‘Can I help?’

‘I’m John Rebus. My wife . . . ’ She gave him a hard look. ‘Third bed along.’

Pointing ... Third bed along, curtains closed around it. He pulled the curtains open. Rhona lay on her side, face still flushed, hair sticking to her brow. And beside her, nuzzling into her, a tiny perfection with wisps of brown hair and black, unfocused eyes.

He touched the nose, ran a finger round the curves of an ear. The face twitched. He bent past it to kiss his wife.

‘Rhona ... I’m really sorry. They didn’t get the message to me until ten minutes ago. How did it . . . ? I mean . . . he’s beautiful.’

‘He’s a she,’ his wife said, turning away from him.

He didn’t want anyone else taking his work. It was his. He owned it; it owned him.

‘Look, John, you’re going to want some time off, right?’

‘I can handle things, sir.’

His gaze met the Farmer’s. ‘Please.’

Across the hall in the CID room he nodded as everyone came up to say how sorry they were. One person stayed at their desk - Bill Pryde knew Rebus was coming to see him.

‘Morning, Bill.’

Pryde nodded. They’d met in the wee small hours at the Infirmary. Ned Farlowe had been napping in a chair, so they’d stepped into the corridor to talk. Pryde looked tireder now. He had loosened the top button of his dark green shirt. His brown suit looked lived-in.

Thanks for sticking with it,’ Rebus said, drawing over a chair. Thinking: I’d rather have had someone else, someone sharper ...

‘No problem.’

‘Any news?’

‘A couple of good eyewitnesses. They were waiting to cross at the lights.’

‘What’s their story?’

Pryde considered his reply. He knew he was dealing with a father as well as a cop. ‘She was crossing the road. Looked like she was heading down Minto Street, maybe making for the bus stop.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘She was walking, Bill. Going to a friend’s in Gilmour Road.’

She’d said as much over the pizza, apologising that she couldn’t stay longer. Just one more coffee at the end of the meal ... one more coffee and she wouldn’t have been there at that moment. Or if she’d accepted his offer of a lift ... When you thought about life, you thought of it as chunks of time, but really all it was was a series of connected moments, any one of which could change you completely.

‘The car was heading south out of town,’ Pryde went on. ‘Looks like he ran a red light. Motorist sitting behind him seemed to think so.’

‘Reckon he was drunk?’

Pryde nodded. ‘Way he was driving. I mean, could be he just lost control, but in that case why didn’t he stop?’

‘Description?’

Pryde shook his head. ‘We’ve got a dark car, a bit sporty. Nobody caught the licence plate.’

‘It’s a busy enough street, must’ve been other cars around.’