‘I’m in one of the flats over Remnant Kings. I’ve got an eyewitness.’

‘Yes?’

‘He saw the whole thing. And he’s an art student.’

‘Yes?’

‘Come on, Bill. Do you want me to draw it for you?’

There was silence for a moment, then Pryde said ‘Ah’.

13

Rebus held the mobile to his ear as he walked through the hospital.

‘Joe Herdman’s put together a list,’ Bill Pryde was saying. ‘Rover 600 series, the newer Ford Mondeos, Toyota Celica, plus a couple of Nissans. Rank outsider is the BMW 5-series.’

‘It narrows things down a bit, I suppose.’

‘Joe says the Rover, Mondeo and Celica are favourites. He’s given me a few more details - chrome around the numberplates, stuff like that. I’m going to call our artist friend, see if anything clicks.’

A nurse was glaring at Rebus as he walked towards her.

‘Let me know what he says. Talk to you later, Bill.’

Rebus slipped the phone back into his pocket.

‘You’re not supposed to use those things in here,’ the nurse snapped.

‘Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry ...’

‘They can interfere with the machines.’

Rebus pulled up, colour leaving his face. ‘I forgot,’ he said. He put a shaking hand to his forehead.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine, fine. Look, I won’t do it again, okay?’

He started to move off. ‘You can rely on that.’

Rebus took a photocopy of Renton’s drawing from his pocket. Joe Herdman was a desk sergeant who knew everything about cars. He’d been useful before, turning a vague description into something more concrete. Rebus looked at the drawing as he walked. All the details were there: buildings in the background, the hedge, the onlookers. And Sammy, caught at the point of impact. She’d half-turned, was’ stretching out her hands as if she could push the car to a stop. But Renton had drawn fine lines issuing from the back of the car, representing the air being pushed, representing speed. Where there should have been a face, he had left a blank oval. The back half of the car was very clearly defined, the front a blur of disappearing perspective. Renton said he’d left out anything he couldn’t be sure of. He promised he hadn’t let his imagination fill in the blanks.

It was the face, or the lack of it ... it disturbed Rebus more than anything else in the picture. He drew himself into the scene, wondered what he’d have done. Would he have concentrated on the car, caught its licence plate? Or would his attention have been focused on Sammy? Which would have prevailed: cop instincts or fatherhood? Someone at the station had said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’

Not, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.’

Which brought it all down to two things: him - meaning the driver - and retribution, rather than her - the victim - and recovery.

‘I’d just have been another witness,’ Rebus said quietly. Then he folded the drawing and put it away.