus tried phoning him at office and home: no reply. He’d told the Petrecs to let him know if Candice came back, but he didn’t think she’d be coming back. He remembered the look she’d given him early on when he’d asked her to trust him. I won’t be surprised if you let me down. Like she’d known back then that he’d fail. And she’d given him a second chance, waiting for him beside his car. And he’d let her down. He got back on his mobile and called Jack Morton.

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘for Christ’s sake, talk me out of having a drink.’

He tried Colquhoun’s home address and the Slavic Studies office: both locked up tight. Then he drove to Flint Street and looked for Tommy Telford in the arcade. But Telford wasn’t there. He was in the cafe’s back office, surrounded as usual by his men.

‘I want to talk to you,’ Rebus said.

‘So talk.’

‘Without the audience.’

Rebus pointed to Pretty-Boy. ‘That one can stay.’

Telford took his time, but finally nodded, and the room began to empty. Pretty-Boy stood against a wall, hands behind his back. Telford had his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair. They were relaxed, confident. Rebus knew what he looked like: a caged bear.

‘I want to know where she is.’

‘Who?’

‘Candice.’

Telford smiled. ‘Still on about her, Inspector? How should I know where she is?’

‘Because a couple of your boys grabbed her.’

But as he spoke, Rebus realised he was making a mistake. Telford’s gang was a family: they’d grown up together in Paisley. Not many Dunfermline supporters that distant from Fife. He stared at Pretty-Boy, who ran Telford’s prostitutes. Candice had arrived in Edinburgh from a city of bridges, maybe Newcastle. Telford had Newcastle connections. And the Newcastle United strip - vertical black and white lines was damned close to Dunfermline’s. Probably only a kid in Fife could make the mistake.

A Newcastle strip. A Newcastle car.

Telford was talking, but Rebus wasn’t listening. He walked straight out of the office and back to the Saab. Drove to Fettes - the Crime Squad offices - and started looking. He found a contact number for a DS Miriam Kenworthy. Tried the number but she wasn’t there.

‘Fuck it,’ he told himself, getting back into his car.

The A1 was hardly the country’s fastest road - Abernethy was right about that. Still, without the daytime traffic Rebus made decent time on his way south. It was late evening when he arrived in Newcastle, pubs emptying, queues forming outside clubs, a few United shirts on display, looking like prison bars. He didn’t know the city. Drove around it in circles, passing the same signs and landmarks, heading further out, just cruising.