‘Hello, John. Just thought I’d check, see if there’s been any word from BT.’

Not by the time Rebus had left the office. Message two: Abernethy.

‘Me again, bad penny and all that. Heard you’ve been trying to catch me. I’ll call you tomorrow. Cheers.’

Rebus stared at the machine, willing Abernethy to say more, to give some hint of a location. But the machine was on to the final message. Bill Pryde.

‘John, tried you at the office, left a message. But I thought you’d want to know, we’ve had final word on those prints. If you want to try me at home, I’m on ...’

Rebus took down the number. Two in the morning, but Bill would understand.

After a minute or so, a woman picked up. She sounded groggy.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is Bill there?’

‘I’ll get him.’

He heard background dialogue, then the receiver being hoisted.

‘So what’s this about prints?’ he asked.

‘Christ, John, when I said you could call, I didn’t mean the middle of the night!’ ‘It’s important.’

‘Yes, I know. How’s she doing anyway?’

‘Still out cold.’

Pryde yawned. ‘Well, most of the prints inside the car belong to the owner and his wife. But we found one other set. Problem is, looks like they belong to a kid.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘The size.’

‘Plenty of adults around with small hands.’

‘I suppose so ...’

‘You sound sceptical.’

‘More likely to be one of two scenarios. One, Sammy was hit by a joyrider. I know what you think, but it does happen. Two, the prints belong to whoever rifled the car after it was left at the cemetery.’

‘The kid who took the cassette player and tapes?’

‘Exactly.’

‘No other prints? Not even partials?’

‘The car was clean, John.’

‘Exterior?’

‘Same three sets on the doors, plus Sammy’s on the bonnet.’

Pryde yawned again. ‘So what about your grudge theory?’

‘Still holds. A pro would be wearing gloves.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. Not too many pros out there though.’

‘No.’

Rebus was thinking of the Weasel: I’m dealing with slime to catch a slug. Nothing he hadn’t done before, only this time there were personal reasons.

And he didn’t think there’d be a trial.

18

Breakfast was on Hogan: bacon rolls in a brown paper bag. They ate them in the CID room at St Leonard’s. A Murder Room had been established in Leith, and that’s where Hogan should have been.

Only he wanted Rebus’s files, and he knew better than to trust Rebus to deliver them.

‘Thought I’d save you the hassle,’ was what he said.

‘You’re a gentleman,’ Rebus answered, examining the interior of his roll. ‘Tell me, are pigs an endangered species?’

‘I lifted half a slice from you.’

Hogan pulled a string of fat from his mouth, tossed it into a bin. ‘Thought I was doing you a favour: cholesterol and all that.’

Rebus put the roll to one side, took a swig from the can of IrnBru - Hogan’s idea of a morning beverage - and swallowed. What was sugar consumption compared to HIV? ‘What did you get from the cleaning lady?’