‘I called in a favour at Howdenhall,’ Bill Pryde was saying, ‘they’ve promised to fingerprint it today.’

Rebus was studying the front passenger side. No dents, nothing to suggest this car had been used as a battering ram against his daughter.

‘I think maybe we need your permission, John.’

‘What for?’

‘Someone should go to the Infirmary and print Sammy.’

Rebus stared at the front of the car, then got out the drawing. Yes, she’d put out a hand. Her prints might be there, invisible to him.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘No problem. You think this is it?’

‘I’ll tell you once we print it.’

‘You steal a car,’ Rebus said, ‘then you hit someone with it, and leave it a couple of miles away.’

He looked around. ‘Ever been on this street before?’

Pryde shook his head. ‘Me neither.’

‘Someone local?’

‘I’m wondering why they stole it in the first place.’

‘Stick false plates on and sell it,’ Pryde suggested. ‘Spot of joyriding maybe.’

‘Joy-riders don’t leave cars looking like this.’

‘No, but they’d had a fright. They’d just knocked someone down.’

‘And they drove all the way over here before deciding to dump it?, ‘Maybe it was stolen for a job, turn over a petrol station. Then they hit Sammy and decide to jump ship. Maybe the job was this side of town.’

‘Or Sammy was the job.’

Pryde put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s see what the boffins turn up, eh?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘You don’t go for it?’

‘Look, it’s a feeling you’ve got, and that’s fair enough, but right now all you’ve got is that student’s word for it. There were other witnesses, John, and I asked them all again, and they told me the same thing: it looked like the driver lost control, that’s all.’

There was an edge of irritation to Pryde’s voice. Rebus knew why: long hours.

‘Will Howdenhall let you know tonight?’

‘They promised. And I’ll phone you straight away, okay?’

‘On my mobile,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m going to be on the move.’

He looked around. ‘There was something about Piershill Cemetery recently, wasn’t there?’

‘Kids,’ Pryde said, nodding. ‘They pushed over a load of gravestones.’

Rebus remembered now. ‘Just the Jewish headstones, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so.’

And there, sprayed on the wall near the gates, the same piece of graffiti: Won’t Anyone Help?

It was late evening, and Rebus was driving. Not the M90 into Fife: tonight, he was on the M8, heading west, heading for Glasgow. He’d spent half an hour at the hospital, followed by an hour and a half with Rhona and Jackie Platt, their guest for dinner at the Sheraton. He’d worn a fresh suit and shirt. He hadn’t smoked. He’d drunk a bottle of Highland Spring.

They were planning yet more tests on Sammy. The neurologist had taken them into his office and talked them through the procedures. There would probably be another operation at the end of it. Rebus could barely remember what the man had said. Rhona had asked for the occasional explanation, but these seemed no more lucid than what had gone before.