Farlowe had asked a question nobody else had: ‘How about you? Are you all right?’

Rebus had looked around the hospital corridor. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

So they’d spent a couple of hours in one another’s company, not really saying very much at first. Farlowe smoked, and Rebus helped him empty the pack. He couldn’t reciprocate with whisky - there was nothing in the bottle - but he’d bought the young man several cups of coffee, since Farlowe had spent nearly all his money on the taxi from Shandon ...

‘Wakey-wakey, John.’

Rebus’s boss was shaking him gently. Rebus blinked, straightened in his chair.

‘Sorry, sir.’

Chief Superintendent Watson went around the desk and sat down. ‘Hellish sorry to hear about Sammy. I don’t really know what to say, except that she’s in my prayers.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Do you want some coffee?’

The Farmer’s coffee had a reputation throughout the station, but Rebus accepted a mug gladly. ‘How is she anyway?’

‘Still unconscious.’

‘No sign of the car?’

‘Not the last I heard.’

‘Who’s handling it?’

‘Bill Pryde started the ball rolling last night. I don’t know who’s taken it from him.’

‘I’ll find out.’

The Farmer made an internal call, Rebus watching him over the rim of his mug. The Farmer was a big man, imposing behind a desk. His cheeks were a mass of tiny red veins and his thin hair lay across the dome of his head like the lines of a well-furrowed field. There were photos on his desk: grandchildren. The photos had been taken in a garden. There was a swing in the background. One of the children was holding a teddy bear. Rebus felt his throat start to ache, tried to choke it back.

The Farmer put down the receiver. ‘Bill’s still on it,’ he said. ‘Felt if he worked straight through we might get a quicker result.’

‘That’s good of him.’

‘Look, we’ll let you know the minute we get something, but meantime you’ll probably want to go home ...’

‘No, sir.’

‘Or to the hospital.’

Rebus nodded slowly. Yes, the hospital. But not right this minute. He had to talk to Bill Pryde first.

‘And meantime, I’ll reassign your cases.’

The Farmer started writing. ‘There’s this War Crimes thing, and your liaison on Telford. Are you working on anything else?’

‘Sir, I’d prefer it if you ... I mean, I want to keep working.’

The Farmer looked at him, then leaned back in his chair, pen balanced between his fingers.

‘Why?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I want to keep busy.’

Yes, there was that. And ‘Sure you’re okay? There’s a cafe up the road.’

‘I’m fine, Bill.’

He looked around, took a deep breath. ‘Looks like offices behind the Spar, doubtful anyone would have been there. But there are flats above Remnant Kings and the bank.’

‘Want to talk to them?’

‘And the Spar and the kebab shop. You take the B&Bs and the houses, meet back here in half an hour.’