She was wailing now. Rebus went over to her chair, crouched in front of it, his hands resting on hers. ‘She’s all we’ve got, John. She’s all we ever had.’

‘She’s still here, Rhona. She’s right here.’

‘But why her? Why Samantha?’

‘I’ll ask him when I find him, Rhona.’

He kissed her hair, his eyes on Mickey. ‘And believe me, I’m going to find him.’

Later, when Ned Farlowe visited, Rebus took him outside. There was drizzle falling, but the air felt good.

‘One of the eye-witnesses,’ Rebus said, ‘thinks it was deliberate.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He thinks the driver meant to hit Sammy.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Look, there are two scenarios. One, he was intent on hitting a pedestrian, and anyone would have done. Two, Sammy was his target. He’d been following her, saw his chance when she crossed the road, only the lights were against him so he had to jump them. Then she was so close to the kerb he had to switch lanes.’

‘But why?’

Rebus stared at him. ‘This is Sammy’s dad and her lover, right? For the purposes of what follows, I want you to stop being a reporter.’

Farlowe stared back, nodded slowly.

‘I’ve had a few run-ins with Tommy Telford,’ Rebus said. He was seeing teddy bears: Pa Broon, and the one Telford kept in his car. ‘This might have been a message for me.’

Telford or Tarawicz: flip a coin. ‘Or for you, if you’ve been asking questions about Telford.’

‘You think my book ...’

‘I’m keeping an open mind. I’ve been working the Lintz case ... and so have you.’

‘Someone warning us off Lintz?’

Rebus thought of Abernethy, shrugged. ‘Then there’s Sammy’s job, working with ex-cons. Maybe one of them had a grudge.’

‘Jesus.’

‘She hadn’t mentioned anyone following her? Nobody odd in the area?’

Same question he’d put to the Petrecs, only different victim ...

Farlowe shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘until five minutes ago I thought this was an accident. Now you’re saying it was attempted murder. Are you sure?’

‘I’m trusting a witness.’

But he knew what Bill Pryde thought: a drunk driver, a crazy man. And a grandstand spectator who wore glasses and had read it wrong. He took out the drawing again.

‘What’s that?’

Rebus handed it over. ‘This is what someone saw last night.’

‘What kind of car is it?’

‘Rover 600, Ford Mondeo, something like that. Dark green. Ring any bells?’

Ned Farlowe shook his head, then looked at Rebus. ‘Let me help. I can ask around.’

‘One kid in a coma’s enough.’

The rest of the office had packed up and gone home. Now there were only Rebus and Sammy’s boss, a woman called Mae Crumley. The light from half a dozen desk-lamps illuminated the haphazard office, which was on the top floor of an old four-storey building off Palmerston Place. Rebus knew Palmerston Place: there was a church there where the AA held meetings. He’d been to a couple. He could still taste whisky at the back of his throat. Not that he’d had any so far today, not in daylight hours. But then he hadn’t phoned Jack Morton either.