A quick in and out, just as a favour. A big favour, a favour meriting repayment at some point down the line. A quick in and out � not even that actually. Breaking without entering. The alarm would kick in, though it always took time for anyone to respond. There might be cameras, but he was in his balaclava, the one that covered everything except the eyes. Gloved too, of course.

�You don�t have to go in,� he�d been told. �Leave that to us.�

The main door was almost too easy, though, and once it was unlocked, what was to stop him? Might even be a bit of petty cash lying around, a phone or an iPad, nothing anyone would bother about. He knew he had a couple of minutes. Maybe even five or ten.

But looking around the inside, it was just a nail bar. Not much to pocket other than manicure files and varnish. No cash register, just a card reader. If there�d been a computer, it had been unplugged and carried home for the night. Two more doors at the back of the room � toilet to the left and office to the right. The office was locked, too. Yale lock. He pulled off his gloves with his teeth so he could get a better grip on the smaller of his picks. Ten seconds was all it took. He crossed the threshold and switched his phone�s torch on. When he recognised what was sitting on the desk, he clenched his free hand, the one holding the pick. Clenched his teeth, too, and let out a hiss of breath between them.

Then he turned and ran, not noticing that the sharp little lock pick had pierced the flesh of his palm, a few tiny droplets of blood left behind on the fake wooden floor as he made good his escape...

Rebus sensed that something was wrong even before the alarm sounded. He was in the queue for breakfast, listening to the Wizard coughing up half a lung as usual. Nobody ever mentioned the hierarchy; it just happened naturally. Those liable to throw their weight around or go off on one ended up closest to the food while everyone else gathered behind in a ragged line. The Wizard was two places ahead of Rebus, which was fine. He probably wasn�t any older, but he looked it, and he�d been in prison longer than just about anyone else on the hall. His real name was Gareth Wallace, the nickname stemming from his long grey locks and longer beard. He arched forward as he coughed, not bothering to cover his mouth. New arrivals would make COVID jokes until they realised none were being heard for the first time. When Rebus turned to look behind him, he found Ratty there, seemingly more shrunken with each passing day. Ratty�s eyes, narrower even than usual, were for once not focused on the progress of the queue. He gave a slight nod when he realised he had Rebus�s attention.

There was a blur of movement as one of the white-shirted officers hit the alarm. The ringing was sudden and piercing, accompanied by other officers arriving, milling, conferring. Then the order � back to cells � followed by complaints and questions.

�Room service today,� an officer called Eddie Graves announced, beginning the process of shepherding the reluctant flock. �Wish I was as lucky.� Graves had a complaint for every occasion, as if fortune was forever favouring the inmates.

�How long but?� someone asked.

�Soon as we get you indoors,� Graves answered.

Though Ratty was a good eight inches shorter than Rebus, he had the knack of seeing and knowing everything. �It�s Jackie,� he told Rebus. Sure enough, two officers � Novak and Watts � filled Jackie Simpson�s doorway, faces close together, conversing in an undertone. Though other officers were forming a makeshift cordon, Rebus and several others had to pass this cell to get to their own.

�Keep moving,� came the order, hands flapping, arms outstretched. But as with a motorway crash, traffic inevitably slowed for a gawp. There were two more officers inside the cell. On the lower bunk Rebus could make out a prone and bloodied figure. Another man lay on the upper bunk and seemed in slightly better shape, in that the officers were trying to rouse him while ignoring his cellmate. Rebus remembered the name of the upper bunk � Mark Jamieson. He�d known him briefly on the outside. Not that he�d ever mentioned as much in here; Jamieson wouldn�t have thanked him.

�Come on, John,� Graves said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. �Don�t make things difficult.� They locked eyes for a moment. Graves�s jaw was tensed and some of the colour had drained from his face.

�It�s not in my nature to make things difficult,� Rebus assured him. �Unlike some.� He gestured over Graves�s shoulder to where Darryl Christie sat at one of the circular tables near the food station. Two officers were flanking him while he finished his breakfast, taking his time, savouring each drop. Neither officer seemed minded to interrupt.

�Darryl!� Graves called out. �Back to your cell, please!�

Turning his head slowly, Christie took in both Graves and Rebus. �Right you are, Michelle,� he called out. Michelle for Michelle Mone. Graves, the serial moaner, tried as ever not to show that the name irritated him. Rebus sensed that the grin Christie threw in Graves�s direction was meant not for the officer but for him.

Cammy Colson opened the car door and started climbing into the passenger seat.

�Sorry to keep you waiting,� he said.

Siobhan Clarke obliged with the briefest of smiles. Detective Sergeant Cameron Colson moved through life at the pace of a snail. Even now, having seated himself, his hand was creeping with painful slowness towards the handle. Watching him pull the door shut was like watching tectonic plates shifting. Clarke couldn�t bear the thought of his seat-belt manoeuvres, so she pressed the ignition button and got going.

�Who were you on the phone to?� he asked, pulling the belt across his chest.

Slow-moving, yes, but little escaped his attention.

�Personal,� was all she said, pulling out of the car park at St Leonard�s police station.

She hadn�t been in position long, didn�t really know her colleagues well enough as yet to think of them as a team. She knew anything she let slip to Cammy Colson was bound to get back to the others. They were all curious, of course � and wary. Curious because Clarke had been promoted to Professional Standards (the feared and infamous �Complaints�) but had then jumped ship and returned to CID. Too late, however, to return to her old station at Gayfield Square, where she�d already been replaced. St Leonard�s was not new to her � she�d worked there with John Rebus before his retirement � but she was new to it. The faces had changed, and those faces were wary precisely because she was linked, however tenuously, to Professional Standards. As a result, colleagues were careful how much they divulged. When she walked into a room, the small talk ceased. She could have told them the simple truth � that she hadn�t lasted at Professional Standards because she didn�t like it and felt it a waste of whatever talent she possessed. But would they believe her? Never apologise, never explain. She wasn�t sure who it was who first said that, but she was content to abide by it.

Maybe one night over drinks it would all come out. Except that none of them drank. Or if they did, they did it quietly at home. At the end of each shift, as jackets and coats went on, there was never mention of stopping for a quick one across the road. Then again, maybe everything was arranged by text message, keeping her in the dark. She didn�t think so, though; had even wandered into two or three pubs in the vicinity, finding no one she knew lurking there. It was a different generation, that was all. Younger than her; taking better care of themselves. Pete Swinton ran half-marathons for fun. Colson, despite his heft, was �vegetarian verging on vegan�. Trisha Singh did yoga and Pilates. And all of them worked under Detective Chief Inspector Bryan Carmichael, who, as well as looking young enough still to be at college, swam every morning in the nearby Commonwealth Pool, having been on the national team as a schoolboy. Though she tried not to feel nostalgic, she missed the old days with John Rebus, crossing the occasional line to get results. �The bad old days�, Carmichael would no doubt call them, but they�d been good days too.

She thought about Rebus often, between the weekly visits and the occasional monitored catch-up by phone. His weight had been dropping, the skin loose around his jaw and neck, and he�d lost what little colour his face had once had. He managed to joke about his incarceration, but they both knew Saughton would always be a dangerous place for an ex-cop, even one with the guile and instincts of John Rebus. His imprisonment had brought Clarke closer to his daughter, Sammy, and granddaughter, Carrie. They often walked Rebus�s mutt Brillo together, finding things to talk about that didn�t always involve the man himself.

By the time Clarke stopped at the first set of red lights, Colson had got his seat belt fastened.

�So what do you reckon?� he asked.

She took a moment to gather herself. �Met someone at a party or in town, head over heels for forty-eight hours, rest of the world just disappears.�

�So she�ll be back any time?�

�Here�s hoping.�

They were talking about a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Jasmine Andrews, who had left school for home the previous afternoon but not arrived. By 6.30 p.m., wondering where she was, her mother had phoned Jasmine�s best friend, Carla, who�d told her Jasmine wasn�t there and wasn�t picking up texts or answering her phone. Nor had she been active on social media.

Jasmine�s mother had ended the call and made another to her husband, a business developer who was on a job down south. He hadn�t answered and she�d left no message. Instead, she�d headed out in her car to trawl the streets around the neighbourhood and beyond. She�d paused at some point and texted Carla, asking her to keep trying to track Jasmine down. When her husband phoned her an hour or two later, she�d burst into tears and then, on his advice, called the police.

That had been last night. Jasmine still hadn�t come home, and her disappearance was out of character. If she was with someone, it wasn�t any of her gang of friends. Either that or someone was covering for her. She�d left no note, taken no obvious clothes. It would take time for them to check whether she was using her bank card for purchases or withdrawals. Time, too, for them to scour CCTV footage from street cameras, public transport and shops. Jasmine�s mother, Helena, had been asked if they�d fallen out, or whether Jasmine had seemed herself recently. Did she have a boyfriend? (No.) Any ex-boyfriends? (Just the one, never very serious.) Her bedroom had been visited, a few photographs borrowed, her contact details noted. Service providers would be asked for their help. Jasmine�s friends had already alerted the online world, and their concern had been picked up by the media. The Evening News had run the story on their website, and Jasmine�s picture would be in the next physical edition of the newspaper. She was a fresh-faced teenager with a winning smile and long blonde hair. Everyone was interested.

Clarke and Colson were on their way to Jasmine�s school in Marchmont, where the head teacher was rounding up all the pupils who knew her. Though Clarke had told Colson she reckoned Jasmine had just met someone and was hanging out with them, she wasn�t sure she believed it. It was a best-case scenario, something to say to the worried parents so they wouldn�t lose their minds. She had visited the Andrews home, a Victorian semi-detached on a leafy street in the Grange. She had watched Helena Andrews just about fail to raise a mug of tea to her mouth without spilling it, due to the tremble in both hands. She owned and ran a designer shop in nearby Bruntsfield. Her sister was due to arrive soon from Glasgow to be with her. Her husband probably couldn�t get home until late evening or even the next day.

�Jas is only fourteen,� she kept saying between sniffles. �You�ve got to bring her back.�

�Of course we�ll do that,� Cammy Colson had said, beginning the onerous process of reaching across the table for his own mug.

A member of staff was waiting for them at the gates to the car park, indicating the bay for visitors. She guided them into the modern building and up a flight of stairs to the only other floor, where she opened a classroom door and signalled for them to enter. The head was waiting and shook hands, introducing herself as Tara Lindsay.

�Do you want me to stay, or...�

Clarke looked at the thirty or so pupils, seated behind desks, dressed in a uniform of white shirt, yellow-and-red-striped tie, dark blazer with the school�s crest on the left breast. Charcoal-coloured trousers for the boys, clingy black skirts and dark tights for the girls. Knowing they were in the presence of authority figures, they all wore looks Clarke had seen before, frightened that their minds could be read and their secrets revealed, desperate that their body language or a slip of the tongue didn�t give them away.

�Sit yourself down,� she told the head. Colson was resting his backside against the edge of what would be the teacher�s desk and had started folding his arms. Clarke placed herself in front of the group of teenagers and took a deep breath.

�My name�s Detective Inspector Clarke and this is Detective Sergeant Colson. I want to thank you for coming along. As you know, your friend Jasmine hasn�t been seen since yesterday afternoon and we all want to see her back here safe and sound. You probably knew her better than anyone, and that�s why we need your help. Anything you can tell us, no matter how trivial you might think it, could be of help.� She broke off as a hand went up.

�Is Jas in trouble? When she�s found, I mean.�

Clarke focused on the girl. �That�s a good point. She needs to know she�s not in any kind of trouble. I can�t stress that enough. Her mum and dad just want to give her a hug. Whatever the reason might be for her leaving, there�s going to be no punishment. Can any of you think why she might�ve wanted to disappear, even for a short time?�

The pupils looked at each other, some of them offering shrugs.

�Anybody she might�ve gone to visit, out of town maybe? Someone she knew online?� Above the sea of shaking heads, Clarke saw two girls at the back share a look.

�You�re all keeping a lookout for her on TikTok, Snapchat and whatever, aye?� Colson piped up.

�She uses WhatsApp too,� one girl replied.

�Everybody online knows she�s gone,� another added, �but nobody knows where.�

�Can any of you think of places she might have headed? Maybe somewhere you all congregate that none of your parents know about?�

The room shared a variety of glances, twitches and shrugs. The silence stretched until Clarke broke it.

�Is there a Craig Fielding in the room?� she asked.

�He�s the year above, but he�s not in today,� a boy answered, his voice much deeper than his skinny frame would suggest. There were wisps of a nascent moustache either side of his upper lip.

�Is he off sick or what?� Clarke addressed this to Tara Lindsay, who said she would check, taking out her phone and starting to text.

�Craig and Jasmine split ages back,� one of the girls at the back announced.

�Were they both okay about that?� Clarke enquired, receiving a shrug in response.

�You think someone�s taken her?� another girl interrupted, voice shaking slightly. �Do we need to be extra careful?�

�There�s nothing to suggest that,� Colson drawled. �But it always pays to keep your wits about you � cars or strangers following you, maybe tailing you home...�

Seeing the fearful looks on a few faces, Clarke butted in. �I�m sure there�s nothing to worry about, but we all want to know that she�s safe and not in any sort of bother.�

Lindsay was reading an incoming text. �Feeling a bit off-colour. His mother phoned the office this morning.�

�We�ll need his contact details,� Clarke stated. She turned to the whiteboard, picked up the marker pen next to it and wrote down a phone number and email address. �Keep a note of these,� she said to the pupils. �You can talk to us confidentially, any time day or night.� They all got out their phones and started entering the details, mostly by dint of photographing the board. Clarke turned to Tara Lindsay. �Maybe you can make sure the staff get the same message?�

�Absolutely.�

She turned again and addressed the classroom. �Thank you for coming. I think that�s enough for now.� She watched them start to gather up their bags. �Oh, one thing � is there someone here called Carla?�

The two girls at the back shared another look. One of them raised her hand with some reluctance.

�If you could maybe stay behind a couple of minutes,� Clarke told her.

Tara Lindsay was entering the information from the whiteboard into her own phone. She came and stood next to Clarke as the teenagers filed from the room. When she spoke, she kept her voice low.

�I wouldn�t say Jasmine�s super-bright or super-confident. She�s one of the quiet ones. A camp follower, you might say. Never gives us any trouble or cause for concern, unlike some others I could name.� Clarke got the feeling those �others� might include Carla and her confidante, who were having a whispered conversation as they dawdled. The eyes of those making their exit were on them both, and some colour had risen to Carla�s cheeks.

�We�ll talk to Carla in private,� Clarke told the head, �if that�s okay with you. We can find our own way out when we�re done.�

Lindsay seemed reluctant, but eventually nodded her agreement. She left the room just ahead of Carla�s pal, Carla herself sitting back down in the same spot on the back row of desks. Clarke didn�t mind letting the girl win that one. She walked from the front of the classroom, Colson a few steps behind. When the pair of them came to a stop, they loomed over the seated figure.

�What�s your last name, Carla?� Clarke asked.

�Morris.�

�Where�s that accent from?�

�Bradford. We moved here four years ago.�

�Is that how long you�ve known Jasmine?�

�Pretty much.�

�We hear from her mum that you�re her best friend � is she yours?�

�Jas is all right. A good laugh. We like the same music.�

�If she wanted to confide in anyone, it would be you, though, yes?�

�Maybe.�

Clarke studied the girl. She was clear-skinned, still carrying some puppy fat but readying for adulthood. Her eyes were filled with a degree of knowledge but maybe even more bravado. Shoulder-length dark hair and a bit of eyeliner. Her school tie boasted an oversized knot, the top button of her white shirt undone. Clarke tried to think back to her own schooldays and to girls like Carla, but too much time had passed.

�Who was that next to you?� Colson asked, pointing towards the vacated chair.

�Stephanie.�

�Would she be your best friend, Carla?�

The girl looked at him for a brief second. �I wish I could help you, but I can�t.�

�No clue as to what Jasmine might be doing? Where she could be hiding?�

�She was fine last time I saw her. We shared YouTube clips two nights back. She didn�t say anything about...� She twirled a finger in the air, indicating anything and everything.

�What sort of clips?�

�Music videos... funny animals... just things she thought I�d like.�

�Did she do that a lot?�

�Most nights.�

�Things she thought you�d like � so it was mostly one-way traffic? Would you say she�s a needy sort of friend?�

When Carla met Colson�s eyes, it was as if she were pulling up a drawbridge. �I�ve told you everything I can.� Her voice was low but determined.

Clarke held up her phone and waved it. �Can we have your contact details, Carla? I�m not saying there�ll be more questions, but just to be on the safe side.�

The girl considered for a moment, then reeled off her number.

�Thanks for that,� Clarke said.

�So I can go?�

�You can go,� Colson agreed.

Carla lost no time grabbing her bag and making for the door.

�No current boyfriend?� Clarke called out to her.

�Me or Jas?�

�Jasmine.�

�Not that I know of.�

�And how about you � you�re not seeing Craig Fielding, are you?�

The girl answered with a roll of her eyes as she left.

�Craig Fielding?� Colson asked when the door had closed.

�Just something about Carla and her mate Stephanie. Something they didn�t want us to know.� Clarke gave a twitch of the mouth and approached the whiteboard. �I think I�ll leave that up,� she said.

�When you started writing, I could sense you enjoying it. Ever plan to go into teaching when you were younger?�

�I don�t think so.� She turned towards him. �We need to speak with Craig Fielding at some point.�

�I suppose.�

Clarke glared at him. �You suppose?�

�Case is neither one thing nor the other just now. If she waltzes back home later today, we�ve been wasting our time.�

�You�re saying you can�t really get motivated until she�s lying on a slab in the autopsy suite?�

�Christ, Shiv, nobody wants that.�

�It�s Siobhan, DS Colson.�

He started to hold up his hands in a show of surrender. �Just answer me this, then � do you think she�s been abducted, or do you think she�s a hormonal teen who�s gone off in some kind of strop?�

Clarke thought for a moment. �You�ve got a point � we need someone to start going through the register of sex offenders. Anyone local we should know about, maybe only recently back on the streets.� She saw the look he was giving her. �We need to cover every contingency. That way we�re better prepared if bad news comes.� Her tone became more conciliatory. �Maybe you�re right and she�s gone walkabout. Maybe she really is about to waltz back home. But if she hasn�t, our boss is going to want to know that we were on top of it from the get-go.� She paused. �Yes or no?�

The fight seemed to drain out of Colson. �Fine, yes, of course you�re right. So the ex-boyfriend and then the paedophiles?�

�Not forgetting Strawberry Switchblade.� Colson looked blank. �I mean Carla and Stephanie.�

�Strawberry Switchblade?�

�Before your time, Cammy,� Clarke said, trying not to show how painful it was to admit that.

Esson and Mulgrew went to the prison straight after the autopsy. Both were sombre during the twenty-minute drive. It always took time to adjust, time for those sights, sounds and smells to dissipate. Esson was grateful that Mulgrew seemed to feel the same, steering his sleek silver Audi as though it were a hearse. He had switched on some music, which they listened to in silence for the first five or so minutes.

�So who is this?� Esson eventually enquired.

�Pentangle.�

�Is it recent?�

He took his eyes off the road briefly. �Late sixties. Seriously, you�ve never heard of them?� She shook her head. �How about the Fairports then � Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson?�

�Sorry.�

�Incredible String Band? They were from Edinburgh.�

�But then so were the Bay City Rollers.� She watched a sliver of a smile appear on Mulgrew�s face. A handsome face � Siobhan Clarke had used the term �hunky�, and that wasn�t far off the mark. He was fair-haired, broad-chested, with just a bit of excess weight around the middle. And he was single. �You�d get on great guns with John Rebus,� she told him. �He has a lot of stuff from back then.�

�I hope someone�s looking after it for him while he�s inside.�

�You can probably ask him.� Esson stared out of the passenger-side window. �So what did you get up to last night? Anything exciting?�

�Not much. What about you?�

�Much the same.�

They had stopped at a red light and he was fussing with his phone. The music broke off, a new tune replacing it.

�This is Bert Jansch,� he said.

�Not easy to dance to,� she commented. Mulgrew started drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

�We could do with finding the weapon,� he said after a couple of minutes, and suddenly they were back in the autopsy suite, being shown the ragged two-inch gash. Would the wound have gushed? It was the pathologist�s opinion that it would. So blood on the attacker�s clothing? Almost certainly, though the towel pressed into the victim�s mouth had caught a lot of it. Staff lockers would be checked again � forensically this time. And every bin on the prison grounds, the prison whose main car park they were already approaching.

They parked next to the other visitors, the music ceasing.

�I liked it,� Esson offered.

�I can lend you some CDs.�

�And something to play them on?�

Mulgrew shook his head, almost pityingly, as he locked the car. The pair of them stood for a moment studying the prison�s high walls. They shared a look and pulled back their shoulders. It was time.

Being part of a major incident team didn�t make for shortcuts here, though they did have a special dispensation to hang on to their phones � everyone else�s got locked in a box in the reception area. They signed in and took their temporary passes, then went through the airport-style screener. An officer had been assigned to them. She wore more make-up than Esson and moved casually, sure of herself in these surroundings. Door after door unlocked then locked again behind them, corridors and stairs, cameras watching from the ceilings. A couple of prisoners were running a cleaning machine over one of the floors. They greeted the officer by her first name.

�Bit casual,� Mulgrew commented.

�I get ma�am sometimes,� she replied. �Beats being called slag or rug-muncher.�

�I suppose it does,� he agreed.

They were being led to the pastoral care office, which had been set aside for them for the duration. There were positivity posters on the walls and stacks of pamphlets and feel-good books with titles like Living Your Best Life. The desk drawers and filing cabinet were locked, but there was a tea and coffee station, supplemented by a variety box of biscuits with a note attached inviting them to �Help yourselves!�

Instead of bringing in cumbersome recording equipment, they were relying on their phones for audio and video. Mulgrew had brought his charger and a small tripod. The tripod had been checked over by the officer manning the X-ray machine.

�I want to see it again when you come out,� he had warned, adding it to his list. His tone hadn�t been friendly. Esson reckoned she knew why. They were here to ask questions of his colleagues � because those colleagues had become their chief suspects.

Pastoral Care was in a large modern extension to the original jail. The adjacent offices housed the further education unit, which, the signage made clear, was run by staff from Fife College. They�d passed the medical unit too, which was NHS. A large meeting room, meantime, was where charities could run workshops and open houses, dealing with topics such as drug addiction, alcoholism and self-harm.

A third chair had been added to the furnishings in Pastoral Care, which made for cramped conditions. Esson got busy brewing up while Mulgrew set up his phone. Hers would be used for audio backup. They�d had a meeting with the fiscal depute, who had advised on protocols. Normally witnesses would be interviewed in a room at St Leonard�s. The fiscal had warned them to keep things as similar to that format as possible. Nobody wanted to aid and abet a mistrial, or � worse � make a mistake that led to no trial at all.

�We�re not bloody kids,� had been Mulgrew�s remark afterwards. And yes, the talk had seemed at times more like a lecture given by a sceptical teacher. All the same, they were doing as they were told. By the time Chris Novak arrived, giving three solid raps on the door and waiting to be invited in, they were settled behind the desk, arms and thighs almost touching.

�Officer Novak,� Esson said, �please take a seat.� She introduced herself and Mulgrew. The offer of a drink was turned down.

Novak had heavy-set features and cropped hair stiffened with product. Tattoos covered both arms, and he seemed almost ready to burst from his tight white shirt.

�No rest for the wicked,� Esson commented, studying a sheet of paper in front of her. �You worked the night shift when the incident happened, and then the day shift straight after � and here you are on duty again.�

�I got plenty of kip last night.�

�Do you do a lot of double shifts?� Mulgrew asked, adjusting the tripod slightly.

�We�re short of staff. Plus the extra cash is useful.�

�What do you spend your money on?�

Novak glared at Mulgrew. �How is that any of your business?�

�Just making conversation. Maybe you like cars, or holidays, or nights out...�

�You know about my car,� Novak stated. He sat with his legs apart, meaty hands clamped to his knees.

�Any idea why someone wanted to turn it into a bonfire?�

�Wasn�t just me.�

�Yes, it�s been happening at other jails. Targeted, do you think?�

�More likely random.�

�So no specific grudges against you in here?� Esson asked, watching Novak give a slow shake of the head. �Sure about that?�

�I know where this is going. Okay, some prisoners I get on with better than others. Every officer in here will tell you the same. Clashes of personality, bams who want to prove themselves, guys who should be in a psych ward rather than the nick.�

�Which was it with Jackie Simpson?�

�He kept trying to get my goat up. Said he knew where I lived, and he�d be paying a visit when he got out.�

�You�ve probably heard similar before?�

�Plenty of times.�

�And did Mr Simpson manage to get your goat up?�

Novak locked eyes with Esson. �Not even close. There was plenty of verbal between us, but it never went further than that.� He leaned in towards the desk, chair creaking under the strain. �I know how it must look from the outside, but no way any of the officers in here did what was done. Must�ve happened just before the cells were locked for the night. A quick in-and-out.�

�You lock up without checking?� Mulgrew asked. Novak turned his attention to him.

�Not usually, but sometimes maybe someone gets sloppy, or they�re distracted by something.�

�Who locked Mr Simpson�s cell.�

Novak shook his head. �Can�t remember.�

Esson checked her notes. �Witnesses say it was an officer called Valerie Watts.�

Novak�s eyes remained blank. �If you say so.�

�It would be hard to miss a bloodied figure on the lower bunk.�

�Not if they were covered with a blanket or something.� Novak shifted slightly in his seat.

�Pity about that one wonky camera,� Mulgrew said.

�We reported it over a week ago.�

�Who would know it wasn�t functioning?�

�Everyone.�

�Prisoners as well as staff?�

�They had a guy up a ladder trying to fix it. That sort of thing doesn�t go unnoticed.�

�I suppose not.�

�Funny, though, isn�t it,� Esson added, �that a single row of cells was left without surveillance, and someone turns up dead in one of them?�

�Depends on your sense of humour.�

�But there was nothing else unusual about that night, no feeling that anything was about to happen?�

�Same old same old � after bang-up and lights-out, you do a bit of patrolling, and when you�re not doing that, you tend to bounce between the control room and the break room.�

�We noticed checks on a few of the cells during the night.�

Novak nodded. �Sometimes a prisoner can�t sleep. They get restless and noisy, and out of boredom they might call for us.�

�Nothing like that from the deceased�s cell, though?�

Novak shook his head, sat back and folded his arms, biceps bulging.

�Someone will talk,� Esson went on with calm certainty. �Someone always does.�

Novak turned his attention to Mulgrew�s phone, speaking directly towards it. �This is a waste of time, and whenever you march one of us in here, you�re leaving us short elsewhere. Anything kicks off, it�s your fault.� He shifted his gaze to Mulgrew and Esson. �We�re done here, aye?� He pressed his hands against the chair arms, readying to rise.

Esson studied another sheet of paper. �Is Valerie Watts on duty today, do you know?�

�Day off.�

�That�s unusual.�

Halfway to his feet, Novak stopped.

�It�s just,� Esson went on, �the days she�s on duty seem to match yours, even the same double shifts.�

�So what?�

She just shrugged, waiting for him to say something else. But instead he straightened up and marched out, while Mulgrew ended the recording.

�Is Novak married?� he asked Esson.

�Two kids.�

�And Watts?�

�Not so much.�

There was a gentle knocking at the door. It opened far enough for Howard Tennent�s head to appear around it.

�Everything all right?� he enquired.

�Fine, sir, thank you,� Mulgrew said.

�I just passed Chris Novak; he didn�t look exactly full of the joys. A prison only works when the staff are engaged and focused. Otherwise you�re inviting trouble.�

�Mr Novak told us much the same. But we still have a job to do.�

�Of course, of course.�

�And normally we�d be dragging your staff to our own station for interview...�

The governor held up his hands. �I appreciate you�re trying to minimise the disruption, but everyone knows you�re questioning my POs, and they�re starting to put two and two together.�

�Sooner we find out what happened, sooner things will start to calm down.�

�Only if it turns out a fellow resident is to blame,� Tennent cautioned.

�I can see how you�d like that to be the case,� Esson said, �despite the odds being against it.�

The governor�s face fell a little further. He made a noise at the back of his throat and retreated into the hallway.

�Reckon we should be questioning him?� Mulgrew asked.

�He�s going to take his officers� side, whatever happens.�

�So what now?�

�Biscuits,� Christine Esson replied.

Clarke and Colson sat in the car outside the Andrews house. DCI Carmichael had gathered the team together first thing. Time had passed and Jasmine still hadn�t shown herself. The case was therefore being upgraded. A media briefing had taken place and enough uniforms had been mobilised to enable a sweep of the local area. Jasmine�s phone provider and bank were being pressured to hurry up with details of recent usage. A press photographer had stopped his car just long enough to take a few shots of the family home from the pavement. Spotting the two detectives, he�d had the good grace to look slightly sheepish as he dived back into his car and drove off.

Clarke and Colson were sitting there digesting what they�d just been told during a phone call from family liaison.

�I sensed a bit of friction,� the liaison officer had said. �Not the most obviously loving and close of couples. She sat on a chair, him the other side of the room on the arm of the sofa, as if there was somewhere else he needed to be. Bit of sniping and snark back and forth. I�d say he blames her for whatever Jasmine�s done. She had a go at him for the amount of time he spends away...�

Colson shifted in the passenger seat. �So we don�t put them in front of any journalists just yet,� he suggested.

Clarke was still staring at her blank phone screen when she heard the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of the house. No one was visible behind the living-room window, but Colson had already made his decision and was out of the car. It was the fastest she had ever seen him move. Helena Andrews� Nissan Leaf was plugged into a charger on the driveway. Behind it was her husband�s Mercedes, its interior a riot of sandwich wrappers, paperwork and crushed coffee cups. Clarke passed both vehicles and caught up with Colson as he was trying the front door, which rattled but stayed locked. He was raising his fist to give it a thump when the door flew open.

James Andrews was tall and looked in decent shape for his age, despite the exhausted eyes and stubble. His shirt was untucked, and he wore socks but no shoes.

�What?� he growled.

In answer, Colson held up his ID. The air went out of Andrews, and he scraped a hand through unruly salt-and-pepper hair.

�It�s the police,� he called over his shoulder to his wife.

�Everything all right here, sir?� Colson enquired.

�Apart from our missing daughter, you mean?�

�We thought we heard voices.�

Helena Andrews had appeared by her husband�s side, curling a hand around his arm in a show of apparent solidarity.

�We were in different rooms,� she tried by way of explanation. �I think maybe the pair of us should get our hearing checked � we�re always needing to shout.� Her smile would have convinced some, though her heart didn�t really seem to be in the deception.

�Mind if we come in?� Clarke asked.

�I forget your names,� Helena said, cocking her head.

�DI Clarke and DS Colson,� Clarke reminded her.

�Is there any news?�

�We�d like to take another look at Jasmine�s bedroom, if that�s all right.�

�Don�t you need a search warrant or something?� James Andrews asked.

�Would you like us to fetch one? It�ll take time, and in cases like this, time is the one thing that�s often against us.�

�What does that mean?�

�Just that if she wants to disappear, the longer she�s given for that to happen, the less chance we have of finding her.� Clarke paused. They still weren�t inside the house and she directed her gaze to the doorstep, hoping they�d take the hint. Helena tugged on her husband�s arm.

�Whatever we can do to help,� she said.

�That all right with you, Mr Andrews?� Colson demanded.

�Of course,� Andrews mumbled, taking a step back.

Clarke and Colson brushed past him and entered the living room. An open bottle of wine, mostly gone, sat on the coffee table.

�Last night,� Helena Andrews explained. �Shouldn�t have, but, well, you know...�

�You think there might be some clue in her bedroom?� her husband interrupted. �You�ve already got her computer and iPad.�

�But no passwords as yet. I don�t suppose you can help with that, Mr Andrews?�

Andrews shrugged and shook his head, then began to tuck his shirt in.

�Maybe we could just sit down for a minute,� Clarke added. She watched as Helena settled into her regular chair and James perched on the edge of the sofa across the room, maximum distance attained.

�How often do you talk to Jasmine when you�re away from home, Mr Andrews?� Colson asked.

�Call me James, please. We FaceTime once a week.�

�Most weeks,� his wife corrected him. �Sometimes you�re too busy.�

�I work long days,� James explained to the two detectives. �Whatever it takes to put food on the table and clothes on my family�s backs.�

�You�re a business developer?�

�That�s right.�

�Meaning?�

�Meaning I help companies grow, develop, modernise.�

�And how long do these trips last?� Clarke asked.

�Four to six weeks, sometimes longer. I get weekends off, mostly, but the thought of the drive north...�

�You poor thing.� Helena had folded her arms and crossed her legs, one foot wagging furiously.

�I�ve learned my lesson, though.� Her husband�s voice had hardened. �Seems I can�t depend on things not to fall apart here when I�m elsewhere.�

Clarke watched as husband and wife continued to refuse to make eye contact with one another. �You told us your sister was coming to stay?� she said to Helena.

�Yes, well... once James came back...� Helena glanced in his direction. Clarke got the feeling husband and sister-in-law did not get on.

�Why do you think Jasmine might have wanted to go off somewhere?� Clarke asked him.

�Her mum would know better than me.�

�Because you don�t know much of anything at all, do you?� Helena shot back.

�None of this is really helping,� Clarke stated quietly but firmly, causing the pair to try for a look of contrition.

�Jas has become a bit of a closed book to me,� James eventually admitted with a sigh. �Maybe all girls are like that in their teens. I�ll ask what she�s up to and she won�t have an answer. What she does with her friends, how work�s going at school � replies of one syllable and the feeling she�d rather be left alone. I thought she�d open up to her mum, maybe, female solidarity and all that...�

�She knows I�m there if she needs me,� Helena said quietly. Whatever rage had existed in the room had been earthed, at least temporarily.

�I�ve always been told that parenting is teamwork,� Clarke said into the silence. �Sometimes one takes the strain, sometimes the other. There�s got to be give and take.�

Helena expelled air. Her eyes were on the wine bottle, hopeful of a glass in her near future. �Tea!� she said suddenly. �I should have made you some.� She started to get up, but Clarke waved away the offer.

�Maybe if we could just go look at Jasmine�s room again?�

�Of course.� She ran a hand across her forehead, trying to wipe away the fatigue.

�We know the way,� Siobhan Clarke said.

There were three bedrooms upstairs, one turned into an office with a sofa that looked as if it would unfold into a bed. Jasmine�s room was tidy, with pictures on its walls of K-pop groups and anime characters. The only books looked like school texts, and a Bluetooth speaker meant there was no need for a music collection. There was a gap on the desk where her computer had sat until bagged and removed by CID. The view from the window was of a biggish back garden, wooden fencing separating it from near-identical neighbours. The barbecue looked to be gathering rust, as did a Swingball set-up that stood in the middle of what lawn there was, most of it having been sacrificed for a patio. Jasmine�s bed was a double, its base including drawers, which Colson pulled open. There was nothing inside other than a spare duvet and pillow plus a rolled-up yoga mat.

�For sleepovers?� he suggested.

Clarke couldn�t disagree. Wardrobe and chest of drawers contained nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing hinting at any interesting or quirky facet of Jasmine�s personality. An ordinary girl growing up in an ordinary street among ordinary friends but with two warring parents she needed to sidestep as much as possible.

After a few more minutes, Colson shook his head. Clarke was staring at the pop-star posters. The performers were young, the girls dressed in short skirts, the boys immaculately coiffured. She had read stories in the press about the stresses imposed by the lifestyle � crack-ups and suicides. The glamour was only ever two-dimensional, but it served its purpose, decorating the dreams of teenagers like Jasmine Andrews.

Downstairs, thoughts of wine had been replaced by the brewing of coffee. The aroma filled the hallway.

�Can�t tempt you?� James Andrews said, hoisting an oversized mug. It had writing on it � World�s Best Dad � and was showing its age. Clarke wondered if he�d chosen it in the hope of making some kind of statement.

�We�d best be off,� she told him.

�You�ll let us know when there�s news?� He tried not to let the desperation in his voice show too much. Helena stood in the doorway between kitchen and living area. No mug for her but a china cup and saucer, decorated with roses. Another statement of sorts?

�Promise,� Siobhan Clarke said, while Colson opened the door behind her.

But instead of heading directly to the car, she took the path around the side of the house to the back garden. Three bins sat in a line just around the corner. She raised the lid of the recycling bin and looked in. Half a dozen wine bottles, some of them green glass and some clear.

�You were expecting to find it filled to the brim?� Colson guessed.

As she turned towards him, she caught a glimpse of something � a figure darting away from an upstairs window in the house the other side of the fence. Young and male, she thought. She stood her ground until Colson looked quizzical. He followed her back to the car. Rather than start the engine, however, she sat with her hands on the steering wheel, peering into space.

�Do me a favour, Cammy,� she eventually said. �Find me the address we were given for Craig Fielding.�

Having switched on the power in the car, Clarke waited for Colson to recite the address from his phone, tapping it into her satnav. They then both watched as the map appeared, Clarke magnifying it until there could be no doubt.

�One street over,� Colson remarked.

�With a view right into her bedroom,� Clarke added, starting the engine.

They turned left and left again, into Craig Fielding�s street. A figure was walking along the pavement towards them, hood up, hands tucked into the front of his jacket.

�What do you reckon?� Colson said, sliding down his window.

They had their answer when the figure dashed in front of the car and then ran.

�You�ve got to be kidding,� Colson said.

�Not so stupid,� Clarke retorted. �Plenty of footpaths we can�t take the car down.�

�Then we just come back to the house later. What�s he going to do � hide in the woods?�

Clarke was studying the satnav as she drove. They caught sight of him a couple of minutes later. He disappeared down the side of a house, but then came back.

�Fence must�ve been too high,� Colson commented. �He doesn�t run like an athlete.�

�Fancy our chances against him on foot, do you?�

�I�d rather not have to try.�

They were drawing alongside him when he darted left across a patch of grass and flower beds, almost tripping. He was limping as he rejoined the pavement, and after another thirty seconds he gave up altogether, stopping with his hands on his thighs, head lowered, breathing hard. Colson rested his forearm against the sill of the passenger window as Clarke pulled to a stop.

�Get in the back, Craig,� he ordered.

�That�s not my name. You�ve got the wrong person.�

�Show us some ID then and we�ll be on our merry way.� Colson�s hand stretched out towards the boy, who looked at it, sweat trickling down either temple. Then he took a couple of steps towards the car and got in.

�Not too bad for someone who�s off sick from school,� Clarke commented, twisting in her seat to face him, while Colson adjusted the rear-view mirror, content to make eye contact that way.

�That was yesterday. A bit better today.�

�Odd coincidence, though, eh?� Colson added. �Your old girlfriend goes missing and suddenly you need to stay in the house?�

�Maybe you�ve seen her,� Clarke chimed in, �or you know what she�s up to?�

�I�m in the dark, same as everybody else,� he said, still trying to get his breathing under control. Clarke studied him. A boyish face, ready to grow handsome, was hidden beneath the acne. He looked gawky enough, but there was intelligence there too. He might have just stepped out of Gregory�s Girl and be about to lecture her on Caracas or choux pastry.

�How long since the two of you split up?�

�Couple of months.�

�Who dumped who?�

�She dumped me, I suppose.� He was looking at the floor as he spoke. �Not for anybody else, she said. She just...� His voice trailed off.

�You�re the year above her, aye?� Colson checked. �So you�re fifteen? Leaving school next year or sticking around for uni?�

�Uni if I get the grades.�

�What plans did Jasmine have?� Clarke asked.

�She never really said.�

�Any idea what�s happened to her, Craig?�

A vigorous head-shake.

�And you�ve definitely not heard from her?�

�I�ve tried phoning and texting. We�ve all been trying.�

�And this came out of the blue? She�d not seemed different recently?�

The boy thought for a moment. �She�d sort of stopped hanging around with any of us. Soon as school was done for the day, she was off.�

�Off home, you mean?�

�Not necessarily. She�d take the bus into town or head off in the opposite direction from her house.�

�Going where?�

�She never said. I wondered if she did have somebody else.�

�From a different school, you mean?�

�Maybe.� He shifted in his seat.

�Would that have made you jealous?� Colson asked.

�No.�

�You sure about that?�

�You can see into her bedroom from yours,� Clarke added. �Ever see anyone in there with her?�

�Just her mum sometimes.� He met Clarke�s eyes. �How�s Helena doing? She must be worried sick.�

�She wants Jasmine home, same as the rest of us.�

�I saw her dad�s car. He won�t stick around.�

�Why would you say that?�

�Because he never does.�

�And Jasmine didn�t like that?�

Craig shrugged.

�You�re not hiding her in your bedroom, are you, Craig?� Colson asked.

Another shake of the head.

�So you wouldn�t mind if we took a peek?�

�You won�t find her � I don�t know where she is!�

Colson and Clarke shared a look.

�Off you go then,� Clarke told the boy. �Unless you want us to give you a lift?�

But Craig Fielding was already out of the car. He�d taken a couple of steps when he paused, returning to the open window.

�She had money,� he said. �Notes, I mean. Suddenly everything was cash. And she wanted us to notice, wanted us asking about it.�

�I�m assuming you did just that?� Colson enquired.

�But then all she did was...� Craig made show of zipping his lips shut. �She seemed to get a kick out of that.�

�Bank of Mum and Dad, maybe?�

�Maybe,� he said, but he didn�t sound convinced.

Rebus tried to make his next visit to the Wizard�s cell seem casual, though he doubted anyone paying attention would be fooled, not least when he sauntered in rather than stopping on the threshold. The bunk had been installed and Mark Jamieson was lying on the top one while the Wizard sat at his desk with a Sudoku, trying to look like he was fine with this new arrangement. Jamieson had one arm flung across his eyes, but he was awake.

�You okay, son?� Rebus asked.

�Everyone keeps asking him that,� the Wizard answered. �Answer�s always the same � he�s fine, so far as it goes.�

Rebus took a couple more steps towards the bunk. �I knew him on the outside, you know,� he said, making show of addressing the Wizard. �This was years back, mind, when he was a teenage tearaway. Running with the wrong crowd and doing too much blaw. I tried to warn him... even thought some of it might have seeped in.�

Jamieson had removed his arm, turning his head and levering himself upright, his face only inches from Rebus�s.

�I often wonder what happened,� Rebus finished, voice dropping a fraction.

�I never moved on from that wrong crowd,� the young man said by way of explanation. �I know your face now. Never knew your name back then.�

�You had a lot going on. My name probably didn�t seem important.�

�Money was what I was interested in.�

�Money and drugs,� Rebus corrected him. He studied Jamieson�s pupils. �And at least one of those is still the case.�

�They gave me painkillers at the hospital.�

�But who was it dosed you the night your cellmate died? Do I have to guess?�

�It�s hard to sleep without a bit of something.�

�You were comatose, Mark. You either did that to yourself or someone did it to you.�

�Tea tasted funny.�

�Tea?�

�That night. When we were eating. Actually, maybe the food, too...�

�Who was it served you?�

�Christ knows.�

�Maybe so, but he�s a hard guy to reach.�

�Usual evening crew,� the Wizard stated. �Ratty, Devo and Malachi.�

�Which one, though?� Rebus persisted.

�What�s it to do with you?� Jamieson demanded, eyes suddenly lucid, voice sharp-edged.

�Officers are always there too, mind,� the Wizard mused, stroking his beard. �Valerie Watts and Blair Samms.� He nodded slowly to himself.

�You were asleep when you got hit,� Rebus continued, eyes on Jamieson. �So you were in bed when the cell was unlocked. And you didn�t hear it happening?�

The arm had gone back over the eyes. �Can you just leave me the fuck alone? Can every fucking one of you just give me peace?�

�Everything all right here?�

Rebus turned towards the voice, expecting to see an officer. Instead, he found himself face to face with Darryl Christie.

�Just passing the time,� he told him.

�Plenty of it to go around,� Christie countered. �Maybe you�d like to pass some with me instead?�

�And maybe not.�

�But you�ve got something for me, John. Something you borrowed and forgot to give back.�

�Aye, right enough. It�s in my cell � go help yourself.�

�Where in your cell, though?�

�Lying on the bed.�

Christie�s eyes smouldered. �On the bed?� he echoed. Then he spun around and was gone.

The Wizard had risen from his chair and was patting Jamieson�s shoulder. �The lad�s been through a lot, John. Bit of rest would do him no harm.�

�Neither would speaking to me.�

Voices were rising again in the hall. �Slain in your bed and nobody to blame!� someone cried out. �Which one of us is next?�

There were roars of agreement. The Wizard held up a finger.

�Hear that?�

�I hear them all right.�

But the Wizard was shaking his head, eyes turned upwards towards the cell�s small window. �I mean the church bells. You can�t always make them out for all the noise in here. It drowns them. Eight hundred angry men will do that. But they�re there.� He broke off and began one of his hacking coughs.

Jamieson looked towards Rebus from beneath his arm. Rebus gave a slight shake of the head, indicating that the Wizard was harmless. He turned towards the sudden movement in the doorway. Christie was back, glaring at him.

�Under your pillow, like that isn�t the first place they�d look!� he seethed, the shape of the phone obvious in his tracksuit pocket. Then he was gone again.

�You might just have lost a fan,� the Wizard informed Rebus, catching a breath between coughs.

�I reckon I can live with that.�

�The decision might be out of your hands, though.�

Rebus pressed a finger to Mark Jamieson�s chest. �I�m just along the hall. And I�m a good listener.�

�A listener who can�t even hear the church bells,� the Wizard countered.

�Maybe I�ll only hear them when they want me to,� Rebus said, making his exit.

Out in the hall, he realised why the complaints had grown vociferous. The door to the murder cell stood open. There were a couple of figures inside, and plenty of POs making sure no prisoners got in the way. The cell had been stripped of its movable contents. Rebus realised that there was nothing belonging to Mark Jamieson in the cell he now shared with the Wizard. Probably bagged as potential evidence. The two suited men in the cell turned to look at him. The governor and Malcolm Fox. Fox then turned back to the governor and said something, receiving a nodded reply.

Rebus returned to his cell and lay on the bed. His feeling was, Fox would want to come and gloat. Years back he�d tried hard to put Rebus inside, regarding him as a cop too bent ever to be straightened. An uneasy truce had eventually come to pass, yet here Rebus was. As he lay staring at the ceiling, the walls seemed to close in. It happened a few times a week, the realisation that he was stuck here. Some nights he�d open his eyes in the darkness, heart pounding, wondering if he might be about to breathe his last. No final words, no bedside gathering. He turned his head now to look towards the doorway, but it was Kyle �Kylie� Jacobs who stood there.

�Governor�s office,� he said. Rebus heaved himself off the thin mattress, pulled a green sweatshirt over his tee and followed.

Fox was seated at the table with the plate of shortbread biscuits, the governor handing him a mug of tea as Rebus arrived. Fox was chewing while sucking crumbs of sugar from his fingers. He then pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and proceeded to wipe them clean. A nod told the governor that he could make himself scarce.

�I�m fine, honestly,� Rebus said, unnecessarily � there was to be no offer of a drink. No biscuits either, as Fox lifted the depleted plate and shifted it to a shelf behind him. Having seated himself, Rebus waited for the door to close. Fox stared at it, as if trying to ascertain whether the governor might be listening from the other side.

�Hello, John,� he eventually said, cupping his hands around the mug.

�Long way from your desk, Malcolm. How are things at Gartcosh?�

Fox blew across the surface of the mug. �Settling in all right?�

�It�s not like I�m at a new job.�

�I was surprised to see you, you know. Didn�t think they�d let an ex-cop out among the general scumbag population.�

�Those are my friends you�re talking about.�

�Friends like Darryl Christie?� Fox gave a thin smile. Always big, he seemed to have put on more weight of late, as if physical heft could make up for other shortcomings. Rebus, who had lost almost a stone inside, sat up a little straighter in his chair. �Anything you want to tell me?� Fox asked.

Rebus made show of considering the question. �I could tell you the system�s broken, that there are men in here who should be elsewhere � but I doubt any of that would register with your tiny brain, so why bother?�

Fox�s face hadn�t changed; he hadn�t really been listening. �Mr Tennent told me you�re under Christie�s protection. That�s interesting.�

�Is it?�

�You see much of him?�

�We�re in the same hall � what do you think?�

�Plenty to talk about, I suppose.�

�You were always shit at doing interviews, Malcolm. Why don�t you just tell me why the Specialist Crime Division is interested in the death of a small-time criminal?�

�It�s called OCCTU these days � Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism.�

�I�m guessing some graduate gets paid a decent wedge for coming up with all these names. Still doesn�t explain your interest.�

�Murder is always interesting, John, and especially when it takes place in the vicinity of someone like Darryl Christie. I can�t imagine much happens here without a nod from your new best buddy. You�ll be shocked to learn that he continues to ply his trade even from inside these four walls, so of course I�m interested.�

�Nobody in here thinks Darryl Christie sanctioned what happened.�

�Of course not � they reckon it was one of the staff. Seems obvious, doesn�t it? Those same staff who�ve been receiving anonymous threats and had their cars attacked with petrol bombs and acid.� Fox rested his elbows against the table. �Why do you reckon that�s been happening, John?�

�Not doing what�s been asked of them,� Rebus surmised.

�And who do you think might have been doing that asking?�

�Darryl Christie.�

�Noticed a drop in the amount of drugs getting in here? The phones and other illicit goods?�

�I know it�s hard to find a decent malt.� The two men stared at one another. �I�ve not heard about these threats, though.�

�Not the sort of thing you want to publicise � makes inmates think their guards might be fallible.�

�Just here, or other jails too?�

�Not just here.�

�Any names?�

�That�s not something I can divulge.�

�Chris Novak?�

�Not something I can divulge,� Fox echoed, his body language betraying him. �But here�s one name I can give you � Shay Hanlon.�

�Liverpool gangster.�

�You�ve got one of his team in a neighbouring cell. Does he ever talk about his boss?�

�No, but Harrison�s chummy with a Neanderthal on another wing, name of Bobby Briggs.�

�I don�t know him.�

�He�s Glasgow.�

�Connected to anyone?�

Rebus offered a shrug. �You�re the detective here, Malcolm. I�m just a con. But even I can see that nothing you�ve said explains why Christie or anyone else would want Jackie Simpson dead.�

Fox grew a little less animated. �True enough,� he admitted. �But then we�ve barely started digging.�

�We? You�re not asking me to...?�

�Christ, no. I meant the MIT. With additional assistance from OCCTU as required.�

Which told Rebus that Howard Tennent hadn�t revealed anything to Fox about the mission he�d handed him.

�Your days in the sun are long gone, John,� Fox went on, relishing the sound of the words.

Rebus turned his head momentarily towards the window and the overcast sky beyond. �So dragging me in here was just by way of rubbing it in?�

�I felt a bit bad that I�ve never had the chance to visit. I know Siobhan sees you regularly...�

�How did that go down at Gartcosh, by the way?� Rebus asked casually.

�What?�

�You�d groomed her for Professional Standards... vouched for her. And after a few weeks she tells you to stuff it. Bet your bosses were thrilled.�

�Siobhan�s loss, not ours.� Fox�s cheek muscles were moving, and Rebus knew he�d got to him.

�Tell you what,� Rebus added. �Give me a number I can reach you on. If I do hear or see anything, I�ll give you a bell.�

�Really?�

He nodded slowly, watching Fox start to dig into his inside pocket for a card. �I�ll do it on one of Darryl�s burners if you like.�

Fox froze, realising he�d been had. Rebus got to his feet, reached past Fox to grab a biscuit from the plate and left the room, almost bumping into the governor, who was loitering in the outer office. With a wink and a smile, Rebus was gone.

Kyle Jacobs was waiting for him in the outer hall. �What was that all about?� he asked.

�Nothing much.�

�It wasn�t one of us, you know.� Jacobs was speaking out of the side of his mouth as they walked. He clammed up as they passed a couple of prisoners who were cleaning the floor. Then, once he and Rebus were through yet another of the locked doors: �Morale�s bad enough. Staff calling in sick, new recruits thin on the ground, you lot ready to kick off... And now Gartcosh arrive and start sniffing around. I�m not saying we�re all angels, but the bad ones don�t last long. And I know for a fact none of us did for Jackie Simpson.� As he unlocked the barred gate leading to Rebus�s hall, he made eye contact for the first time, looking suddenly all too human. �We�re sick and tired, John, and that�s not a good state of mind for a job like this.�

�It�s not just the residents who might kick off, is that what you�re saying?�

�I�m saying we need calm heads and I�m seeing precious few. Maybe a quiet word with Darryl Christie would��

�Everybody seems to think we�re bosom buddies,� Rebus interrupted. �We definitely aren�t.�

�He listens to you, though. Just have a word, that�s all I�m saying.�

�Can I ask you something in return?�

�What?�

�The night of the murder, Mark Jamieson reckons his dinner tasted funny. Your colleagues Watts and Samms were on duty while it was served up. How easy would it have been to slip him something?�

Jacobs gave Rebus a hard stare.

�I�m not saying one of them did it necessarily, but could��

�Get through that gate!� Jacobs snarled.

Rebus did as he was told, Jacobs staying the other side, locking it again. Rebus tried meeting his eye, but Jacobs had already turned away.

He hadn�t been in his cell more than two minutes when he sensed Darryl Christie in the doorway, waiting to be told. Rebus gave a heavy sigh. �Malcolm Fox wants your head delivered to him,� he confessed.

�And he thinks you�re the man for the job?�

�He knows better than that. But it�s why he�s scratching around. Meantime, the staff reckon we�re on the verge of anarchy and only you can calm things down.�

�Hard to do when I�ve had my head cut off. Looks like you�re stuck in the middle, eh, John? Good luck in no man�s land. You won�t know a thing until you step on a mine.�

Christie turned and left Rebus to his thoughts. Something Jacobs had said stayed with him. I�m not saying we�re all angels... Maybe Jacobs thought that was what had brought Fox to the prison � not gangsters, but bent prison officers. Bent POs, however, only came into Fox�s orbit if they connected to organised crime. Fox had mentioned threats and attacks. Chris Novak�s car had been targeted � Rebus wondered if Jacobs had been on the receiving end, too. And what did it mean if he had? Yes, such an attack could imply that the victim was refusing to go along with whatever was being asked of them. But it could just as easily be an attempt to make someone look like a victim if they were in danger of being investigated.

Rebus closed his eyes and played the conversation through again. But it was Malcolm Fox he kept seeing.

Your days in the sun are long gone, John...

Well, they�d have to see about that.

DCI Mae McGovern had gathered the major incident team at Gayfield Square police station. It had been decided to move the base from HMP Edinburgh because there were too many restrictions inside the prison and it took too long for the team to get in and out. Besides, they had all they needed in terms of the crime scene. There were some interviews still to be carried out, but those did not require everyone�s presence. Two team members � DCs Allbright and Tilley � were absent, one at an emergency dental appointment and the other with COVID, leaving what could best be described as a skeleton crew.

They had listened to selected recordings from the interviewees, focusing on the night-shift POs and the deceased�s cellmate. The autopsy report had been discussed and photos of the locus projected onto a screen so they could discuss theories. The lack of the murder weapon was proving a major frustration. Forensics had picked up no blood traces on the floor outside the cell. CCTV footage showed no POs looking agitated or attempting to hide stained clothing. Nothing had come of a search of staff lockers and rubbish bins. And yet the pathologist, Deborah Quant, had been clear � there would have been blood.

�So we�re going to have to come at this from an angle,� DCI McGovern was telling her team. She stood at the front of the room with arms folded. She had removed the jacket of her trouser suit and rolled up the sleeves of her olive-green blouse. Her hair was auburn and Christine Esson reckoned it had to be dyed. McGovern was in her late forties, not far off qualifying for a full police pension. Two grown-up kids, each with a child of their own. The windowsill behind her desk was festooned with framed photos of her family. Her husband was a senior civil servant. Like him, she had grown up in Glasgow and attended university there before joining the police. She was never going to lose the accent and often made fun of herself when playing to an east-coast audience. But she had a sharp mind that belied her apparently easy-going nature, and when she rolled her sleeves up you knew she meant business.

�We need to focus on motive,� she went on, eyes scanning the room, making sure she had every officer�s full attention. �Who wanted Jackie Simpson dead? We know he had a lengthy criminal record, but never for anything violent. He�d been breaking into premises since he was at school � jail had become an occupational hazard. He was due to be released shortly and had behaved impeccably while serving his sentence.�

�Not exactly impeccably,� Jason Mulgrew interrupted, �if you speak to Chris Novak.�

�Agreed, a fair bit of niggle there, but enough to merit murder?�

�There was a threat to pay the officer�s house a visit,� DC Zara Shah piped up. McGovern nodded slowly, allowing this.

�Once Simpson was out, Novak couldn�t get to him so easily,� Mulgrew added, meriting a smile from Shah for backing her up.

�I�d say just the opposite,� Esson couldn�t help arguing. �If Novak really wanted to harm Simpson, why not wait until he was released? Much more chance of getting away with it. Attacking him in his cell brings the list of suspects down to a handful.�

�Heat of the moment, who�s to say?� Shah argued back. McGovern held up a hand, silencing them.

�We need to know all there is to know about the victim, the officers on duty and the prisoners on that wing. If Chris Novak continues to be the main suspect, then we can zero in on him, but I want to be confident that we�re not missing something. Did the deceased have a beef with anyone else � prisoner or staff? Could one of Novak�s colleagues have decided to do him a favour by taking matters into their own hands?�

�Let�s not forget his good friend Valerie Watts,� Mulgrew added. �The night-shift team all say the same thing � they pretty much knew where everyone was from minute to minute. But CCTV shows Novak leaving the control room, and two minutes later, so does Watts. It�s a good ten minutes before they pop up again. Loo break apparently, but there�s no sign of either of them on the tapes.�

�What do we make of the broken camera?� Shah asked.

�It had been reported and there had already been one attempt to repair it,� McGovern stated.

�On the other hand,� Shah continued, �someone could have decided that with it out of action, the timing was right for the assault.�

Mulgrew lifted his laptop from his desk and turned its screen to face the room at large. �Couple of other cameras were still working. They show sections of the hall, officers patrolling, but nobody particularly lingering.� He had speeded up the footage. They�d all watched it more than once, knew every single frame. �Patrols aren�t frequent � they don�t have the staffing level. Unless an alarm�s hit or a con requests a visit.�

�The governor would rather we used the term �resident�,� Esson reminded him.

�How about the prisoner who heard a key in a lock?� Shah asked.

�His name�s Billy Groam,� Mulgrew answered. �Seemed pretty confident when we talked to him, but maybe he was high on something that night.� He turned his screen back towards him and worked away at the touchpad. �There are blind spots throughout the prison � and the POs would know them. Mostly officers stick to two rooms away from Trinity Hall. One houses the CCTV screens and comms with the cells, the other is for downtime. Usual kettle, microwave, fridge and sink, plus a corkboard where they pin up photos of recent weapon finds and the like.�

�I also want us to think a bit more about the cellmate,� McGovern added. �He was high as a kite, but was that voluntary? Had someone slipped him a much bigger dose than he was used to? Had he been more or less ordered to take enough spice or whatever to put himself out of the game? Was he really unconscious when he got hit on the head or did he maybe hear or see something or somebody? Could be he�s blocking it out and it�ll come back with a bit of nudging. Plenty for us to be considering and a lot of work ahead. Anything you need from me, you only have to ask.�

�Does that include a few more pairs of hands?� Esson asked.

�You know what budgets are like these days, Christine.� McGovern�s tone was cold, but her eyes were sympathetic. Nobody blamed her for the fact they lacked bodies, funds and sometimes the equipment to do the job.

Once McGovern had left for her own office down the hallway, Esson settled at her computer, trying to get it to do something, anything. Not for the first time, it wasn�t minded to oblige. An arm suddenly reached down past her shoulder, Mulgrew�s fingers busying themselves on her keyboard. The screen sprang to life.

�I could have done it,� Esson commented.

�A simple �thanks� will suffice, Christine.�

Over by the tea bags, Shah was shaking an empty half-litre milk carton.

�Whose job was it to bring fresh?�

�Allbright�s,� Mulgrew said, walking towards her. �Probably curdling in the dental surgery as we speak.�

�You mean the milk or Allbright?�

Mulgrew snorted at the joke, Esson refusing to join in even though Allbright�s name really did sometimes seem to be in itself a joke on nominative determinism. She got up and joined them as the kettle came to a boil.

�If you followed my example, it wouldn�t bother you,� she said, pouring the boiled water into her empty mug.

�Don�t know how you can do that,� Shah said, wrinkling her nose.

�I like it,� Esson replied. She watched Mulgrew offer Shah the last peppermint tea bag, which Shah accepted with a look not unadjacent to a simper. Esson tried to remember if the DC was attached right now. She thought not. She was about four inches shorter than Mulgrew and eight years younger. Her family had moved to Scotland from the Middle East a generation back. Esson envied her flawless skin and those huge hazel eyes, currently fixed on Jason Mulgrew. When Mulgrew passed Esson�s desk on his way to his own and half raised an eyebrow, she wondered if something had been showing in her face.

�Do we have the victim�s file?� Shah asked the room.

Esson hoisted it and let it fall with a thump back onto her desk. �Like the boss says, he�s been on our radar most of his adult life.�

�We�ve not really talked to the family yet, have we?�

Esson made show of opening the file. They�d been through this more than once. �Divorced, one son, Marcus. His ex moved south, the son stayed here. He�s been in a bit of bother too, the past few years. Driving under the influence with no insurance, couple of scuffles outside pubs and clubs, possession of hash and speed...�

�Does he have a job?� Mulgrew asked.

Esson dug a little deeper into the file. �Don�t know if you�d call it a job or not, but he hangs out with Zak Campbell.�

�The footballer?�

�Ex-footballer,� she corrected him. �Injury did for him.�

�Hell of a player he was turning into, too,� Mulgrew mused.

�He was at the same school as Marcus. Few years above him, but they became pally.�

�Didn�t Campbell go into acting or something?�

Shah had been busy on her phone. �Bit parts in a couple of TV dramas and films I�ve never heard of. Tried his hand at modelling and singing. Info dries up after that.�

�Who was it that spoke to the son?� Mulgrew asked.

�Me and Allbright,� Shah said, dumping her tea bag into a bin. �He�s still living at the family home � out Edinburgh Park way. Didn�t seem that shocked by his dad�s killing, but that could�ve been bravado. Shared precisely no useful information regarding the deceased. It was Allbright who noticed a few photos in the house showing Marcus with Zak Campbell � I had no idea who he was. From the way Marcus then spoke, we got the idea he maybe worked for Campbell in some capacity, or at least was taking money from him.� Shah broke off, watching as Esson held up the report of the interview.

�Allbright�s spelling is all over the place,� Esson said.

�Poor guy was mainlining ibuprofen for his toothache,� Shah reminded her.

�How about the deceased�s ex-wife?� Mulgrew enquired.

�Using her black-widow charms to persuade one of the other prisoners into doing her dirty work?� Esson sifted the paperwork again. �Split was amicable. No cheating on either side. She got the cash for her half of the marital home and has hitched her wagon to a car mechanic in Nottingham.�

She closed the file and they sat in silence, drinking their drinks while the seconds passed.

�Stands to reason it was Novak,� Shah eventually offered.

�It does,� Mulgrew agreed.

�We should bring him in here,� Shah went on. �Proper grilling in an interview room. Then do the same for every colleague who�s covering for him. My guess is, they either knew he was going to do it, or they helped him carry it out � getting rid of the evidence, cleaning up, handing him a fresh uniform.�

�That being the case, why would they help us?� Esson asked. �They�d be putting themselves in the frame. Only way this works is if they all stick together.�

Shah held up a finger. �One link in the chain is always weaker than the rest. Some hard questioning will show us who that is.�

�These people work in a prison, Zara. I doubt we�ve got anything that won�t just bounce off them.� Esson broke off as her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

It�s Malcolm F. Can we meet?

She started tapping her response. Busy.

Seconds later, Fox replied. At Gayfield? I�m in my car outside. Need 5 mins max.

�Anything interesting?� Mulgrew enquired.

�A huge break in the case.� She watched him crack a smile. �I just need to pop out for five. Is that okay?�

�I suppose so,� he said, �but only if you make it ten rather than five.� He saw the quizzical look on her face. �Nip into a shop and fetch us some milk,� he explained.

Siobhan Clarke opened a bottle of wine, promising herself she only needed the one glass to accompany the dinner she�d cooked. Gnocchi with fried onion, garlic and mushrooms added, then a heaped spoonful of pesto stirred in. She�d even grated some pecorino. Surely that merited a smallish helping of cold white wine. She had the central heating on, the lighting turned low and Chet Baker singing from her Bluetooth speaker. With the curtains closed, the rest of the world could perhaps be persuaded to melt away. Her flat had two bedrooms (one used for storage, since no one ever stayed) and was a couple of storeys above ground level in a traditional tenement. If she wanted nightlife, Broughton Street was around the corner. Plenty of bars where a single woman could sit for a while without being hassled; a decent spread of restaurants; and during the day there were caf�s and local shops. There was even an auction house where she sometimes browsed on viewing days. She hadn�t bought anything yet, but she was on their mailing list.

Yes, the furnishings in her flat were tired, but she couldn�t quite muster the energy to spend her free time changing things. She liked her sofa and she liked her armchair. The mattress on her bed got turned every few months. The in-bath shower was haphazard, but she could do without the bother of plumbers who never turned up. At weekends she caught up with Samantha and Carrie, plus Brillo, of course. They might go check on John�s flat and pick up his mail. If Christine Esson didn�t have a new guy on the go, they sometimes walked the seafront at Portobello before hitting a wine bar. Fox... well, Fox had been around for a short time, but that was long past. It often struck her that she was nearer to retirement than to the day she�d joined the force. Much nearer, truth be told. Had CID robbed her of a personal life? No, that had been her choice. But she was beginning to feel that the job no longer wanted her around. Wasn�t it more fun a decade or two back, when a few rules could be bent or broken? Rebus and his contemporaries hadn�t had to worry about internet warriors, the brandishing of mobile phone cameras or being �cancelled�. Livelier times; or, as Rebus himself sometimes termed it, �the wild east�.

Mood dipping, Clarke stared at the speaker. �It�s you, isn�t it?� she chided the crooning Chet Baker. Then she scrolled on her phone until she found some Talking Heads, a more upbeat soundtrack to her last few mouthfuls of food. She was just starting to consider a second glass of wine � a smaller helping than the first, naturally � when her phone rang. She saw that it was Laura Smith. Smith was a journalist, ex-crime correspondent of the Scotsman newspaper. She now ran a website, podcast and blog and was happier outside the mainstream � and better off financially, too. She had stopped inviting Siobhan to join her as co-presenter, or at least appear on an episode or two (anonymity preserved), but was a good companion, who phoned when she was at a loose end and thirsty.

�Not tonight, Josephine,� Clarke said, answering the call.

�This is business rather than social. I�m parked downstairs � any chance I can come up?�

Five minutes later, Clarke was placing a clean glass in front of her guest. Smith was dressed casually � jeans and an oversized jumper, her hair unbrushed. Something had brought her here in a hurry, so Clarke poured, sat down and waited. After a couple of sips of wine, Smith put the glass down and pressed her fingers against the base of the stem.

�I got a call tonight. Some bloke who wouldn�t give his name. He said it was about the missing girl.�

�Meaning Jasmine Andrews?�

She gave a brisk nod and reached into her shoulder bag for her MacBook. She slid the wine glass to one side and opened the screen.

�He said he saw her photo � the one you released to the media � and she looked familiar.� Smith stopped tapping at the keys long enough to make eye contact with Clarke. �From a porn site.�

�What?� Clarke lifted her chair and carried it around the table, settling alongside Smith.

�That was my first thought, too. Some weirdo trying to wind me up. The site is called Young Fresh East Coast. Sounds innocent enough, but after a couple of clicks you find yourself here...� Smith sat back and angled the screen slightly towards Clarke. There were a couple of dozen posed photos there. Young people, male and female, semi-clad, their faces digitally distorted. They all seemed to be positioned on the same bed in the same room. Smith slid the cursor to the top right photo and enlarged it.

�What do you think?� she asked. �Jasmine Andrews?�

�Hard to tell without seeing the face. Can we do anything about that?�

�I can�t, but I�m guessing your lab techs might. I�ve tried getting further into the site, but it�s impossible. You have to apply online to join �the community�.�

Clarke enlarged the photo a little more. The girl was wearing thong and bra, plus white ankle socks. Her arms were stretched out behind her to support her as she sat, legs bent at the knees and open more than a few inches. The other girls were similarly positioned or else were up on all fours, sometimes photographed from behind, heads angled back towards the camera. The boys wore bulging underpants and sometimes flexed a bicep or knelt with a finger hooked into a waistband.

�There�s no video,� Smith said, �but there is sound.� She clicked on one of the icons and listened alongside Clarke.

�I�m horny as hell. Please choose me. I�ll do anything your heart desires.� It was a girl speaking, breathy, trying to act older. There was almost a trace of a giggle at the end.

�They all parrot the same line,� Smith explained. �And they mostly sound Scottish.�

�Different voices for each photo?� Clarke watched as Smith nodded. She tried navigating further into the site without success. �The guy who phoned?� she prompted.

�Also Scottish. When he hung up, I checked, but he�d blocked his number. He wants money, though.�

Clarke looked at her. �Money?�

�A hundred to start with. And if I cough up, he promises another phone call.�

�So you�ve some way of contacting him?�

�It�s a pub called the Mallaig Inn.�

�In Mallaig?�

Smith shook her head. �The badlands of Restalrig. Five twenties in an envelope and the name Pedro on the front. Hand it to the barman and walk away.� She paused. �Instead of which, here I am, because I know you�ll give me the exclusive � and you�ve done me plenty of favours in the past.�

�Did he say when you were to hand the money over?�

�Sooner the better or he might go elsewhere. You do think it�s her then? I mean, if it is, and somebody was getting ready to out her � maybe a boy in her year who put two and two together � that�s a pretty good reason for getting out of Dodge, wouldn�t you say?�

Clarke didn�t answer, too focused on the screen and her own thoughts. Smith, knowing that look of old, reached for her wine and waited. Clarke eventually got up without saying anything and left the room, returning with a multipack of envelopes. She placed it on the table and slid one out, fetching a pen from her bag.

�Pedro, wasn�t it?� she asked.

�Pedro it was,� Laura Smith confirmed.

After breakfast, there was a chance for fresh air in the exercise yard. Some prisoners took the word �exercise� literally, jogging a circuit or doing push-ups and squats. These were the ones who spent as much time as possible in the gym, pumping themselves up. Others kicked a ball around. But mostly people just ambled. SRU had an adjoining space, a high wall separating the two. A few of the prisoners on Rebus�s side sent up yelled threats, just in case any rapists or kiddie-fiddlers were listening. Rebus had encountered one or two paedophiles during his short time in the unit. They�d tended to be docile and eager to follow orders, but keen also to keep to their cells, the door locked. There was one rapist, too, nicknamed Hair Trigger for his sudden violent outbursts. He�d been locked in solitary throughout Rebus�s stay, his shouts echoing down the hall.

The Wizard leaned against a wall, head angled towards the slate-grey sky. Maybe he was listening for those church bells. There was a well-thumbed Bible in his cell and he attended the chapel on a Sunday. Rebus knew that a few prisoners � white, working-class Scots � had converted to Islam during their time inside. They had their prayer times and their assemblies, with Jumah on a Friday. They borrowed religious texts from the library. If Rebus was helping out, he always studied their faces for signs that this was all a front of some kind, but as yet he�d caught no one out.

As Rebus walked, he overheard snatches of growled conversations. Cells and shared spaces were still in the process of being given a methodical search by police officers. The guards were not immune from this, but the prisoners didn�t care about that. They had to open the safes beneath their beds and allow cops to rifle through their stuff. Classes were cancelled while meeting rooms were searched. Rebus�s own cell had been gone over a second time by two young officers, one male and one female, neither looking thrilled about the task they�d been assigned.

�Didn�t teach you this in training, did they?� Rebus had teased, receiving no reply, the officers doubtless having been told to avoid interaction with the cons.

One of the nursing staff had complained to him while refilling his inhaler that even the NHS office had been searched.

�As if we wouldn�t notice a bloodstained knife lying about the place.�

�No way it�s still on site,� Rebus had replied. She�d looked at him.

�Smuggled out?� she�d guessed. �Not easy for a resident to arrange that, I�d have thought.�

�I see you got the governor�s memo. But to answer your question with another � who says it has to be a �resident� doing the smuggling?�

The library was Rebus�s next port of call after exercise. It wasn�t a large room, but it was well stocked with books, magazines and DVDs. The librarian was provided by Edinburgh Council. She was a meticulous young woman called Megan Keighley, who hailed from Northumbria and had told Rebus that her name derived from a word for a woodland clearing. She wore a small crucifix around her neck, which she quickly tucked away if it escaped from below her neckline. Rebus had impressed her by knowing so many authors� names. He didn�t admit that though in the past he�d amassed a solid collection of books, he�d got to the end of precious few of them.

Keighley was sorting through the latest batch of requests when Rebus arrived. The prisoners were free to order just about anything, but with certain restrictions � no terrorism handbooks or true crime, and nothing involving children. Additionally, none of the DVDs carried an 18 certificate. The most popular book loans tended to be legal texts, whose readership was on the lookout for loopholes and get-out clauses. One of the older lags had become so knowledgeable that other prisoners consulted him. He took his fee in cigarettes, which as he said himself made him quite the bargain compared to his �colleagues� on the outside.

Rebus was reminded that his own legal team seemed to have forgotten about him. In the weeks following his imprisonment, there had been a flurry of meetings, either in person or via the video-call facility, a row of cubicles where prisoners could also connect with their families if those families lived too far away for physical visits to be practicable. His defence had stayed the same throughout: he hadn�t intended to kill the man, just put the fear of God into him. If he�d wanted him dead, he would have made sure. His actions might or might not have had some bearing on the heart attack Cafferty then suffered. That was the whole point: no one could say for certain, so how could he be guilty of attempted murder? When he�d entered HMP Edinburgh the first day, straight after sentencing, the officers in the first-night centre had given him a round of applause, all agreed that the world was better off without Big Ger�Cafferty.

Rebus, however, wasn�t so sure, because he knew damned well that someone else would replace Cafferty, that someone being Darryl Christie. Siobhan Clarke, on her first visit to him, had sat across the table and cocked her head.

�I actually thought you quite liked him, you know.�

Rebus had replied with a twitch of the mouth, without voicing any denial.

�Managed to get a couple of novels in Polish and Romanian,� Keighley was saying as Rebus stood next to her. �Thomas Harris and Michael Connelly. Should keep the troops happy.� She glanced at him. �Do you read any languages, John?�

�At a pinch I can manage English.�

�Not even Gaelic?�

�I know how to say �kiss my arse�, but in Irish rather than Scots.�

Keighley tucked a stray hair behind one ear. He knew she was good-looking enough that some men would pretend to browse the stacks just so they could drink her in. There was a nurse in the healthcare unit who had a similar effect. No one had ever tried anything, though, not as far as he knew. An officer was always close by when prisoners who weren�t trusted were in the room.

�Pogue mahone, right?� she said. Then: �Such a shame about Mr Simpson. You know he offered to show me how to pick a lock?�

�Jackie was generous that way.�

�He always had a twinkle in his eye.�

�Probably on the lookout for anything worth nicking.�

Rebus got to work sorting out the books. He�d hardly started when Chris Novak arrived, accompanied by a prisoner whose face Rebus knew but not his name.

�You�re wanted elsewhere,� Novak informed Rebus. �Jimbo here will swap with you.�

Rebus pretended to check with Keighley, but of course she had no say in the matter. Jimbo was looking around the library like a kid on his first visit to a zoo � so many exotic creatures, all of them new to him.

�Colouring books are over there,� Rebus told him with a nod, following Novak out of the room.

�What�s going on?� he asked as they walked along the corridor, unlocking and locking doors after them.

�Who the fuck knows?� Novak shot back. He looked as if sixteen hours� sleep would go at least some way towards easing his many troubles. �I just do what I�m told, as per.�

�How many times have you been interviewed by CID?� Rebus enquired.

Novak shot him a look, but then relented. �Twice so far. Same questions over and over.�

�As long as you�re stating the truth, just stick to that. And never give more detail than you�ve been asked.�

�Someone told me I should just keep saying �no comment�. But that�d make me look guilty, right?�

�It also annoys the people questioning you, which makes them inclined to dig deeper and wider.�

Novak nodded at the sense of this. �I�ve a cousin who�s CID. He�s the one who suggested �no comment�.�

�Would I know him?�

�I doubt it � Cammy would have been joining the force around the time you retired. Big lump of a guy, gives the lie to the idea CID is the preserve of the brightest and best.�

�You know I�m standing right here?�

Novak managed a thin smile. They had come to a stop in front of the door to the pastoral care office. He met Rebus�s eyes.

�I appreciate the advice, John.� He knocked and pushed the door open, ushering Rebus in. �I�ll be out here when you�re done...�

Christine Esson sat behind the desk. The other two chairs were empty. Rebus took the one opposite her.

�Thanks for coming, John,� Esson said. The desk in front of her was bare, no paperwork of any kind. The room hadn�t quite warmed up, and she was keeping her jacket on. Even so, she looked cold. When she exhaled, it was as if she were checking whether her breath was visible.

�And that�s with the heating working,� Rebus commented. �Cells can get a mite chillier.�

�Do you want a hot drink or anything?�

�What is it I can do for you, Christine?�

�Jackie Simpson was murdered inside a cell on your hall.�

�So I�ve heard.�

�And what else have you heard?�

�That the man posted outside this room, possibly with his ear pressed to the door, is the likeliest suspect.�

Esson turned her attention from the door back to Rebus, lowering her voice so that at first he strained to hear her. �Something else has come to our attention,� she said. �The deceased broke into a nail bar that was a front for drug- and people-trafficking. As a consequence, a man called Everett Harrison was charged and sent here.�

�I know Harrison.�

�I expect you do � he�s in the cell next to yours. He works for a Liverpool gangster called Shay Hanlon, currently thought to be sunning himself in Brazil.� She gave Rebus another look. �This doesn�t seem to be coming as a surprise to you either.�

�I know a bit of what goes on around here.�

Esson had noticed that she was rubbing her hands together to warm them and tried to stop herself. �How does Harrison get on with Darryl Christie?� she asked.

�I�d say a truce had been agreed at some point � on the surface everything�s hunky and dory.�

�Doesn�t that strike you as odd? Harrison works for the competition, no?�

�Maybe �ceasefire� would be a better word than �truce� � doesn�t mean the situation can�t change.� Rebus clasped his hands around the back of his head as he leaned back in the chair. �Malcolm Fox gave you this,� he stated matter-of-factly.

�What makes you think that?�

�He�s here, he�s Organised Crime, and there are organised criminals in the vicinity.�

�His theory is that maybe Harrison found out who Jackie Simpson was and decided to take revenge before Simpson was released.�

�And what does MIT think?�

�We�re exploring it.�

�Harrison would need to have an officer in his pocket, someone to spring him after lights-out and take him over to Simpson�s cell.�

�Or carry out the killing on his behalf.�

�In either case there�ll be a big deposit in that same officer�s bank account.�

�I�m not sure these are the sort of people who depend on the banking system, John.�

�What, then? A new house or car? A cryptocurrency wallet?�

�We�ll be checking.�

�I assume you�ll be asking Harrison himself about all of this?�

�Think that would get us anywhere?�

�Not a chance.�

�Which is why we�d like a bit of evidence first.�

�Like footage showing him tiptoeing out of his cell at dead of night, shank in hand?�

�Listen to you with your prison lingo.� She gave a tired smile. �CCTV isn�t proving particularly helpful.�

�The broken camera,� Rebus stated.

�Coincidence, you think?�

�It�s been bust a while. If you�re thinking it was tampered with, why didn�t the killer take out Jackie a week ago?�

�Then there�s the unlocking of a cell door...�

�Which only Billy Groam seems to have heard.�

�Is he just having some fun at our expense?�

�I don�t think he�s the type. But one door or gate sounds much like any other, and POs were coming and going...� He stared at her. �The fact that you�ve got teams searching places that have already been searched tells me you�re not exactly making progress.�

�Fiscal was adamant it had to be done.�

�Forensics?� She shook her head. He studied her as she rubbed at her eyes. �Fox came to you specifically, didn�t he?�

�Yes.�

�Have you told Siobhan? Because a pound to a penny that�s why he did it � to let her know she�s no longer his blue-eyed girl.�

�I realise that.�

�Tell me you went straight to your team with it?�

�I did.�

�Because otherwise you�re giving him a hold over you. He tells your boss you held it back even for one day...�

�I took it to my team,� she assured him. Then: �We�re not all like you, John.�

He gave a short laugh, Esson joining in. Then he lowered his arms again and placed his hands on the desk, inches from hers.

�I think I know why you�ve brought me this, Christine, but I�d like to hear you say it.�

�It�s just... you�re in here and we�re out there, and we could use all the help we can get.�

�I doubt Harrison�s going to open up to me. I mean, I see him all the time, but if I start asking obvious questions...�

�Then forget I said anything. Last thing I want is you on my conscience.� She tried for a half-joking tone but didn�t pull it off.

Rebus kept his eyes on her. �Give me a number I can reach you on,� he said.

�You�ve got phones in here?�

�Didn�t you see the landline in the victim�s cell?�

�I think I was preoccupied.�

Rebus waited while she tore a sheet from a notebook and jotted down a mobile number.

When he tried to take it from her, she held on to it for a moment. �Nothing more you can tell me just now? Nothing that would help me get a fix on this?�

�Sorry, Christine.� Her grip on the sheet of paper loosened and he folded it into his pocket.

�And you will share anything you find?�

�Why wouldn�t I?�

�Because you�re you, and that means you might well want to present us with a fait accompli.�

�I�m not even sure I could spell it, never mind present it.�

�Just play nice, John. Do the right thing.�

He patted his pocket. �You�ll have heard the rumour, I take it?�

�Which one?�

He gestured towards the door. �That Chris Novak and Valerie Watts are an item?�

�I�d heard a whisper � you�re saying it�s true?�

�I�m not one for tittle-tattle. But if I were you, I�d want to know one way or the other...�

The door opened and a man stood there, staring at them. �Started the interviews without me?� he said, sounding unhappy.

�I�m ex-CID,� Rebus explained, rising to his feet. �DS Esson and me go back a ways. We were just catching up.�

The man�s eyes drilled into Rebus�s. �You�re on our list, though.�

�And all I�ll tell you is, I know as little as anyone else.�

�This is DI Mulgrew,� Esson said by way of introduction. Rebus held out a hand, which Mulgrew ignored.

�This isn�t exactly following procedures, Christine,� Mulgrew stated.

�I was just passing,� Rebus improvised. �Happened to see DS Esson, so we sat down for a chat. There was no discussion of the case, if that�s what�s squeezing your nuts.�

Mulgrew looked unconvinced. Rebus glanced in Esson�s direction: I�ve done what I can. Mulgrew was still holding the door open, so Rebus had to negotiate his way around him and out into the corridor, where Novak was waiting.

�Reckon she�s in trouble?� Novak asked as they started to walk.

Rebus turned his head long enough to watch Mulgrew close the door. �She�s a big girl, she�ll deal with it,� he said.

Though they walked in silence for the next few yards, Rebus knew Novak was on the verge of saying something. Eventually, as they stopped at one of the barred gates, he cleared his throat. He kept his eyes on his chain of keys, took his time finding the right one. A camera was watching, but there was no way of listening in. Nevertheless, he spoke in an undertone.

�When you were a cop, you stuck up for your mates, right? Never grassed them up even when they�d been a bit naughty? Same rules apply here. But you need to know that some of us might be more honest than others. It�s easy to get recruited � short spell of training and you�re in. But the past few months and years, some have been resigning almost before the ink�s dry on their contract. A matter of weeks and they�re done.�

�And why�s that?� Rebus asked.

�Because ultimately they�ve been placed in the system by the scumbags they work for. They smuggle stuff in until they�re rumbled or they start to lose their nerve. If you�ve got a head on your shoulders, you soon start to spot them. Not much you can do about it, though, unless you catch them in the act. Even then, another one steps into their shoes and it all starts again.� Novak broke off, raising his head so that his eyes met Rebus�s. �If told to, it�s likely one of them would have done Jackie Simpson...�

He unlocked the gate and both men passed through. While he was locking it again, Rebus spoke.

�They�d have to have been on the night shift, though. So who on your team don�t you trust?�

Novak seemed to be wrestling with whether to answer. He had started walking before he made up his mind. �Samms,� he eventually intoned. �Blair Samms.�

Rebus pulled up an image of Samms: early twenties, tall and skinny, cropped black hair, never seeming fully present, as though ticking down the minutes till each shift�s end.

And he�d worked the supper service alongside Valerie Watts.

�Have you given him to MIT?� Rebus watched Novak shake his head. �Why not?�

�Things are bad enough without it coming out that officers are on the take.�

�Was your car firebombed to warn you off?�

�They don�t like me because I want security and surveillance ramped up � no more smuggled phones and drugs. More cameras � ones that work � inside the jail and on the exterior walls.�

�So why tell me?� Rebus continued. �What makes you think I won�t take it straight back to DS Esson?�

�That�s up to you � but it can�t have come from me, understood?� Novak was ushering him through the last door before the library.

�And this isn�t just you covering your own arse?� Rebus risked asking. But Novak wasn�t about to answer that. He called out to Jimbo, and the prisoner scurried gratefully from the strange new world into which he�d been hurled. Rebus watched the two men walk away, Novak upright as ever, not a man to be messed with, Jimbo chattering away to him without ever seeming to expect it to turn into a dialogue.

A group of three prisoners plus one guard were inside the library. Books were being borrowed, Megan Keighley noting each one down while the borrowers admired her surreptitiously. Rebus�s glower in their general direction seemed to have no effect, so he went back to his task and got on with it. When one group left and another arrived, he paid them no heed, until he realised someone was hovering by his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with the scarred and nicked face of Bobby Briggs. Briggs made show of reaching past him to pluck a book from a shelf, his mouth a couple of inches from Rebus�s ear, his breath a mix of nicotine and onion.

�Everett tells me it�s too soon to do you in � one murder�s enough to be going on with. But I can bide my time, and you�re not going anywhere. Christie might say he�s got your back, but that means nothing to me. Got that?�

�It�s not just Darryl you�d be pissing off, though, Bobby,� Rebus improvised. �It�s Shay Hanlon, too.�

�Bullshit.�

�Ask your good pal Everett next time you see him. Better still, borrow a burner and call Shay yourself.�

�Come on then, you lot,� the officer was saying. Briggs looked ready to ignore the request, his eyes bolted on to Rebus. But with a final low growl, he turned away. He was the last to leave, throwing a baleful look at Rebus as he went.

Megan Keighley was clutching an oversized tome to her chest. �Not too many people in here give me the heebie-jeebies,� she told Rebus. �but he�s right at the top of my list.�

�Mine too,� Rebus said, realising his heart was pounding and nerves jangling.

After a calmer hour, his time was up and an officer arrived to escort him back to Trinity Hall. It was Blair Samms, Mr Nonchalance himself.

�Having a good day so far?� Rebus asked conversationally as they walked.

�Same old same old.�

�You�re far too young to sound so jaded.�

�Is that right?�

�You�re in a paying job � you�ve a lot to be grateful for.�

�You sound like my grandad.�

�What did he do for a living?�

�Lived off benefits.�

�Well, it�s a career, I suppose. I hope you treat him right � a few quid now and then for a bet on the horses or a couple of pints.�

�What�s it to you?�

�I�m just saying, I hope you appreciate the life you�re living. Good career to be had in the prison service.�

�You�re joking, aren�t you? Soon as I can, I�m out of here.�

�To do what?�

�Anything.�

�All that training wasted.� Rebus made show of shaking his head. �How many times have you been questioned?�

�That�s none of your business.�

�It�s just that you were on shift that night.�

�So?�

�So chances are��

�Chances are, you know fuck all about it.�

�Hence my interest,� Rebus persisted. �The kid reckons his dinner might have been spiked � I don�t suppose you saw anything?�

�He�s spinning you a yarn. Whoever it was killed Simpson, it wasn�t a PO.�

�Spontaneous bleeding then, maybe � should we be phoning for an exorcist?� Rebus waited for Samms to say something, but he stayed silent. �If it wasn�t one of yours, stands to reason it was one of mine. Who would your money be on? Darryl Christie? Everett Harrison?�

Samms glanced towards him. �Why those names specifically?�

Rebus just shrugged.

They had reached the gate leading to Rebus�s hall. As Samms unlocked it, Rebus studied him, trying to imagine him slashing another man�s throat. He couldn�t see it. But on the other hand... unlocking a door and sending the likes of Everett Harrison through it, knife gripped in his paw? Rebus reckoned Samms might have been just fine with that.

And Harrison, Rebus�s next-door neighbour, was the first person he saw as he approached his cell. Harrison gave him a little wave as he headed towards the shower cubicles, a towel draped over one shoulder. A wave and a smile, actually. It wasn�t often that Everett Harrison smiled.

Walking into his cell, Rebus had the immediate feeling that someone had paid a visit in his absence � nothing was quite where it had been when he�d left. But nothing obvious was missing either. A third CID search? He didn�t think so. He sat on the edge of his bed, facing the doorway. Bobby Briggs�s ape-like face morphed into Chris Novak�s then Blair Samms�s and eventually the smiling Everett Harrison � Shay Hanlon�s man. His surroundings began to lose their density, becoming a milky swirl. He placed his hands either side of him on the bed to steady himself, waiting for the feeling to pass. His mouth felt dry, but he lacked the energy to go to the sink for some water. After a while, everything began to stabilise, everything but his heart rate. When Samms passed his doorway, Rebus called to him and said he wanted to book a phone call.

�It�ll be tomorrow now,� Samms warned him, but Rebus shook his head.

�Tell the governor it has to be today.�

�The governor�s a busy man.�

�Just tell him, will you?� Rebus tried to sound less irritated than he felt. He could sense a headache starting behind both temples.

Samms headed off, giving no indication of whether he�d do as Rebus asked. Rebus knew he could always beg Christie for another burner, but he was damned if he�d do that, especially with Christie pissed off about the last one. Could Esson wait to hear what Novak had told him? She was probably still in the building. He could always demand to be taken to her, but then that would get everybody interested. Interested and curious. There was a killer somewhere in this place, almost certainly someone Rebus knew. The governor had come to his cell to talk to him, Malcolm Fox of OCCTU had summoned him to the governor�s office for a cosy chat, and Christine Esson had welcomed him to Pastoral Care. Rebus�s head was already well above the parapet. He would be patient, wait for word that he could make the phone call, play it safe.

Aye, John. Safe as any sitting duck. He forced himself to his feet, feeling the sudden need to be anywhere but this cell. He walked down the hall towards the body of the kirk. Darryl Christie was there, as were Mark Jamieson � still not looking a hundred per cent � and the Wizard and Ratty and Billy Groam. They all seemed interested in Rebus as he approached. So too did Valerie Watts, who was chewing gum as she patrolled, one hand on the two-way clipped to her shoulder. Someone was whistling the Amy Winehouse song, as they always did when Watts was on duty.

Any one of you, Rebus said silently to himself. Any one of you...

In the days before Police Scotland, the country had been served by eight regional forces, Lothian and Borders being one. Its headquarters was a tall concrete and glass box located on Fettes Avenue. Back then, this building had housed CEOP, the Child Exploitation and Online Protection division, but now Fettes was little more than a warehouse, and one with crumbling walls. There was talk of razing it to the ground and replacing it with housing, but nothing had happened as yet. CEOP no longer lived there; in fact, as far as Siobhan Clarke could ascertain, it was no longer a Scottish concern, falling instead under the jurisdiction of the National Crime Agency in London. Eventually she�d been connected to a single officer in the Scottish Crime Campus at Gartcosh, Lanarkshire. Detective Sergeant Louise Hird had given her a twenty-minute window, starting at 11.30 a.m.

Traffic west out of Edinburgh was the usual crawl, spray from other vehicles meaning she spent every other minute clearing the windscreen. She didn�t relish the prospect of a visit to Malcolm Fox�s domain and the HQ of Professional Standards. No happy memories there, but at least she was used to the protocols at the well-guarded gatehouse � not at all dissimilar to those at Rebus�s prison. She waited in the airy atrium, refusing eye contact and hoping not to be recognised by colleagues she had effectively snubbed.

DS Hird looked to be no older than her mid twenties. Only the set of her jaw and the slight glaze to her eyes hinted at the things she probably saw each and every day. She was dressed fashionably � a red skirt that ended above her knees, sheer black tights, olive-green blouse. Around her neck dangled all the electronic passes she needed to gain access to the inner core of the building. Her hair was cropped and reddish-gold. Her freckled face didn�t quite manage a smile as she held out a hand for Clarke to shake.

�The prodigal returns,� she said.

�I was hoping I might have been airbrushed out of the picture.�

�Gartcosh never forgets.� Hird gestured towards the stairs and led Clarke up a level. �I know you�re probably thinking we could have done this on the phone, but I prefer face-to-face.�

�What I�m actually thinking is that we used to have a whole office at Fettes dedicated to kids at risk.�

�And now all the poor mites have is me.� Hird turned her head to meet Clarke�s eyes. �Efficiency savings.�

�So you work for the NCA?�

�I work for the victims.� Hird was taking brisk strides towards a door, Clarke just about keeping up. She risked a glance across the expansive stairwell to where Internal Affairs had its suite of offices.

�You�re quite safe with me,� Hird commented. �Besides, I�ve not seen Malcolm today.�

Clarke followed her into a small room, its glass walls covered by blinds that were probably kept closed at all times. There was nothing on display � no photos of predators or victims; no notes or lists of names. A single locked cabinet stood in one corner and a solitary desk in the middle of the room. There was a printer, a cable straggling from it, but nothing else, other than a biro and a blank pad of paper. Hird sat down and gestured for Clarke to take the only other chair.

�I�m sorry,� she said, �we should have stopped at the coffee counter.�

�I had something on the way here,� Clarke said.

Hird nodded, seeming satisfied, and unlocked her desk drawer, sliding out a slim notebook computer and opening it up. Clarke noticed that she locked the drawer again afterwards. She tried not to think about what might be lurking within, just out of sight.

�The bad news is,� Hird was saying as she typed, �it�s a new one to me so there�s not much I can tell you.� She paused for a moment before turning the screen towards Clarke. It was displaying the homepage of Young Fresh East Coast. �They come and they go. The set-up is usually very similar. Sometimes it�s even a boyfriend behind the camera.�

�Jasmine�s friends think she might have been seeing someone after school. Nobody knows who.�

But Hird was shaking her head. �Too many on the roster, and both sexes. A bit more organisation required. Therefore not just a persuasive boyfriend with a money-making idea.� She gnawed at her lip as she played with the homepage.

�I�ve been able to track down one punter,� Clarke explained. �He couldn�t tell me much either. Seems to think the site�s gone dead.�

Hird peered over the screen towards Clarke. �Easier if you bring your chair here.� While Clarke moved it, Hird shifted along a little. She circled the cursor on Jazz�s thumbnail. �This is your misper?�

�That�s her,� Clarke stated.

�Wild child, is she?�

�I don�t get a sense of that.�

�A quiet one then, easily led?�

�Maybe. Family life is... Well, the father spends a good deal of time elsewhere, and his relationship with Jasmine�s mother could be described as feisty.� Clarke leaned forward, pointing towards the photos. �I really need to know where this is. What are the chances of making that happen?�

Hird puffed out her cheeks. �Slim,� she eventually conceded. �I�ll give it to London, but it might take a while. They can definitely decrypt the facial features. But as for following the trail back from the IP address... You don�t know any teenage hackers, do you? They�d probably have about as much luck. The thing about the online world is, the scrotes are cleverer than us and at least three steps ahead. As soon as the internet was born, porn was right there astride it, every taste catered for and no questions asked.�

�But to get ordinary teenagers to do this sort of thing...�

�I assume you don�t know many teenagers? They�ve grown up exhibiting themselves for the benefit of a screen, craving all those heart emojis. Most of them will have seen worse than this after a couple of clicks.� Hird looked at Clarke. �I�m assuming all they�re doing is stripping and touching themselves?�

�The punter mentioned twosomes.�

�So far, so low-level.�

�He also said the performers never meet the clients � but I�m guessing that sometimes occurs?�

�You think that�s what�s happened to Jasmine? Found herself a sugar daddy?�

�Is it likely?� Clarke�s throat felt dry.

�Probably not without the agreement of whoever�s behind the camera. If we can access the clips, we can maybe hear him speak. Doubtful, though � it shatters the illusion that it�s just the paying customer and the performer.�

Hird clicked on the speaker icon and turned up the volume.

�I�m horny as hell. Please choose me. I�ll do anything your heart desires.�

�They all say the same thing,� Clarke commented.

�It�s definitely her voice?�

�I�ve yet to check.�

Hird nodded. �Not the easiest conversation to have with the parents.�

�I know.� Clarke leaned forward a little. �You�ve come across this set-up before � can you think of people with previous who might be who I�m looking for?�

Hird shrugged. �Jasmine is in Edinburgh, but what about the others? I mean, could she have travelled to Fife or Glasgow, maybe even Newcastle?�

�It says it�s East Coast.�

�Doesn�t really mean anything. I once saw a porn film with the word Swedish in the title. First thing I noticed was a car with a German number plate. Ruined the whole thing.�

Clarke managed a weak smile. �The voices all sound fairly local.�

Hird listened to a couple of them, then lifted the pen and tapped it against her cheek. �We do have a roll-call of past and present offenders. I can pull it up and see if anyone looks likely. But I know for a fact none of them are Edinburgh-based. Sure you don�t want a coffee? I could do with one.�

�Okay then.�

She slapped shut her computer and locked it back in its drawer. �I�m glad you brought me this. It�s actually refreshing.�

�Refreshing?�

�They�re usually a lot younger � sorry to be so blunt.�

�I don�t know how you can do it.�

�The usual answer is: someone has to.� Hird gestured for Clarke to exit the room in front of her, turning to lock the door after them. �I get sessions with a counsellor � and the posting only lasts a year or so, with a promotion soon after.� She sucked in some air as she walked towards the coffee counter, where a male barista was busy at the gleaming machine. �But the first answer I gave you,� she said, �that gets to the nub of it really, even though it sometimes seems we�re trying to push back a tsunami with a handful of sweeping brushes. Will cappuccino do you?�

�Cappuccino is fine,� Clarke said quietly.

They took their drinks to one of the breakout booths, where they wouldn�t be overheard. A few passing officers nodded or waved a greeting in Hird�s direction. Both women concentrated on their drinks for the best part of a minute, then Hird sniffed and cleared her throat.

�The internet has normalised stuff that would have been off limits two generations back. Girls like Jasmine are bombarded with it. Boys at her school won�t have any problem with choking, anal, spitting. And if a girl complains...� She gave a shrug. �You�ve accessed her phone and computer, checked her socials?�

�It�s under way.�

�Guy operating the camera could have met her that way � cajoled her and flattered her.�

�Paid her, too � friends say she�s been flush of late.�

�No radical mood changes? Absences noticed by her parents?� It was Clarke�s turn to shrug. �It�s just that drugs are often part of the equation, keep the performers docile.� Hird took another sip of coffee. �What have you done about this punter you identified?�

�He basically identified himself � went to a reporter and wanted money for his story.�

�Nice.�

�But to answer your question, I�ve left him dangling.�

�And sweating, too, I hope?�

�What�s the best I should be hoping for here, Louise?�

�Best case, she comes waltzing home unharmed. Like you say, a client could have whisked her off to the south of France for a good pampering.�

�Ever known that to happen?�

�No.�

�I really need to get to whoever�s running the operation.�

�I promise I�ll talk to London. I wish I could say it�ll be a high priority, but...�

Another passing detective nodded towards Hird, but then seemed to place Clarke and did a double-take before heading in the direction of Professional Standards.

�That�s you been clocked,� Hird said.

Clarke drained her cardboard cup. �I need to be going anyway. Thanks again for seeing me.�

�But you hope we never have reason to meet again � right?�

�Professionally anyway.� The two women shook hands. As Clarke was descending the staircase, she glanced back and saw Louise Hird making her way to her locked office and its drawers filled with nightmares.

Silently she wished the young woman well.

Rebus had been watching Blair Samms as best he could while the officer worked the day shift. This hadn�t escaped Ratty�s attention � very little did. He sidled over to Rebus and stood beside him as Rebus rested against the wall near his cell.

�Has he done something?� he asked in an undertone, scratching his nose to further muffle his words.

�What makes you think that?� Rebus kept his eyes on Samms as he spoke.

�You�ve got a sniper�s look about you.�

�Is it that obvious?�

�You�re actually doing a good job of acting casual. Proof of that is that Samms hasn�t noticed you scoping him out.�

�What do you hear about him, Ratty?�

�Samms? No particular beef with anybody. Clocks on and clocks off. Bit of a closed book.�

�Doesn�t do favours for anyone?�

�Bringing stuff in, you mean?� Ratty watched Rebus give an almost imperceptible nod. He rubbed at his nose again, thoughtfully this time. �We all know it goes on.�

�But do we know who�s doing it?�

�The good ones keep it well hidden.�

�I�ve heard the stories � get recruited, do the training, spend a while working for both sides, then skedaddle.�

�That�s what you think Samms�s game is?�

Rebus�s mouth twitched. �You heard anything new about Jackie?�

�Just that forensics found plenty fingerprints and DNA in his cell, belonging to cons and POs both. Stands to reason: Jackie was a popular guy, people liked to hang out with him.�

�And how do you come to know all this?�

�I keep in with the cleaning crew. They happened to be passing the governor�s office...�

Rebus nodded his understanding. �A word with you in private,� he said, heading for his cell. He positioned himself by his desk, Ratty arriving a few moments later. �Best leave the door open. Looks less suspicious that way.�

�You�ve got me worried.� Ratty gave a nervous grin.

�Any particular reason for that?�

�What�s going on, John? Am I in trouble here?�

�You tell me.�

Ratty looked like he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head. �Thought we were pals,� he commented.

�We are. But you work the kitchen and the serving-up.�

�You not getting enough? Want me to sneak you some rations? Watts and Samms keep tabs on everything, but I can see if��

�And there�s nothing you can tell me about either of them?�

�Not that I can think of.�

�How about the rest of the team � Devo and Malachi?�

�Fuck�s going on here, John?�

�Mark Jamieson reckons he might�ve been slipped something the night he was KO�d. Either in his meal or his tea.�

Ratty gave a snort. �He�s covering his arse. Guy was self-medicated to the max and he knows how that�s going to look in dispatches.� His eyes narrowed, making him appear more rat-like than ever. �Maybe it was me, eh, John? That the way your thinking�s headed? Why not just ask me flat out?�

�Because I�ve no real reason not to trust you. You�ve been decent to me. So I�m asking � Watts, Samms, Devo and Malachi. If one of them was spiking someone, who would your money be on?�

Ratty fell silent, moving to the chair and slumping down on it, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Samms passed outside, walking with the usual studied determination. He saw Ratty and his eyes moved to Rebus. Rebus pinched the fingers of one hand together and made an extravagant sign of the cross, as if he were taking Ratty�s confession. Samms got the reference and grinned, moving on. Rebus hoped he�d continue to take it as a joke, or better still forget about it altogether.

Ratty looked up but saw only the empty doorway. �Devo,� he said quietly. �I�m not saying he did it, I can�t for the life of me think he did. But if I had to choose.�

�And why him?�

�Partly because he was serving up that night. Serving the meat and gravy, I mean. Easier to plant something in that gloop without it being noticed by the person eating it. Potatoes and carrots � you�d notice, wouldn�t you? Pudding was tinned fruit and ice cream � again, hard to spike without it being obvious.�

�How about the mugs of tea?�

�Well, you couldn�t do the whole urn, could you?�

�Fair point,� Rebus conceded. �The officers couldn�t have intervened at any point?�

Ratty answered with a shrug.

�Tell me about Devo,� Rebus went on.

�What�s to tell? Stole blind from everyone he ever met, including his gran and grandad. Been inside more than he�s been out. Caught on CCTV lifting the charity tin from an Oxfam counter.�

�Who�s he pals with?�

�Everybody and nobody.�

�Everett Harrison?�

�Most of us like to keep a respectful distance from Big H.� Ratty stared at Rebus. �Why are you breaking your back on this?�

�It�s what I do.�

�Trying to shift suspicion from Novak and his mates?�

�If that was the plan, you�ve just been a big help.�

�How?�

�By not fingering Watts or Samms.�

Ratty thought about this. �Aye, right enough,� he conceded.

�Which is why I know I can trust you � you told the truth as you saw it, didn�t try to frame a PO.�

�I�m a fool to myself,� Ratty said with a thin smile.

�Think you could maybe have a quiet word with Malachi, see if he saw anything during service that day? Without making it too obvious, I mean.�

�Might not be easy. Malachi�s pretty bright. He�ll soon suss the whys and the wherefores.�

Rebus had moved closer to the door, signalling that the meeting was over. �I�d appreciate it,� he said. As Ratty made to pass him, he placed a hand against his shoulder. �One last thing,� he said. �If you do ever get hold of those extra rations...�

�One Tunnock�s equals two ciggies,� Ratty explained.

�I don�t smoke, though.�

He swept the cell�s interior with his eyes. �Maybe a nebuliser, then. I can always find a use for a nebuliser...�

After Ratty had gone, Rebus lay on his bed for a while with his forearm across his eyes. It was something you never thought about on the outside � the control you had over such simple everyday things as switching a light on or off. In here, someone else held sway. He reckoned that was one reason why ex-cons sometimes found life afterwards hard to adjust to. How the hell did you plan meals or do the shopping required � all those shelves, all those choices to be made?

Others, of course, took to prison life as if born to it, a simple extension of the schools or other institutions they�d known throughout the course of their lives. Rebus himself had gone straight from school to the army and from there to police training, but always with questions and never quite happy to blindly follow the rules and regs. He�d survived his share of disciplinaries and reckoned he�d managed never to become just a cog, serving a function dictated from elsewhere in the machinery. If he�d wanted a quiet life he�d have refused the move to the general prison population, but the quiet life wasn�t really his thing, never had been. All the same, he knew he wasn�t the man he had been. More aches and pains, less likely to win any physical contest. Which was why, even with eyes closed, his ears remained alert to danger. Briggs would have been checking. Soon enough he�d be ready to call Rebus out on his spurious relationship with Shay Hanlon. That meant being watchful during free flow. But even here in Trinity Hall, there was Everett Harrison to consider. He was close to Briggs. So far he�d taken Rebus�s side, but that might change at any moment � and he was only a cell away, a cell directly across from Jackie Simpson�s. Jackie Simpson, whose misadventures had led to Harrison�s sentencing.

Rebus could see it. An officer on the take; the unlocking of Harrison�s cell; padding across the floor to where the same officer was opening Simpson�s door; Mark Jamieson out for the count; a towel stuffed into Simpson�s mouth and his throat cut.

How long would the whole thing have taken? Two or three minutes tops. Then the clean-up � bloodied clothing placed in a bag, to be carried out of the prison at shift�s end, along with the murder weapon. Rebus knew that ceramic knives could be smuggled in, no metal detectors triggered. CCTV would have caught someone leaving Harrison�s cell, but then CCTV could be wiped or altered, couldn�t it?

Neat and tidy, and with the night-shift POs firmly in the frame...

�A penny for them.�

He flinched at the voice, swinging his legs off the bed.

�Easy there,� Novak said from the doorway. �Didn�t mean to scare you.�

�Who said I was scared?�

�Just a convincing impression then.� He took a couple of steps into the cell, pulling the door until it was open only a few inches. He dropped his voice a level when he spoke. �Blair Samms tells me you had Ratty in here earlier. Got him working for you?�

�I was just taking confession.�

�Aye, that tickled Samms.� Novak turned the chair towards him and settled on it.

�Say Samms was in somebody�s pocket,� Rebus said, �who would your bet be?�

�Darryl�s the obvious answer. But then there�s always Shay Hanlon�s buddy.�

�Meaning Harrison?�

�Meaning Big H,� Novak confirmed. �But there are probably others, too.�

�I�ve been hearing of threats against officers � not just here, but other jails. Your car went up in flames, but has there been anything else?�

Novak considered for a moment before replying. �Drive-bys in the middle of the night, horns blaring. A dead cat lobbed over the garden fence. My wife even found a note in her trolley when she reached the supermarket till.�

�What did it say?�

��Play nice.��

�Just that?�

�Just that.� Novak shifted on the chair. �Could be something or nothing.�

�No notes since that one?� Rebus watched Novak shake his head. �What do you think it meant?�

�Turn a blind eye; if you�re asked to do something, do it.�

�You�re sure it was meant for you?�

�Not really.�

�And have you been asked to turn a blind eye?�

�Not as yet.�

�Told Esson and her team any of this?�

�What�s the point? If anything, it just makes me the more likely suspect.�

�How about your CID cousin?�

�Cammy? He�s a bit busy working crimes he�s got half a chance of solving.�

�If I was playing devil�s advocate,� Rebus said after a moment, �I�d now be saying that there�s only your word for it about these threats. Whole thing could be made up to make you look either innocent or a scapegoat.�

�You�re a hard man to please.�

�Mark Jamieson reckons his supper that night could�ve been spiked. Ratty, Devo and Malachi were on duty, supervised by Watts and Samms � the man you reckon might be on the take.�

�Is that what you were asking Ratty about?�

�He more or less vouched for Watts and Samms.�

�Leaving Malachi and Devo � if you�re ruling out Ratty himself.�

�Either of them look likely to you?�

�It�s easily done, a bit of powder or a pill. If asked by the right person, I�d say neither of them would say no.�

�Can�t say I�ve noticed them looking any different since that night.�

�It�s not like the person asking would suddenly be filling their cell with strippers and booze.�

�No, but they�d probably find themselves part of that person�s charmed circle.�

�I�ve seen no sign of it, but I�ll definitely be keeping watch.�

�For what it�s worth, Ratty reckons Devo is the most obvious candidate.�

Both men became aware of voices rising down the hall, their heads turning towards the disturbance. Novak sprinted from Rebus�s cell and turned sharp left. Rebus wasn�t far behind. Prisoners had huddled around the figure of Darryl Christie, their shouts blurring with his. Officers were wading in. It looked to Rebus as though some prisoners were bent on protecting Christie while others were trying to get to him. There was a stick of some kind, jutting up above the various heads. Rebus recognised it as a pool cue.

As he got closer, he saw that one end of the cue had been forced into Everett Harrison�s mouth. Harrison was gagging on it, face almost purple. He�d been forced to his knees and was trying to dislodge the cue with one hand while beating against Christie�s forearm with the other. Two of Christie�s lieutenants were pressing down on Harrison�s shoulders. When someone threw a punch at an officer, the alarm sounded, more bodies arriving. There was a look on Christie�s face that Rebus had witnessed once before; an intense, vibrant madness. Aided by the fresh slew of white shirts, Harrison managed to free himself of the pool cue, retching and holding a hand to his throat as he stumbled to safety. Rebus had no idea what had lit the actual fuse, but he knew something like it had been in the offing � all that anger and resentment at Jackie Simpson�s death, all the uncertainty and the feeling that to the outside world none of it � and none of them � mattered very much.

Order was being restored, Christie dragged away towards the gate and the corridor beyond. He locked eyes with Rebus and smiled with his teeth. Harrison sat, knees pulled up to his chin, back against the wall near the pool table. He was being checked over by Samms and Novak. The gathered prisoners now looked hesitant � whose side should they take? Some turned towards the gate through which Darryl Christie had been led. Christie was a local and Christie had power, but Harrison worked for Shay Hanlon, and Hanlon, being a lesser-known quantity, had a touch of the mythic about him. Everyone knew what Darryl Christie could do, but Hanlon�s capabilities were all in the realm of the imagination. The uncertainty loomed large on several faces. Men who had been spoiling for a fight � any fight � now seemed bewildered and lost. They returned to their cells without fuss while Harrison was helped to his feet. He didn�t argue when it was suggested he be taken to the nurses� station. He seemed unwilling or unable to speak, and kept one hand cupped around his throat.

�What was that all about then?� one officer asked, but Harrison just shook his head. Billy Groam, Rebus�s neighbour, wondered aloud if the pool cues would now be put into cold storage.

�Happened with the dartboard after that one time,� he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

�Let�s all go back in our cells,� Novak was advising. �Leave things to settle down.� He had his arms outstretched, ushering his charges into their quarters. Rebus stayed put on the threshold, and when Novak approached, he told him he needed to speak to Christie.

�Way beyond my pay grade, John,� Novak informed him.

�That�s why I need you to take it to the governor.�

Novak stared at him. �Governor�s probably got more pressing concerns.�

�Despite which, I need you to ask him.�

�Owe you a favour, does he?�

Rather than answer, Rebus retreated to his bed, lying down again, but this time without shading his eyes. He kept them open, unblinking, as he stared towards and beyond the ceiling.

It was a further hour before Graves arrived at his door and announced that the boss needed to see him. As they crossed the hall, Rebus noted that the pool cues and balls had indeed been removed. As they neared Howard Tennent�s office, the man himself emerged, locking the door after him.

�I�ll take it from here,� he said to Graves. Then, watching the officer retreat the way he�d just come: �Is this absolutely necessary, John?�

�Afraid so.�

�Am I allowed to ask why?�

�Maybe later.�

They began to walk. �Making any headway?� Tennent eventually asked.

�Of sorts � mostly ruling stuff out, but that can be useful in itself.�

�What just happened with Darryl and Everett?�

�Search me.�

�Are you about to ask?� Tennent watched Rebus angle his head slightly. He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. �The police inquiry has stalled � no one�s saying as much, but it�s obvious. Only DI Fox seems still to have some fire in his belly.�

�Probably a curry disagreeing with him.�

�You don�t rate him?�

�One-star reviews across the board.�

�Well, I like what I�ve seen of the man.�

�Stick with it, he�ll soon disappoint you.� Rebus paused. �Can I ask you something?�

Tennent glanced at him. �What?�

�Do you ever hear anything about my appeal?�

The governor shook his head.

�You�d tell me if you did?� Rebus pressed on.

�Look, John, I don�t think you should be in here any more than you do. But no one�s going to tell me before they tell you.�

Tennent focused on unlocking yet another solid metal door. They were headed to SRU, where Rebus had spent his first three months. Solitary was part of this complex � two cells, neither of them roomy, each with a sink and toilet with no privacy, every ablution visible from the spyhole. No phones or TVs here, no kettles or bookshelves. A solid concrete ledge for a bed, with only a thin mattress and blanket. Plus a sliver of window so high up the wall it was rendered all but meaningless.

The officer in charge of the unit was waiting for them. He nodded a curt greeting to Rebus as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Darryl Christie sat on the ledge, head bowed.

�You need to wait out here,� Rebus told Tennent as he stepped inside, pulling the door closed after him.

�You sound like you own the place,� Christie commented without raising his head.

�That would mean filling your shoes, Darryl. I�m not sure they�d fit.�

�I own the square root of fuck all, that�s the truth of it.� Christie couldn�t contain the bitterness spilling out of him.

�What�s happened?�

Rebus waited, but all he received was a slow shake of the head. After half a minute, Christie�s head shot up, his eyes fixing on to Rebus�s. �You and Malcolm Fox go back a ways, aye?�

�We�ve had our moments.�

�He�s Organised Crime � wankers crawled all over me back in the day, phone taps, the lot. Far as I know, their hard-on�s not gone away just because I have.�

�What�s Organised Crime got to do with this?�

There was that smile again, that dangerous smile. �Everything,� Christie stated.

�How long do I have to wait for you to bring up his name?�

�Whose?�

�Shay Hanlon.�

�That bastard,� Christie snarled.

�Harrison works for Hanlon. The two of you have always seemed amicable, but something�s changed. You can�t get to Hanlon, but you can have a go at the next best thing � so you did.�

�Were you this smart in school? Arm always shooting up to answer the teacher�s question?�

�Actually, I was pretty average. Bunked off a lot. I�ve tried making up for it since.�

Christie had made his mind up. He checked over Rebus�s shoulder that the door was closed, but even so he rose to his feet, leaning his mouth in towards Rebus�s left ear.

�A couple of my guys have been got at. Shooters pointed at them, told to leave the city or else. The attackers ride motorbikes and have Scouse accents.�

�Scouse means Hanlon,� Rebus agreed.

�The lads he�s threatened are top of the class. When they walk, all that�s left are the narrow passes and dunces.�

�Hanlon�s making his play,� Rebus surmised.

�I need to know what Fox knows. Do you think he�d tell you?�

The only credible answer to this being �not a chance in hell�, Rebus kept his mouth shut. Not that Christie seemed to be paying attention, his head filled with fizzing energy.

�If Hanlon�s back on UK soil, I can plan a hit. Even if he�s not, I need to know who he�s got in charge up here.�

�Pity you didn�t ask Harrison.�

Christie considered for a moment. �Aye, well... that�d been on my mind, but then when I started walking towards him, he had a big smarmy grin on his coupon and I just wanted it gone � because that grin told me he knew that I knew. He reckons his boss can just waltz into my city, after all the sweat I�ve broken. I needed to show him, and there was Mark Jamieson lining up a shot, the cue almost winking at me as I made to pass him...�

�I reckon that�s a bridge burned then.�

�Which is why I need access to Fox and his shiny-suited brethren.�

Rebus pretended to be thinking. �I�ll need a phone.�

�Easiest thing in the world.�

�Not with you stuck in here for the foreseeable.�

Christie shook his head at Rebus�s naivety. �Third shower stall from the left. Reach down into the drain. It should have plenty of charge and credit. You can hang on to it after � call it your reward.� He stood back a little so Rebus could see the finger he was wagging at him. �But I want that info, John. If I don�t get it, I won�t be a very happy monkey.�

�Lucky for me there are no pool cues left for you to use.�

�Don�t you worry about that � I�ve been known to improvise. I�m sure I�ll think of something to hurt you with.�

�Noted.� Rebus stepped past Christie and pushed open the door. Tennent was just the other side, his face giving nothing away. Either he�d heard or he hadn�t. Rebus wasn�t sure it mattered.

�We�ll talk later, Darryl,� the governor said sternly.

�And to think they call it solitary,� Christie shot back. �A man can�t get five minutes� peace...�

Jason Mulgrew was waiting for Esson on the busy pavement. She reckoned this part of the city would normally be sleepy and well ordered. A few school runs and early-morning grocery deliveries. Neighbours had emerged from their homes to watch the commotion. Two scene-of-crime vans were parked up, alongside four marked police cars.

�I was hoping you�d be the bearer of coffee,� Mulgrew said as he opened the door of Esson�s car for her.

�Three pints a bit much for you, Jason?�

�It felt like the right thing to do. Malcolm seems a good guy, no bullshit about him.�

�You suffering from long COVID? Lost your sense of smell?�

His mouth twitched. �At least I know now why you and John Rebus were having that little chat in Pastoral Care.�

�John wants a result, same as the rest of us.�

They had arrived at one of the vans, its rear doors open, an officer dispatching overalls, gloves and shoe coverings. Esson glanced in the direction of the two-storey house they were about to enter. �Who was it told you?� she asked.

�The DCI got wind of it first thing, recognised the victim�s name.�

The street was tree-lined and the branches above Esson were dripping on her. She gave them a stern look as she tugged the hood over her head. Barnton to most Edinburgh residents was a neighbourhood they drove past on their way north and west. It tended to house professionals and those who�d done well for themselves. One middle-aged woman was complaining to the young constable who was setting up the cordon.

�Probably worried it�ll affect the value of her house,� Esson commented. �Who found the body?�

�Victim�s mother. She hadn�t heard from him for a few days � thought it unusual. Came for a look-see and let herself in. Soon after, she was phoning 999.�

�Where is she now?�

�They took her back home. Hoping to interview her properly as soon as she calms down.�

They had reached the front door, where they gave their details to an officer holding a clipboard. Then they were in. The living area was large, open-plan and lurid, the art on the walls apparently chosen for its screaming contrasts of colours. A TV projector was aimed at the one vacant wall. Two cream leather sofas were arranged in a V shape and shelving held an array of bottles, glasses, video games and football magazines. Zebra-patterned rugs partially covered the parquet floor.

�He was found in the kitchen,� Mulgrew stated, so that was where they headed next. The body was in situ but about to be removed. A camera technician was checking his footage, making sure he hadn�t missed anything. The kitchen boasted a central island, topped with speckled white marble. Two of the forensics team were paying it particularly close attention. Even from a couple of metres away, Esson recognised the smear of liquid on one corner as blood. She hadn�t known Zak Campbell in life � Siobhan Clarke was the football fan. But here he was, growing cold on his kitchen floor.

Haj Atwal, the scene-of-crime boss, recognised Esson and nodded a greeting. But then he saw Mulgrew and gave a growl.

�Hood, for pity�s sake, man!�

Mulgrew, who had been giving his head a scratch, looked mortified and quickly tugged the elasticated material over his head.

�I assume he didn�t just slip and fall?� Esson asked from behind her face mask.

�Damage to his forehead was probably done by the worktop,� Atwal answered. �As to why he toppled over...� He nodded towards one of the evidence bags arranged on a nearby worktop. The detectives walked towards it. There was a six-inch kitchen knife inside, its blade smeared with blood, the handle showing traces of fingerprint powder. Esson looked to where, further along, a knife block exhibited one empty slot.

�Just the single puncture wound, delivered from behind,� Atwal went on. �Knife was dropped on the floor afterwards.�

�Tell me we have prints,� Mulgrew said, staring at the body.

They watched Atwal shake his head.

Esson dragged her eyes away from the evidence bag. �Who�s running the show?� she asked.

�Gillian Reeves�s team.�

�So where are they?�

�Upstairs maybe,� Atwal said. Esson turned and left the kitchen, heading for the hallway.

�What do you reckon?� Mulgrew asked as they climbed.

�All we know right now is Zak Campbell was good friends with Marcus Simpson and Marcus�s father just happens to be our case.�

The walls of the upstairs corridor were covered in framed football jerseys and press cuttings from Zak Campbell�s glory years. Every door stood open and voices were coming from the far end. Esson passed a bathroom, and what looked to be the main bedroom, plus a room turned into a home office. The final bedroom was where the gathering was taking place. Its curtains were closed, illumination provided by a pink light bulb in the ceiling. A digital camera stood atop a tripod, pointed towards the bed.

�Looks like he filmed his conquests,� one officer commented for the benefit of Esson and Mulgrew. Esson ignored him, her gaze fixed on the bed and the wall behind it. She had seen that pale striped wallpaper before.

�Oh crap,� she eventually said. Detective Inspector Gillian Reeves turned to look at her.

�What is it, Christine?�

�I know this room, Gillian.� Esson was trying to dig her phone out of her overalls, but it was proving impossible. �And what Zak Campbell was doing here goes way beyond collecting notches on his bedpost...�

Malcolm Fox was at the office in Gayfield Square. He�d asked where Esson and Mulgrew were, but no one seemed to know. He was studying the footage from the prison for the umpteenth time, but focusing on the cells of Harrison and Christie from before lock-up on the night of the killing. He was looking for interactions with officers or signs that either prisoner was more nervous or excited than usual. There was nothing obvious. Same went for the aftermath of the body�s discovery. No officer looked unsurprised, while Harrison and Christie were their usual selves. Then again, whoever had been involved would have known they were being watched and recorded. They�d have been primed to act naturally. When he looked at the queue for supper the previous evening, he was pleased to see Rebus so low in the pecking order, over a dozen inmates ahead of him. Darryl Christie was, of course, first in line. The victim, Jackie Simpson, looked relaxed, three ahead of Rebus. When he was served, Fox could see nothing amiss, no tells from any officer or fellow con.

Fox stretched and cracked his vertebrae back into place. Next to his computer sat a printout detailing every recorded minute of the night shift, gaps marked where officers� whereabouts could not be verified. The toilet break taken by Novak and Watts was the most conspicuous, since there was no evidence of either officer entering or leaving the lavatory. But as the interview transcripts showed, they were sticking to their story. Fox�s eyes felt gritty from time spent peering at the camera footage, looking for any signs of shadow play, indicating activity just out of shot. He checked the printout again, its granular level of detail impressive without being in the least bit helpful.

When Jason Mulgrew walked in, hauling off his coat as if intending to do it actual physical harm, Fox got to his feet.

�What�s happened?� he asked.

Mulgrew had come to a halt between the desks of Zara Shah and Paul Allbright.

�Our victim�s son Marcus was pally with a local celeb called Zak Campbell. Campbell�s just turned up dead and it seems he might be connected to that schoolgirl who disappeared. They�ve swiped Christine from us until further notice.� He looked at the two seated figures. �They�ll probably want to talk to you about your interview with Marcus Simpson. Make sure you�re happy with whatever notes you took.�

He waited until Shah and Allbright had nodded their understanding, then went to the kettle and switched it on. Fox joined him.

�You�re angry,� Fox stated.

�Should have been me, not Christine,� Mulgrew muttered, spooning coffee into a mug.

�I can see that � you�re the senior officer. But you�re in charge of this case, Jason, and I�m glad you are. You�re a proper detective, and Christ knows this place could do with one of those. Judging by last night, Christine might�ve picked up too many bad habits from the likes of Siobhan Clarke.�

�Christine�s a decent cop too, you know.�

�If you say so.�

Mulgrew seemed to be calming a little. He looked towards the desk Fox had been using. �I don�t suppose you�ve found anything?�

�Not much, no. I�m wondering about Valerie Watts, though. On duty during the meal service, then locking Simpson�s door at lights-out...�

�Not forgetting that gap in the camera footage.�

�The famous loo break, yes.�

�You think we should talk to her again?�

�If we do, I wouldn�t mind it happening away from her place of work. You can tell a lot from a person�s home life and how they act there.�

�Out of uniform, as it were?�

Fox nodded slowly while Mulgrew added milk to his drink.

�Should have asked if you wanted one, Malcolm.�

�I�m fine,� Fox assured him. His eyes swept across the near-empty office. �But with Christine out of the picture, I reckon I�m definitely needed here, wouldn�t you say?�

�Absolutely,� Mulgrew confirmed. �Wouldn�t have it any other way...�

By the time Clarke got back to St Leonard�s, Esson and Reeves had finished making their introductions. Space was tight and desks were being shared. Clarke couldn�t help but think again of the few formative years she�d spent here alongside John Rebus, years when she�d seemed part of the fabric of the place.

These days she felt more like a visitor.

Esson was chatting with Cammy Colson, eyes already glazing over as he treated her to his full-bore drawl. Pete Swinton and Trisha Singh were keeping their distance, pretending to be busy with computer cables and extension leads.

Spotting Clarke, Esson excused herself from Colson, who carried on talking for a further few moments before realising he�d lost his audience.

�Is he always like that?� she said, leaning in towards Clarke.

�This is him on a good day. Everything all right otherwise?�

�Where did you disappear to?� Esson asked, ignoring the question.

�Visiting an old friend. How did you enjoy your drink with Malcolm Fox?�

Esson gave her a look. �The drink was Malcolm and Jason; I just sort of invited myself along.�

�So Fox has dumped the pair of us for Jason Mulgrew?�

�I think you�ll find we dumped Fox, remember?�

�Good point.� Clarke paused. �Why did John phone you, though?�

�He didn�t confide in you? Then maybe I shouldn�t either.�

�You�re not his lawyer, Christine � you�re allowed to talk.�

�He had some info.�

�About the Simpson murder?�

�Yes.�

�Did he also mention Darryl Christie kicking off?�

�He did. He wanted me to talk to Malcolm about it, see if he knew what was happening with Christie�s gang.�

�And since Malcolm was right there alongside��

Clarke broke off as DCI Bryan Carmichael made his entrance, clapping his hands together to attract everyone�s attention.

�As you can see,� he began, �I�ve got my coat on. Alas, not on my way home to a log fire and a glass of malt, but a tedious bloody dinner I can�t get out of. But I want to thank you all for staying late and putting in the hours. Someone needs to be chivvying forensics for their findings from the crime scene. Between us, DCI McGovern and I have managed to round up a football squad�s worth of uniforms to start knocking on doors in the morning. Autopsy needs someone present who�s not likely to faint, and the deceased�s mother needs to be questioned again, plus any and all friends and associates.� He paused. �And that�s before we get to CCTV and doorbell footage. Plenty to keep you on the path of righteousness.� His eyes flitted between Clarke and Reeves � the two DIs in the room. �Happy with everything so far?�

�Absolutely,� Reeves responded.

His attention shifted to Esson. �I know you�ve got other plates to keep spinning, and if it starts getting too much, feel free to keep that to yourself and soldier on regardless � just don�t tell Mae McGovern I said that.� He tightened the red cashmere scarf around his neck, trying to think if he�d forgotten anything. Then, with a final businesslike nod, he was gone. The room relaxed a little.

�Get a brew on then,� someone said.

Gillian Reeves manoeuvred between the desks, heading for Clarke and Esson.

�We�ve had a call from a woman the victim was seeing. I�ve invited her in for a chat.�

�A girlfriend, you mean?� Esson checked. Reeves gave a nod.

�When is she coming?�

Reeves made show of checking the time on her phone. �In about twenty minutes. Oh, and we sent a couple of uniforms to Marcus Simpson�s address, but there was no answer. They�ll have another go in the morning.�

Cammy Colson joined the group. �Any takers for the mortuary tomorrow?�

�Isn�t that a man�s job, Cammy?� Clarke said slyly.

�I�ll do it if no one else will,� he eventually conceded.

�Knew we girls could rely on you.�

Colson rolled his eyes and readied to move away.

�By the way,� Clarke commented, �you never mentioned you were Chris Novak�s cousin.� She glanced at Esson, whose eyebrows had slid upwards a fraction.

�Is there a conflict of interest?� It was Colson�s turn to look at Esson.

�I don�t think so. Do you, Christine?�

Esson took a moment before shaking her head.

�Chris is a diamond,� Colson stated. �I don�t see him often, but he�s solid � a family man, you know?�

�Has he spoken to you about what�s happening at the prison?� Esson enquired.

�Like I said, we don�t see much of each other.� He looked from Esson to Clarke. �We done here? I�ve got stuff waiting for me on my desk.� Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began ambling across the room.

The team had settled to their tasks, having finally sourced enough chairs. The murder wall � a large whiteboard on wheels � had been set up and the pick of the crime-scene photos were being added to it along with a professionally posed shot of Zak Campbell, lifted from his living room. Clarke stared at his face for a moment. Once it became public knowledge that he�d groomed and exploited a multitude of young teenagers, a lot of the sympathy for him would drain away, and with it the desire to aid the inquiry. They had to work quickly � and without any leaks. She remembered again that she needed to tell Louise Hird at CEOP, but it was too late in the day now. Trisha Singh was explaining to the room at large that there weren�t enough mugs to go round, so they�d either need to bring their own or else rinse and return as soon as they�d finished their drink. Swinton added that there seemed to be only one working printer � and it was low on cyan.

�They always are,� Reeves answered. �And do any of us even know what cyan is?�

There were a few chuckles as they got to work. Clarke gave a slow nod in Esson�s direction: it wasn�t a bad start. Then again, the room was high on adrenalin, as always happened at the start of a big case. The problem was maintaining momentum � which entailed making decent progress over the next day or two.

The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway, spotting Clarke and making for her.

�Young woman downstairs says it�s about Zak Campbell.�

Clarke sought out Gillian Reeves, but she was busy with a phone call, so she looked at Christine Esson instead.

�Might as well,� Esson said, following her out of the room.

As they queued for breakfast, a couple of prisoners asked Rebus for news of Darryl Christie.

�Why not speak to one of his team?� Rebus asked back.

�They don�t seem to have your privileges.�

�Privileges or not, I know hee-fucking-haw,� Rebus stated, lifting his tray.

He settled on a seat across from Ratty. For once, Ratty had his back to the servers. Rebus looked over Ratty�s shoulder towards them. �The looks Devo�s giving you are so filthy I could probably sell them on Pornhub.�

�That�s because I asked Malachi about him, and Malachi grassed me up.�

Rebus understood now not only why Ratty had his back to Devo but also why he was pushing the food around on his plate rather than tucking in. �You should eat it,� he nudged him. �If you start feeling funny, we�ll know we�ve got our man.�

�It�s not doping I�m worried about.�

Rebus shrugged and scooped a forkful of Ratty�s eggs into his mouth. Ratty watched his jaw moving.

�For what it�s worth, Ratty, I don�t think anyone slipped Jamieson anything. Whatever he took, it was him doing the taking.�

Rebus sought Mark Jamieson out with his eyes. He was seated with the Wizard. His fame had lasted almost as long as the compress that had been removed from his stapled forehead. Nobody was paying him the slightest heed. Rebus slid his tray towards Ratty. �Have mine if you like,� he said. �I don�t seem to have much appetite.�

Ratty didn�t need telling twice.

Rebus got up and walked over to Jamieson�s table. �All right?� he said by way of greeting, squeezing in next to Jamieson, who had to shuffle along to make room. �Just need a word,� he told the Wizard. Jamieson had stopped chewing and was reaching for his tea instead.

�Let�s say nobody spiked you that night,� Rebus began, his voice not much above a whisper � the other prisoners might have shown minimal interest in Jamieson, but the addition of Rebus to the equation was something else again. �And you�re sure that your cellmate was alive and well at lights-out...� He waited until Jamieson nodded. �But you were starting to feel out of it � more so than usual?� Jamieson continued to nod. �So maybe whoever supplied you with your junk that day had added a little extra to the dosage. Is that a possible scenario?�

Jamieson stared at him, eventually giving a slow shake of the head.

�You hadn�t been given a few more pills than usual?� Another shake. �And you�re sure they�re the same pills you always got?�

This time Jamieson nodded.

�Had anyone palmed you anything that day, Mark. A little treat? Something new to try?�

�No.� Jamieson slurped at his tea.

�Then there�s no reason why you were zonked the way you were.�

�Someone thumped me.�

�Yes, but you say you weren�t conscious when that happened � you�d surely have heard them coming in if you had been. Which brings us back to the reason you were out of it. Something you�d been given, obviously.�

�Spiked,� Jamieson said, glancing in Devo�s direction.

�I�m assuming you get your regular supply from Darryl Christie, yes? Him or one of his guys?�

�Darryl�s not the only game in town,� the Wizard interjected. �Plenty of stuff in here before he came on the scene.�

�But now he�s here � you�re telling me he�d allow competition?�

�Maybe he�d have no choice.� The Wizard held Rebus�s gaze.

�Are you talking about Everett Harrison?�

He just shrugged and cleaned the last of his plate.

�Everything all right here?�

Rebus looked up towards the speaker. It was Blair Samms.

�Just dandy,� he told him.

�You�re looking a bit pale, Mark,� Samms went on, ignoring Rebus. �Need to see a nurse?�

�I�m okay,� Jamieson answered.

�I�ll look after him,� the Wizard assured the officer. But Samms�s eyes were on Rebus.

�See that you do,� he said, moving away.

Rebus watched him go, reminded that Samms had been on the meal shift that evening too. He turned his attention back to the Wizard.

�I suppose,� he began slowly, �it�s feasible the supplier wouldn�t need to be a prisoner at all...�

�We�re banged up here, John. That goes for Darryl just as surely as it does you, me and Mark. But some people have the freedom to come and go. It would only take one.�

Rebus turned his attention back towards Jamieson. �How about it, Mark? You ready to give me a name?�

�Why would he do that?� the Wizard demanded, voice stiffening. �The boy�s got enough shite to deal with without turning grass.�

�I�m trying to get justice for Jackie Simpson,� Rebus stated.

�A man you barely knew? All because the governor asked you to?� The Wizard gave a snort. �Makes me wonder what�s in it for you � other than your precious sense of �justice�.� He waved his fork at Rebus. �We all know who did it � the one person Jackie said he�d be looking for when he got out. And nothing�s going to happen to him. Your lot have already put the brakes on � any sign of them recently? Any POs suddenly scuttling off to be questioned?�

Rebus turned towards Jamieson again. �It would help if somebody opened up.�

�And pointed the finger towards a fellow inmate, you mean?� The Wizard gave a cold chuckle. �Just give it up, John. You�re not going to�� He broke off as Blair Samms, having circled the hall, approached again.

�All getting a bit heated here, gents,� he commented. �Maybe time for you to step away, John.�

But it was Mark Jamieson who bounded to his feet, grabbing his tray. �I�m done anyway,� he muttered.

�Aye, me too,� the Wizard added, rising with his usual studied slowness. Rebus watched him dump his tray and follow Jamieson back to their shared cell.

�You seem to be good at getting up people�s noses,� Samms said.

�Speaking of which � you wouldn�t be bringing dope into the jail, would you, Officer Samms?�

Samms�s eyes burned. �Now why would you go making an accusation like that?�

Rebus considered his answer. �Maybe because I�m at the end of my tether.�

�Then you need to step back a little, before that tether ends up choking you.�

Samms began to make another circuit. Rebus felt every eye on him as he sat alone at the table.

�Sod the lot of you,� he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing a hand across his brow.

Everett Harrison was lying on his bed reading a legal textbook.

�Reckon you�ve got a chance?� Rebus asked from the doorway.

�Fuck do you want?� Harrison�s voice was still croaky.

�Just wondering if you fancied shooting some pool.�

�It�s not pool I fancy shooting, it�s your bestie Darryl.�

�Everyone seems to assume we�re friends.�

�He�s been looking after you in here, hasn�t he?�

�I didn�t ask for it.�

Harrison placed the book aside and sat up, swivelling his feet onto the floor. He gave Rebus a good hard look. He had the usual sleeves of tattoos, most of them companion pieces to the Liverpool FC pictures covering his walls. Rebus had moved to within a few inches of the cell�s only chair. He gave a questioning tilt of the head and Harrison eventually acquiesced. Rebus sat down, but not too comfortably.

�Is it true your boss is going after Christie�s gang?�

�Christie seems to think he is.�

�Is he, though?�

Harrison gave a humourless grin. �Got him rattled, eh?� He stroked his throat with a finger. �That�s what matters.�

�Are you saying Hanlon�s not back in the UK?�

�Not back in the UK, not particularly interested in a minnow like Darryl Christie, and doesn�t know you from Adam.� He pointed the same finger at Rebus. �Despite what you told Bobby Briggs in the library. Bobby�s not happy with you about that, and neither am I.�

Rebus was not to be deflected. �So why are Christie�s men running scared?�

�Running full stop from what I�ve heard.� Harrison paused to consider the question. �Maybe they recognise a sinking ship when they see one.�

�Is trouble coming when Darryl gets out of solitary?�

�That�ll be up to him. I can handle whatever he brings.�

�You seem fairly normal, though, if you don�t mind me saying.�

�And he�s not?�

�I once watched him shoot a man in the face. When that switch gets flipped, no telling what he�ll do.�

�Maybe I should get my retaliation in first, then.�

�Or you could ask to be transferred to another hall.�

�For all the good that would do.�

�Funny, the two of you seemed pretty matey for a while.�

�He thought he could turn me. That�s not the Scousers� code.� Harrison lay back down again and picked up his book. Rebus got up.

�I�m glad we could have this little chat, Everett. It�s good to talk.�

�Off you fuck now,� Harrison growled. Regular service had been resumed.

Back in his own cell, Rebus decided to take a risk, pulling his door closed and climbing onto the lavatory with the burner phone. He�d jotted the number on his hand but then washed it off, confident that he had it memorised. He ended up speaking to a stressed-sounding woman, a toddler bawling in the close vicinity. So he thought for a moment and tried again, this time connecting to an MOT garage.

Third time�s a charm, he told himself as he started over.

�Who�s this?� Fox answered.

�Trading Standards, sir. We have reason to believe a Mr Malcolm Fox has been falsely presenting himself as a functioning detective.�

�Reduced to prank calls, John? Unless of course you�ve got something for me.�

�You�re not very good at answering your phone, Malcolm.�

�Not when it�s a number I don�t recognise.�

�Do you really think Christie�s men are being targeted?�

�Definitely. Latest was a gun shoved through a car window. Happened in broad daylight. A witness got the car�s number plate. Belonged to one of Christie�s gang, but the guy had skedaddled by the time we got to his house.�

�No luck ID�ing the attacker?�

�Crash helmet with the visor down.�

�What if I told you he had a Liverpool accent?�

�Did he?�

�Darryl Christie says so.�

�Meaning Shay Hanlon�s gang.�

�Yet I�ve just been chatting to Everett Harrison and he says Hanlon�s still overseas and not particularly interested in Darryl.�

�Well of course he�d say that! But Darryl seems to think otherwise, judging from the fact he tried screwing a snooker shot around Harrison�s tonsils. Or am I being dim?�

�Of course you�re being dim � dim is Malcolm Fox�s whole brand.� Rebus listened to the growing silence on the other side of the line. �I hope I�ve not hurt your feelings?�

�Esson�s lot aren�t making much progress, are they? But then she�s got other fish to fry now.�

�Has she?�

�See, John, there�s stuff I know that you don�t.�

�You mean the Zak Campbell murder? Everyone and their dog knows about that. I�m serious, though, Malcolm. You need to think who else stands to benefit as Christie�s empire crumbles.�

�I would have thought we all benefit.� Fox paused. Rebus could almost hear the cogs turning. �Hang on, you mean Mickey Mason?�

�Do I?�

�Recently released from the Bar-L and needing to get back into the game.�

�That�s the fellow,� Rebus improvised.

�Has Bobby Briggs told you anything about him?�

�Keeping tight-lipped. The two of them were pretty close at one time.� Rebus tried to make it sound like statement rather than guess.

�And as you said yourself, Briggs and Harrison are chummy. Links in a chain, John, links in a chain.�

Rebus was looking in the direction of his cell door. He couldn�t risk much longer. �Maybe you�re smarter than I give you credit for, Malcolm. Will you keep me posted? And in return, I�ll keep my ears open here.�

�I�ll think about it.�

�Oh, and Malcolm? Next time you don�t recognise a number, answer the phone anyway.� Rebus ended the call and climbed down from the lavatory, smiling at the thought of all the sales cold-calls Fox might be opening himself up to.

After hiding the phone, he settled at his desk. He�d been there barely thirty seconds when Blair Samms yanked open his door.

�You all right in there?�

�Something I can do for you, Officer?�

�Just checking. With Darryl Christie elsewhere, could be that some of the prisoners will start getting ideas.�

�But I�m universally admired,� Rebus argued.

�You including Bobby Briggs in that list? Our lives would be a lot quieter if you went back to SRU. Boss says he�s considering it.�

�Which boss?� Rebus tried to make it sound like an innocent question.

�Our boss � Mr Tennent. Who did you think I meant?�

�A man can sometimes have two masters. There was a stage play a few years back.�

�I�ve no idea what you�re talking about.�

But Rebus could see in the young officer�s eyes that he did. �Why would you personally want me moved?� he asked.

�It�s not personal.�

�Am I becoming a thorn in your side, Officer Samms? Asking too many awkward questions?�

Samms�s face remained a mask. �Governor�s thinking over my suggestion,� he underscored, turning to leave. Rebus shifted in his chair so he was facing the wall, with its scratched graffiti and smudges and stains.

�If not Hanlon, then who?� he mused aloud in a quiet voice. Who stood to gain from the detonation of Darryl Christie�s empire?

I would have thought we all benefit.

�You might have a point there, Malcolm,� he added. �Though I doubt you�re quite bright enough to see it...�

Clarke and Esson were seated side by side in the office, going through a printout of names, email addresses and, in some cases, phone numbers.

It helped that Zak Campbell hadn�t been versed in the ways of the dark web and had left behind plenty of instructions to himself on which passwords he needed to access the various domains. Subs and fees were paid by bitcoin to an offshore account, outwith the UK�s jurisdiction. Still, by dint of having all the instructions they needed, they had accessed his balance and found that it was in the hundreds of thousands � at current rates of exchange.

He paid the models mostly by cash or with gifts of electronics and vouchers for online retailers. The twenty-three teenagers on his books were now real names and faces. Most of them had turned eighteen, but four could be classified as children. Jasmine was the only one from her school. Those awkward phone calls and visits to parents and family homes had already begun. So far, only Jasmine was AWOL. Swabs and fingerprints were being taken, so that they could be matched to the crime scene. Each step in the investigation had to be meticulous and defence-lawyer-proof. The Procurator Fiscal�s office was in close touch with DCI Carmichael, and he in turn was checking regularly that things were being done in accordance with procedures and protocols.

The users they�d identified so far � there were almost a thousand regulars, with thousands more one-time payers � were men ranging from their twenties to their seventies, from all corners of the UK and beyond, stretching as far as Australia and Bermuda. So far only one woman, based in Hong Kong but Scots-born.

A few pseudonymous accounts were proving difficult to break down. Mae McGovern had been persuaded to accept CEOP�s offer of help from the National Crime Agency, whose opinion was that these individuals were well used to covering their tracks and therefore probably breaking the law in other ways � either that or they were IT professionals. Clarke and Esson scoured the list again. One Glasgow councillor, a probation service officer in Derby, a company director in Aberdeen, a teacher in North Wales. Some had already been contacted. Peter �Pedro� Cowan was there too, which made Clarke think of Laura Smith and the breaking of the story. The major incident team had been fielding requests ever since, the mainstream media hungry for a feed. Bryan Carmichael had hosted a hastily arranged press conference at which he shared the bare minimum of information, to the irritation of those gathered before him. The office had watched on their phones or computers, giving shrugs afterwards. The media would be far from satisfied and the usual keyboard warriors would be dusting off their pitchforks. Someone had already thrown paint at the downstairs window of Zak Campbell�s home and sprayed the word PAEDO on his garage door.

�At least they can spell,� Esson had commented when shown a photo of the damage.

Someone had opened a window in the office to let out the smells of the various fast-food offerings delivered to the desks of officers who didn�t have time or inclination to take a proper break. Clarke�s last meal had been a sandwich, as had the meal before that. Not that she had much of an appetite. Coffee was keeping her going. Esson, as usual, drank only mugs of hot water � couldn�t stand tea or coffee. As a result, she looked a lot less wired than Clarke felt.

�An awful lot of suspects,� Gillian Reeves commented, waving the same list of names in the air as she passed the shared desk. �And still no sign of Marcus Simpson. One of our patrols checked again an hour ago.�

�What do his neighbours say?�

�Apparently it�s not that unusual.�

�His car reg is out there, right?�

Reeves nodded. �Everyone�s on the alert.�

Clarke and Esson shared a look. Jasmine Andrews and Marcus Simpson: both known to the victim, both whereabouts currently unknown. The Jasmine inquiry was now a hunt for a murder suspect, DCI Carmichael convinced that the timing of her disappearance was no coincidence. But he had also stressed that no one outside of MIT � her parents included � were to be told this. Cammy Colson had been a bit more blunt in his summation: She either did it or she got someone to do it for her...

�A lot of these we can probably put a line through, right?� Esson said, tapping the stapled sheets of paper. �The overseas ones, I mean.�

�We can�t rule anyone out, Christine � Fiscal wouldn�t like that.�

�If we�re ranking them, though...�

Clarke nodded her agreement. �Of course they�re far less likely. We talk to locals first, but that probably includes Glasgow... maybe even as far as our man in Aberdeen.�

�We�ve already got a few booked in for interview � with the promise of maximum discretion in return for their cooperation.�

�That room�s going to be getting a lot of use. We�ll have a video camera installed by tomorrow at the latest.�

Esson�s phone buzzed. She checked caller ID and got up, stepping away from the desk. �Hi there, Jason,� she said. �Sorry I�ve not been picking up your calls.�

�I�m feeling decidedly neglected here, Christine.�

�Are you at the prison or Gayfield Square?�

�The latter.�

�Case hitting a wall?�

�Lucky for us the public�s attention has moved elsewhere. Hasn�t stopped Mae McGovern turning the screws, mind. How are things at St Leonard�s?�

Esson turned from the window and studied her surroundings. �Just ever so slightly manic. Campbell�s computer has yielded most of his users.�

�Well, that�s a huge step. Any interesting names?�

�Celebs, you mean? None to speak of. One ex-footballer, who�ll have been shocked to know who was taking his money.�

�So the next stage is giving them all a grilling?�

�We�re going to be kept busy.�

�Has Marcus Simpson turned up yet?�

�No. I don�t suppose you can shed any light?�

�He still has family in town, that�s about as much as I know. Except that he�s got a burial to plan. Might be worth checking if he�s still in touch with the funeral directors.�

�That�s a good idea, thanks.�

�You�ll come and lend a hand in return, yes?�

Esson couldn�t help but smile at his persistence. �Give me half an hour,� she said.

On her way back to the desk, she phoned the mortuary, where Jackie Simpson�s body was being held. She asked about funeral arrangements and got a name and number. As she settled again next to Clarke, she made the call to a parlour in Greenhill. Clarke gave her a questioning look, but Esson was already speaking.

�Yes, hello there. This is Detective Sergeant Christine Esson. I�m attached to the inquiry regarding Jackie Simpson � he might be John Simpson in your records.� While she listened, she mouthed the words funeral director to Clarke, who nodded her understanding. �Yes, that�s right,� she continued. �What I�m wondering is, are you in touch with his son, Marcus?� Esson watched Clarke give a silent round of applause. �So when is he coming in for that meeting? Today?� She angled her phone so that she could check the time on its screen. �That�s only an hour from now. He hasn�t phoned to cancel or change the arrangement?� She listened for a moment, shaking her head for Clarke�s benefit. �Well, if he does get in touch, I�d be grateful if you didn�t mention that I�ve spoken with you.� She listened again. �Oh, I�m sure discretion goes with the territory. Many thanks again.�

She ended the call, grabbed a notepad and jotted down the details of the funeral parlour, handing them to Clarke.

�I need to be elsewhere,� she explained. �It�s Jason we have to thank for this, and he wants me to show my face at Gayfield Square.�

�Has there been a break in the case?� Clarke asked.

�Not even a minor fracture. Any chance you can keep Marcus waiting until I get back?�

�Depends how cooperative he�s feeling � always supposing he turns up in the first place.�

�Oh ye of little faith,� Esson said, making for the door.

A uniform was dispatched to the interview room to keep an eye on Simpson until a testing kit could be found. Clarke and Esson sat together in the office with fresh drinks.

�Malcolm Fox?� Esson said. �Who didn�t bother to tell me that my prison victim was his snitch?�

�We should probably have a word with him about that.�

�And this Tommy Simpson character � is he really not in any trouble?�

�I wouldn�t go that far, Christine. For starters, Zak didn�t pay him what he owed him. That gives us another possible motive.�

�So we bring him in?� Esson was studying an incoming text on her phone.

�We definitely bring him in,� Clarke confirmed. Esson was waggling her phone between thumb and forefinger.

�That was Jason,� she said. �Fox has just landed at Gayfield Square � he was elsewhere when I dropped in. I won�t say Jason was pining, but he couldn�t shut up about him. And he�s definitely still sore that he�s not here instead of me.� She paused before holding up her car key in her other hand. �Yours or mine?� she asked.

�Yours,� Clarke decided.

It was when Rebus looked like missing breakfast that his neighbours became curious. Groam and Harrison found him on his bed and having trouble catching a breath. They alerted an officer, who got the duty nurse to come and look. Rebus�s nebuliser wasn�t helping. His heart rate was high, as was his blood pressure. His breathing remained laboured and speaking was a problem.

�Hospital job,� the nurse told Blair Samms. �And I know from experience that an ambulance will take a while.�

�Do we have a spare van?� Samms asked Valerie Watts, who had joined the group in Rebus�s cell. Rebus could see fellow inmates crowding around the doorway. Ratty gave him a little wave, but Rebus�s focus was on the discussion Samms and Watts were having. Watts took a step towards him.

�There�s a fold-up wheelchair in the nurses� station. We�ll use that to get you to my car. Staffing means it�ll just be me � are you okay with that?�

Rebus squeezed his eyes shut and managed to nod.

The governor arrived and listened to the nurse�s report, his eyes fixed on Rebus, lips clamped. He was still studying the patient as he checked with Watts that her projected course of action was proper and necessary. After which he gave the briefest of nods and turned away.

�Nice bedside manner,� Rebus managed to comment, after which the staff got to work hauling him into a pair of joggers and his green sweatshirt.

Ill or not, there were protocols to be followed, bits of paper to be signed at the reception desk next to the first-night centre. Rebus hadn�t been there since he�d arrived and undergone induction. The same lugubrious face was behind the desk. He didn�t so much look at Rebus as through him. And he did enjoy his admin. But eventually they were outside, Samms waiting in the yard with Rebus while Watts fetched her vehicle.

�You�re white as a ghost,� Samms said after studying the patient.

�Thanks for the vote of confidence.� The words spluttered from Rebus�s mouth. He was clutching his nebuliser in one hand like some version of rosary beads. There hadn�t been time to think of what else he might need to bring. The nurse was going to phone ahead with his details. She had warned Watts that the wait in A&E could stretch for hours.

�The snack machine will be your friend,� she�d added.

Watts�s car was a nippy-looking Alfa Romeo. Rebus decided its colour would be called something like �midnight blue� in the sales brochure. Samms tried not to look impressed as he helped Watts guide Rebus into the passenger seat and do up his seat belt.

�When did you get the wheels?� he asked her.

�Last weekend.�

�You sure we�re on the same pay grade?�

�I cut a deal.�

Rebus watched as Samms closed the passenger door and started pushing the chair back into the main building.

�Hope we can snaffle another of those from A&E,� Watts said, doing up her own seat belt. �I don�t fancy carrying you.� Then, turning towards her passenger before setting off: �You�re not going to give me any grief, John, right? Not in my spanking new car?�

�No grief,� Rebus assured her.

The Alfa was given a final check at the gatehouse, boot opened, underside examined, then the gates trundled open in front of them and suddenly they were outside the high prison walls. Rebus couldn�t help staring. Such an expanse of sky, so many puffy clouds. Then traffic, and people, and houses and shops and... everything.

�Comes as a shock,� Watts commented, reading his mind.

�It�s been a while,� he agreed.

She drove with one hand mostly, the other resting on the central console. At the first pedestrian crossing she glanced towards him.

�Bit more colour to you. Breathing seems steadier, too.�

Rebus turned from his window and stared at her. She wasn�t stupid, far from it. He could see her working it out, trying not to let anything show on her face, eyes on the road ahead.

�I need to stop somewhere on the way,� he eventually stated.

�Jesus, John.� She gave a sort of embarrassed grin, head angled downwards momentarily. �What the hell is this?�

�I have to see Chris Novak.�

�No way.�

�You know I�m on his side � his side and yours. But to help him I really need to see him.�

�Not going to happen.�

�A phone call won�t do it � has to be face-to-face.�

�Why?�

�Because he�s in trouble. Not too much trouble as yet, but it�s only going to get worse � and it could get a lot worse.�

�You�re a piece of work, John. This whole thing was a con?�

�Took a bit more effort than I thought. At one point I reckoned I actually was about to keel over.�

�And what if you hadn�t had me as your escort? What if we�d found an ambulance?�

�Plan A was to scarper from the hospital.�

�And?�

�Go find Chris�s house.�

�How would you have done that?�

�Maybe I�d have phoned you and asked. Then later on I�d hand myself back in, no harm done.�

�Except that your escort would be getting a rocket for letting you loose in the first place!�

Rebus was still staring at her. �It�ll take five or ten minutes max. We both know he�s stuck in the house.�

�Under the watchful eye of his wife.�

�I�m just a friend from work who�s come to commiserate.�

�In a prisoner-issue top?� Watts was shaking her head slowly, eyes not moving from the road. She was gripping the steering wheel with both hands now, practically throttling it. Rebus was relieved she was taking it out on an inanimate object rather than his own neck.

�Jesus, John,� she repeated, with a little less force than before. Then she looked at him. �He�s really in trouble?�

�Yes.�

�What sort?�

�Better if he tells you.�

She was still shaking her head as, teeth bared, she executed a sudden U-turn, horns blaring around her. She pushed down on the accelerator and did a quick calculation.

�Might take us fifteen or twenty minutes. I don�t know if A&E will phone the prison when you don�t show.�

�Why not call them yourself and tell them I�m a lot better � too well to bother burdening them?�

�And what do I say when we get back to Saughton?�

�That we visited A&E and they checked me out and everything�s fine.� Rebus offered a shrug. �I�m improvising here.�

�It�s only my head on the block,� Watts muttered, but she ended up making the call anyway. Then they drove on in silence until she turned left into a modern housing estate.

When they passed Novak�s house, she pointed it out to Rebus. But she turned into another street before stopping. �Can�t let her see me,� she said.

�You�ve been here before?� Seeing the look on her face, Rebus held up a hand in apology. �None of my business,� he agreed, undoing his seat belt. As he was opening the door, she gripped his forearm.

�Do not mess me about, because if you do, I will fuck you up � understood?�

He nodded slowly, unable to think how else to respond.

Then he was out of the car, striding along an actual pavement, past pebble-dashed two-storey houses with trimmed lawns and flagged driveways. A Waitrose van was making a delivery. The driver gave a nod and a smile. Rebus nodded back. His skin was tingling and he drew in lungfuls of air. He could hear a plane overhead � and was that a train in the distance? Maybe a school playground, too, ball games and squeals. A red-liveried Royal Mail van crawled past, part and parcel of the rhythm of the day.

All too soon he was outside Novak�s house, but before approaching the door he studied the adjoining garage. It�s up-and-over doors weren�t quite closed, giving him a glimpse of a sleek white BMW and, poking out from behind it, an equally sleek motorbike.

He rang the doorbell and waited. He�d been expecting the wife, but it was Novak himself who answered. The wrist of his right hand was strapped up, but he still raised it as if expecting a blow of some kind.

�What the fuck?� he blurted out.

�I was just passing,� Rebus said. Novak was looking to right and left along the street.

�How did you get here?�

�Not going to invite me in?�

Novak all but hauled him inside with his uninjured hand, slamming the door shut afterwards.

�Nice place,� Rebus commented, studying his surroundings. �Not too flash � your wife�s taste or yours? Where is she, by the way?�

�Never mind her.� They were in the living room, facing one another. Rebus doubted there would be any offer of a seat or a drink, which suited him fine. �To repeat the question, John � what the fuck?�

�I think I�ve worked it out,� Rebus said casually. �But I need you to confirm it.�

�Confirm what? Christ�s sake, did you just break out? Are you on the news yet?� Novak dug out his phone, but with only one working hand, a search proved difficult.

�Hospital appointment,� Rebus explained. �Just stopped off here en route.�

�Where�s the van... your escort?� Novak peered out of the window.

�Not important. But here�s what is � you need to stop, you need to stop right now.�

�Stop what?� Novak tried for a puzzled look.

�Christie told me one of his men wrestled a gunman�s weapon away from him, nearly broke his wrist in the process. The guy was on a motorbike � that�ll be the one in your garage. Leathers, gloves and a crash helmet with the visor down � probably a set of fake plates, too? I can see all of that, and I don�t suppose a Scouse accent is hard to pull off if you�ve practised and you�re not trying it with actual Liverpudlians.�

The air was leaking out of Chris Novak in real time. He kept his eyes averted from Rebus, looking at his phone�s screen saver instead. It showed a boy and a girl not yet in their teens. �I�d be worrying about them if I were you, Chris,� Rebus said softly. �Because if this game of yours spirals out of control...�

�It�s no game, John. They�ve been at me and at me and at me. Torching my car, sending threats � not just me, either. Lots of other officers who refuse to turn a blind eye or do as they�re told. Christie reckons he owns that prison. Well not on my watch he doesn�t.�

�You learned about Hanlon, heard the rumours he was interested in Christie�s patch. You decided to make it seem like it was really happening � I�m guessing your CID cousin tipped you off regarding movements and addresses. All you then had to do was put the fear of God into Christie�s team, weakening him while making him furious in the process.�

�Furious and impotent, John.� Some pride had entered Novak�s voice. �Because there are things he can�t do from inside, plenty of things he can�t control, and it�s all starting to dawn on him.�

�But now he knows you were only using an airgun. Next time you try something, his team won�t be scared. They�ll be ready � maybe tooled up themselves � and they�ll want their pound of flesh.� Rebus studied Novak�s right hand. �How bad is it?�

Novak flexed his fingers. �Day or two off�s all I need. I�ll be fine.� His eyes met Rebus�s. �So what�s your next move?�

�Apart from returning to jail?� Rebus shrugged. �I don�t have a next move � and you shouldn�t have one either. No room for masked vigilantes in this Gotham.�

�I�m not going to roll over for him, John.�

�You said it yourself � you�ve already weakened him. Somebody�ll walk into town eventually and take over. And you have given him a fright � I�m not sure he�ll ever get over it. Right now he still thinks his bogeyman is out here.� Rebus nodded towards the window. �And that�s going to keep gnawing away at him. Job done, Chris. Time to call it a day while you still can.�

�How about your job, John? Have you done anything about Blair Samms?�

�What do you suggest? I can hardly shine a bulb in his face and sweat him like in the old days. Until someone breaks ranks...�

�I doubt that�s going to happen.�

�Then the killer gets away with it.� Rebus gave another shrug. �Until someone breaks ranks,� he echoed. He drank in his surroundings, the quality furniture, family photos, TV with sound system. �You�re a lucky man, Chris. Try to keep it that way.�

Novak offered his left hand, and Rebus clasped it. At the front door, he asked Rebus how he�d managed to track him down.

�I�ve not lost the old touch,� Rebus answered. �I�ll see you back at the ranch in a couple of days, aye?�

�Listen... I appreciate you doing this. You took a hell of a risk.�

�And now I just have to tunnel back into Colditz � wish me luck.�

Novak gave him a little salute and made to close the door. Rebus pushed a hand against it so it stayed open.

�You did put a choke on Jackie, didn�t you? In his cell that time? He wasn�t lying about that?�

�Fucker threatened to come after my family, John.�

�After you�d bad-mouthed his son,� Rebus stated. �If someone�s framing you, you did a pretty good job of climbing into the picture all by yourself.�

�Tell me this then. Say you�d become a prison officer rather than a cop � how well would you have coped, day in, day out?�

�Oh, I�d have killed someone long before now,� Rebus said, turning away.

When he got back to the car, Watts still had a tight grip of the steering wheel. �True to my word,� he told her as he climbed in.

�I�ve been calculating,� she said as she started the engine. �If we head back now, they�ll never believe we got seen so quickly.� She glanced at him. �There�s a drive-through Burger King not too far away � what do you reckon?�

�If that�s the only offer on the table.�

�Pub�s out of the question, if that�s what you�re thinking.�

�I�d settle for coffee and a bacon roll.� He saw the look she was giving him. �But Burger King�s fine too.�

Their route took them past Novak�s house. He was watching from the living-room window. Watts met his gaze. A minute or so later, music filled the car, Bluetooth telling her she had a call. She let it ring out.

�Need to think about what I�m going to say to him,� she explained to Rebus. Then: �Is he still in trouble, John?�

�Not if he heeds my advice.�

�Did the advice include steering clear of me?�

�Not in the least.�

She turned her attention back to the road. �Thanks.�

�But if it turns out you�re both killers,� Rebus added, �I want you to know I�ll be very disappointed.�

When she saw the glint in his eye, she gave a little laugh, Rebus joining in.

�Burgers are my treat,� she said.

�They�ll have to be.� He patted his empty pockets.

�So you�d have high-tailed it from the hospital with no idea where Chris lived and no money or phone? That was the extent of your plan?�

�And yet somehow it all worked out. It doesn�t always...� Rebus rested his head against the back of the seat and watched the big, beautiful world roll by.

Louise Hird had made the trip from Gartcosh to see how things were progressing. The DCI had decided that she merited a meeting in his office. He was seated behind his desk, facing Hird and Siobhan Clarke.

�We�ve interviewed most of Campbell�s victims,� Clarke said. �One of them, she�s nineteen now, had told her parents what was going on. Pitched it to them as a modelling job, not much different from a lingerie shoot. One thing she didn�t say was that Campbell wanted her to dress and act younger than her years.�

�And the parents were generally okay with it?� DCI Carmichael asked.

�Campbell never laid a hand on her. Quite the gentleman, according to their daughter.�

�Were they ever introduced to him?� Hird asked, tapping notes into her phone. Clarke shook her head.

�Nobody ever met Campbell apart from his models.�

�What angle are you taking as regards his murder?�

Carmichael decided to answer that before Clarke could. �We�re keeping a very open mind, Louise.�

�No sign of forced entry,� Clarke added. �Plenty of security.�

�Cameras?� Hird interrupted.

�Aimed at the doorstep and the garage � but he hadn�t bothered switching them on.�

�And inside the house?�

Clarke shook her head again. �Whoever it was, looks like they were invited in.�

�Campbell takes them through to the kitchen,� Carmichael continued, �probably to fix a drink or something, turns his back on them and...�

�They slid a knife from the block,� Clarke added.

Hird saw what she was getting at. �They didn�t arrive tooled up. If this was a falling-out among thieves, they�d have been more professional in their approach. You�re not ruling out one of the victims then � and I�m guessing that puts Jasmine Andrews at the top of the leader board?�

�We�ve scoured town and country for her,� Carmichael said. �She still hasn�t used her debit card or phone.�

�So which is she � a very smart and ruthless cookie or locked up in a killer�s cellar?� Hird held up a hand. �Sorry to be frank.�

�A further complication,� Carmichael continued, �is that there are no prints on the weapon, meaning it was either meticulously wiped afterwards or...�

�The killer wore gloves,� Clarke said.

�Taking us back to malice aforethought,� Hird commented. �DNA?�

�Not telling us much as yet.�

The three of them sat in silence for a moment. Carmichael lifted his mug without drinking from it. He�d rustled up a plate of digestive biscuits, but they sat untouched on his desk.

�Well,� Hird eventually said, �London have taken a look at everything they were sent. It doesn�t seem the deceased was part of a wider network. In other words, no one was buying his wares for use in overseas markets. Doesn�t mean there won�t have been piggybacking, of course.�

Carmichael leaned forward. �Piggybacking?�

�A punter records what they�re watching so they can sell or share it elsewhere. You need to make the victims aware that their presence could linger online for some time to come.� She shifted a little in her chair. �From the messages between the clients and Campbell, some definitely wanted the models to go further � and they got angry when Campbell said no, giving another possible motive.�

�Do we have grounds for a prosecution of any of these men?� Carmichael enquired.

�A question for the Procurator Fiscal. I�d say it�s a grey area, but you should definitely be handing out warnings, even if only to give them a fright.�

�One has already committed suicide,� Clarke said quietly.

�Not your fault, Siobhan.� Hird turned her attention back to Carmichael. �Do you have enough family liaison officers for the workload?�

�We�ve managed to get hold of precisely two,� Carmichael told her. �With a third on the way from Dundee.�

�Going to be busy then. I�ve found them invaluable in the past � they get the confidence of the family, and that�s when the unsaid starts to be spoken out loud. How about the men who stumped up for the abuse, the ones still breathing? Any likely murderers among them?�

�Not so far.� Clarke lifted her own mug, cupping her hands around it. �There�s one client we�re having real trouble with,� she confessed. �Calls himself Valerio.� She spelled the word out. �Just that and a string of numbers after. The numbers don�t seem to mean anything, but we googled Valerio and got a couple of shops � we�ve visited both and ruled out any connection. It�s a masculine name, Italian or Spanish, means strong or healthy.�

�One thing you can be sure of, it won�t be their real name. Local, you think?�

�We�ve no idea � they seem savvy about security and the dark web. No way for us to get beyond that username.�

�I can nudge London, see if they can help.� Hird met Carmichael�s eyes. �From my perspective, this could have been much worse. But I acknowledge that from yours, you�ve a lot of work still to do. Did Campbell�s mother have any inkling what her son was up to?�

�None whatsoever,� Clarke answered.

�She�s been told now, though?�

�And Zak is still her blue-eyed boy. Always will be.�

�I don�t suppose he vented to her about any enemies or threats?�

�No, but the list keeps growing. He would hit on women in bars and clubs � their boyfriends didn�t always like that. Had an old school pal acting as his shield. He tells us they parted company because of Zak�s online activities.�

�Nothing useful so far from forensics?�

�Twenty-three young people were regular visitors to the house,� Clarke said. �Makes for a lot of matching and checking.�

�Not that we�ll dismiss a single strand of hair,� Carmichael said defensively. �Everyone�s working flat out.�

�Never in doubt,� Hird said. �But I wouldn�t mind a tour of your operation anyway, if Siobhan�s willing.�

�Happy to oblige.�

�Anything you�re particularly interested in, Louise?� Carmichael asked.

�I�m just jealous of all the manpower,� she answered with the thinnest possible smile.

Clarke let Trisha Singh do the driving, leaning back against the headrest and even closing her eyes for a bit. Was the investigation spiralling outwards or inwards? She was too dizzied by it to be able to tell.

�How did he sound when you spoke to him?� she eventually asked.

�Calm. Not embarrassed or anything. Posh.� Singh wasn�t a talkative driver, preferring to focus on the traffic. They�d hit rush hour, though these days much of the city seemed to suffer nothing but. Singh�s car didn�t have a blue light, so there wasn�t much they could do � and it wasn�t as if Urquhart was about to abscond. Once they were out of the city, the vehicles in front sped up, their owners keen to get home to comfortable, middle-class East Lothian. They passed farmland and occasional dwellings, the Firth of Forth to their left. Gullane itself wasn�t much more than a main street with its share of shops and restaurants. The big draw was its golf courses, including Muirfield. Singh�s doctor husband had played many a round there.

�Are women allowed these days?� Clarke asked.

�Yes, but my handicap�s too high.�

�Maybe don�t use that word in front of our wheelchair user,� Clarke advised. Singh�s mouth formed a little O. �Only teasing, Trisha,� Clarke said.

�I�d never thought of it, though.� Singh checked her dashboard satnav. �Nearly there,� she said.

Urquhart lived in an Edwardian-era house built in the baronial style, with a turret and crow-stepped gables. The gates opened onto an expansive gravelled driveway. As they approached the varnished oak front door, it was opened by an imposing-looking woman dressed in tweeds, thick woollen socks and brown brogues, her hair tied back into a tight silver bun.

�Mrs Urquhart?� Clarke guessed.

�Miss Urquhart,� the woman corrected her. She had the demeanour of a schoolmistress from decades past, her face gaunt but largely unlined, her eyes hawk-like. �You�ll be the police. Alexander said to expect you.�

They were in the large wood-panelled hall by this point. Urquhart�s sister closed the door and examined her guests. �He was pretty tight-lipped as to why you�re here.�

�Care to hazard a guess?�

�It�s not my place.�

�Are you his carer, Miss Urquhart?� Singh asked.

�Since Julia died,� the woman confirmed.

�Julia being his wife?�

�Who else?� She paused and lowered her voice a fraction. �You know he�s a JP? Was a JP, I should say. I just felt it�s something you should be aware of.� Neither detective said anything, which seemed to disappoint Miss Urquhart. She led them to a door, knocked and pushed it open. �Your guests, Alexander,� she said, ushering them in. �Does anyone require tea?� Clarke and Singh assured her they were fine, so she closed the door slowly, staying outside.

Alexander Urquhart�s wheelchair was set behind an ornate antique desk, in front of an entire wall of glass-fronted bookcases. The man himself was in his seventies, silver hair sprouting around the base of his bald dome. He wore half-moon glasses and was in the middle of writing in an oversized notebook.

�Not my confession, you understand,� he told them, slapping his hand against the open page.

�Mr Urquhart, I�m DC Singh. We spoke on the phone.�

�Indeed we did.� Urquhart bowed his head slightly in greeting. �Which region of India do you call home?�

�Blackhall.� While Urquhart�s brow furrowed, Singh turned towards Clarke. �And this is Detective Inspector Clarke.�

�Two charming young women � such a pleasure.�

�From the New Town,� Clarke pretended to elucidate. Then: �Is it really a pleasure, sir? Most people in your position wouldn�t be quite so relaxed.�

�Am I relaxed?� He considered the question. �I suppose I am.�

�Is that because you�re no longer in the clutches of the man who was blackmailing you?�

�They call it sextortion, don�t they? I think he decided I was worth the candle when he looked me up online and found I was a justice of the peace � I bet Marjory told you I was a JP too, didn�t she?� He gave a smile, no answer required. �She thinks you might go easier on me, whatever it is I�ve done.�

�Will you actually tell her?�

Urquhart stretched out his arms. �Well, what have I done?�

�Watched underage girls stripping off online for starters,� Singh commented.

�But I�d no idea they were underage until he tried to wring money from me.�

�Tried and succeeded,� Clarke felt it necessary to add.

�Once or twice, yes. But then I thought: why the hell should I? So I stopped and told him to go hang himself. He could out me to the world if he liked but I wasn�t giving him a sou more, and if he didn�t stop harassing me, I�d go to the police myself.�

�You didn�t do that, though, sir,� Singh said, her tone cool. Urquhart was busy manoeuvring his way from behind the desk. He headed to a space near a sofa and gestured for his visitors to be seated. Singh and Clarke followed him but remained standing.

�Throughout all this,� Clarke said, �did he ever identify himself?�

�He used an alias. Actually, more than one � he seemed to message me from a different email address every single time.�

�How was the money transferred?�

�A digital wallet. He had to take me through it step by step. I still use a chequebook, for God�s sake.� Urquhart drummed his fingers against the wheelchair�s armrests. �I got the inkling he was probably local,� he eventually conceded. �Mainly because the models on the screen were � you could tell from their accents.�

�They spoke to you and you spoke to them?�

�The conversation, such as it was, was strictly one-way. I typed in a message and sometimes they typed something back, but they might also say something.� He paused and rattled the chair�s metal arms. �Even if I had discovered his identity, doing away with him wouldn�t have been straightforward in this contraption.�

�Maybe so, but a man of your means could have paid for the privilege.�

Urquhart fixed Clarke with a look. �But that didn�t happen, Inspector.�

�I�m assuming you must have encountered one or two unsavoury characters during your time as a JP.�

�It�s not like we kept in touch afterwards.� The thin smile had returned.

�The site�s other users, you never knew any of them in real life?� Clarke watched him shake his head. �And you didn�t invite any like-minded friends to join the club?�

�I did not.�

�Is there anything else you want to tell us, Mr Urquhart?� Singh asked.

�Just that I bitterly regret getting mixed up in the whole sorry business.�

�Can I ask how you found the site in the first place? Were you just browsing, or did someone recommend it?�

�The internet is an extraordinary sphere,� Urquhart said. �The most innocent soul is never more than a few clicks away from everything they could ever imagine and much more besides.�

�Your way of telling us that this was your first foray into online abuse?�

He winced slightly. �You�re correct, of course. It can almost certainly be termed abuse, with the benefit of hindsight.� He looked from one detective to the other, seeking something he wasn�t going to find. �So what now?� he asked.

�A formal interview,� Clarke stated. �It can be recorded here. Plus we�ll be passing your details to our colleagues at Child Exploitation and the National Crime Agency, obviously.�

Some of the light left Urquhart�s eyes. �Of course,� he mumbled, chin resting on his chest.

Without saying anything else, Clarke headed to the door, Singh following.

�Enjoy the rest of your day, officers,� Urquhart said, automatically. Good breeding and all that.

His sister heard the door and emerged from the kitchen, a tea towel in her hands, apron tied around her waist.

�Everything all right?� she asked.

�Someone will be coming back to take a statement.� Clarke met her gaze. �Your brother has a penchant for underage pornography, Miss Urquhart. I hope you find that as troubling as we do.�

The woman gave a sniff. �I don�t find it the least bit troubling. Alexander has done a power of good in this world, but no one is without flaws � probably not even you.� She pulled open the door. �My brother is not a criminal, and you�ll have the devil of a job convincing me otherwise. I�ll be contacting his solicitor as soon as I�m done with you.�

No more words were exchanged as Clarke and Singh walked across the gravel to Singh�s car.

�What a piece of work,� Singh commented as she unlocked the doors. �She knew all along, didn�t she?�

�I�d say so.�

�And was fine with it?�

�Looks that way.�

�Weird old buggers, the pair of them. And that house gives me the creeps.� She turned towards Clarke as she started the engine. �So what do you want to do now?�

�Stop in Port Seton for chips,� Clarke said decisively.

�You�re the boss, Siobhan. And that�s definitely a strategy I can get on board with.�

Having given a promise of best behaviour, Darryl Christie was back on Trinity Hall.

Rebus knew the governor was making a mistake, but two inmates on another hall had had a go at one another with home-made shanks. As a result, Christie�s isolation cell was required. He gave an open-armed grin in Rebus�s direction as he marched into the hall, bouncing on the balls of his feet. There were some whistles and handclaps, none of them appreciated by the scowling Harrison, who had emerged from his cell to watch.

�Game of pool later, Darryl?� someone called out.

�Only if they�ve disinfected that cue,� Christie shot back. His eyes met Harrison�s and he raised one hand, forming it into a pistol, which he pretended to aim and fire. Harrison stood his ground for a moment before retreating into his cave.

It was a further half hour or so before Christie arrived in Rebus�s doorway. �What are you reading?� he asked.

�A biography of John Martyn.�

�He a footballer?�

�Guitarist.� Rebus put the book to one side. �Bit of a loose cannon in his time, pissed off friends and foes alike. Can�t think who he reminds me of...�

�Reckon I could pick up some tips?� Christie�s face grew more serious. �How�s the phone? Still plenty of charge?�

�It�s fine.�

�That tells me something.�

�Oh aye?�

�I might occasionally piss off some of my friends, but at least they�re there to get pissed off. You on the other hand don�t have anyone who�d want to hear from you.�

�You think you�ve won this round with Hanlon, but there�s a long way to go. If you start getting cocky or complacent��

�My guard�s always up,� Christie interrupted. �Same as yours should be. Seen anything of Bobby Briggs lately? He�s always on the lookout for you during free flow.�

Rebus ignored this. �It won�t be an airgun next time, Darryl. Hanlon will know he has to ramp things up, especially if you�ve really put a price on his head.�

�Are you my fucking mum or something?� Christie was scowling, his good humour all gone.

�I�m just saying riling Harrison gets you nowhere.�

�I don�t know about that. Could be I�ve a guardian angel or two looking out for me.�

�Officers taking your bungs, you mean?�

�Besides, there�s a recruitment drive under way � out there and in here. If you weren�t such a crock, I might even have asked you.�

�Gee, thanks.�

Christie gave a twist of his mouth. �Better be off � business won�t look after itself.�

�Who did you put in charge while you were in solitary?�

Rebus�s question was answered when Billy Groam arrived at Christie�s side, Christie resting a hand on his shoulder before leading him away.

Rebus went back to reading his book, but his head wouldn�t let him. It was important to keep up the pretence that the attacks were Shay Hanlon�s work � both to protect Chris Novak and because it kept Christie rattled. But Everett Harrison wouldn�t take much more teasing. He too would be talking to his troops, shoring up their morale and preparing them for a potential war. There were some on the hall who could safely stand on the sidelines, but Rebus knew he wasn�t one of them.

�Stuck in the middle, John,� he muttered to himself, �just like Gerry Rafferty always said...�

Rebus was re-shelving books when Megan Keighley appeared at his shoulder and asked a favour.

�I hope it�s not insensitive,� she began, �but Jackie Simpson had a DVD out on loan. It�s one of those Fast & Furious things with Jason Statham, and there�s a growing waiting list. Mr Statham is very popular.�

�Can�t say I�ve seen him in anything.�

�Me neither, yet he seems to earn a crust.�

�You want me to fetch it?�

�If it�s still in his cell.�

Rebus thought for a moment. �Chances are it�ll have been taken by the scene-of-crime posse, but no reason for them to hang on to it. I�ll see what I can do.�

�That�s kind of you, John. I did ask Mark Jamieson if he had it, but apparently not.� A new group of prisoners was arriving, and she went off to serve them. Valerie Watts was the officer in charge. She rewarded Rebus with a slight incline of her chin, after which Rebus�s view of her was blocked by Billy Groam. He was interested in the shelf next to Rebus.

�Psychology, Billy?� Rebus commented.

�Is that what the sign says?� Groam peered at it. �Thought you might have wanted a word with me.�

�I�ll admit I was surprised. You�re a bit of a dark horse.�

�I arrived here same time one of his lads was getting out � I suppose that left a vacancy.�

�So you didn�t know him on the outside?�

Groam shook his head. �Though one of his crew drank in one of the places I worked.� His brow furrowed. �I feel a bit bad, actually. There was a guy called Jake Morris used to drink there too. New in town and needed a bit of work, so I introduced him to Darryl�s man. Next thing, he�s doing well for himself � right up until someone stuck a gun in his face. Jake did a runner.�

�So what�s your deal with Darryl?�

�While I�m in here, my family�s provided for.�

�Wife and one kid, right?�

Groam nodded. �For the record, I was against you being sprung from SRU. To me, you spelled trouble. But Cafferty was always a thorn in Darryl�s side and you plucked that thorn out. Fair play to you. Just a shame Darryl was locked up in here when it happened � made it harder to capitalise on the fact.�

�He seems to run his operation pretty well, all things considered.�

�Until Hanlon came along. City doesn�t have oxygen enough for both of them, John, and Darryl�s team on the outside are short of talent where it counts. Darryl�s itching to have that threat extinguished...� Groam waited until a prisoner nearby had moved on. �Even if it means cooperating with your lot,� he eventually concluded.

�Then he should be speaking to Malcolm Fox.�

�Darryl�s not a grass, though.�

�Need to hurry it up,� Valerie Watts called out. �Another hall�s on its way.�

�We�ve hardly been here any time!� someone complained.

�Schedule must have got snafu�d.� It was as much of an apology as Watts was about to issue. Megan Keighley was processing the borrowings as quickly as she could.

�I need to go help,� Rebus told Groam.

�You�ll speak to Fox?� Groam demanded. �You�ve got a phone, so there�s no excuse.�

Rebus moved towards the desk. He was halfway there when the next tranche of prisoners arrived. A figure towards the rear was jostling them, barging them aside. Bobby Briggs�s eyes were wide and staring, flecks of saliva at the corners of his mouth, teeth bared. Rebus looked to left and right, but there was nowhere to go. He had his mouth open, but before he could do any more than that, Briggs was on him. Rebus tried to wrench himself free, but Briggs�s grip was fierce. One of his paws grabbed the back of Rebus�s head, propelling his face into the nearest shelf of books. Tears streamed from Rebus�s eyes and blood from his nose. Briggs�s hand went from Rebus�s head to his throat and started squeezing, while he placed his garlicky mouth next to Rebus�s left ear.

�Where�s Everett Harrison when you need him, eh?� he hissed.

Rebus could feel his eyes bulging from their sockets, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A punch caught him in the kidneys. He clawed at Briggs�s wrist, to no effect whatsoever. Briggs had taken something, and it had given him strength to accompany his rage. Rebus had a sudden flashback to fights he�d had when younger. Christ, he�d even wrestled Big Ger Cafferty when the man had been a mountain. He�d always been a scrapper, but scrapping wasn�t what was required here. This was altogether different. There were voices all around, some egging Briggs on, others warning him to stop. But Briggs was beyond reasoning. The only thing that mattered to him in this moment was Rebus�s ultimate demise. The room started to shimmer at its edges, the figures becoming ghostly.

Groam�s fist caught Briggs squarely on the side of the head. Rebus could almost hear the man�s jaw crack. It took a second identical punch before Briggs relaxed his grip on Rebus and squared up to his new foe.

�Come on then,� Groam said, bending slightly at the knees, a boxer�s pose. Watts meantime had sounded the alarm and backup was starting to arrive.

�Way I hear it, your boy Christie is yesterday�s man!� Briggs roared at Groam.

�Enough!� Watts barked. �Unless you like the thought of solitary.�

Briggs stared at her and gave a humourless grin. �Those cells are jam-packed, if you didn�t know.� He was turning back towards Rebus, fists bunching, when Groam dropped him with an uppercut. Briggs buckled and keeled over, his lights extinguished. Rebus watched it all from behind his hands, which were cupped to his nose and filling with bright red blood. His eyesight was still blurry, but he knew a trained fighter when he saw one, and he recalled seeing Groam heading to the showers after gym sessions, T-shirt soaked with sweat, hair dripping. He remembered now: he�d been a doorman rather than bar staff � an enthusiastic doorman at that.

Briggs�s breathing was being checked by a white-shirted officer. Rebus risked a glance in Megan Keighley�s direction, hoping she hadn�t been traumatised, but she looked more excited than anything, one hand at her crucifix, her cheeks flushed as she took shallow gulps of air. She was staring at Billy Groam as if seeing him for the first time. Watts meantime had reached Rebus and was pinching the bridge of his nose between her thumb and forefinger. Someone else produced a clump of paper tissues.

�We�ve got a gusher,� a voice called out, as the two groups of prisoners were separated and led out into the hallway. By the time a nurse arrived, Briggs was coming round. Watts had already told Groam to be on his way but prepare for repercussions. He stepped past without Briggs noticing. The nurse was asking Briggs if he was on anything.

�Adrenalin and stupidity,� Watts murmured to Rebus by way of answer.

Rebus met her eyes. �You talked to Chris yet?�

She just nodded, saying nothing.

�Everything okay between you?�

A shrug.

A second nurse had arrived. She homed in on Rebus. �Let�s have a look at you,� she said, taking him by his arm. With a prison guard accompanying them, they walked the short distance to the nursing station. Rebus sat on a chair in one of the cubicles while the nurse got gloved up.

�My prostate�s fine,� he told her.

�At your age, I very much doubt that.� She prodded at his nose and got him to open his mouth wide to check for loose teeth. �There�ll be bruising,� she warned him. �Your eyes will probably puff up.�

�I believe the prescription for that is a juicy steak.�

�Not so much in here. Your nose isn�t broken and your mouth seems fine.� She stood back and looked at him. �You�re having a day of it � how did it go at the hospital?�

�Fine, aye.�

�Funny that, they told me you never arrived. Felt better en route and didn�t want to waste their time � very public-spirited of you.�

�What can I say?� Rebus managed a shrug.

�Don�t worry, your secret�s safe with me.�

�What secret?�

�But you better pray that Chris Novak doesn�t catch on.�

Finally Rebus understood. �It wasn�t...� he started to say, but then realised that a lie might suffice where the truth wouldn�t. �That�s very much appreciated,� he said instead.

�Valerie�s a good lass. Just maybe that bit too free-and-easy at times.�

�Could be, aye,� Rebus said. He got to his feet, somewhat shakily, as the nurse began to peel off the rubber gloves. But then she paused.

�Maybe you want me to check your...� She waggled a finger.

�That�s a smashing offer, but I think I�ll pass.�

�Would you turn Valerie down as readily, though?�

Rebus felt himself blushing � actually blushing � as he opened the door and made his escape.

They waited at the school gates and heard the bell ringing, signalling the end of lessons. A couple of parents waited in their cars for their sons or daughters to emerge.

�A Volvo and a Range Rover,� Esson commented. �We could do them for sitting on double yellow lines.�

�These are the people who pay our salaries,� Clarke reminded her.

The first children to emerge were a boy and a girl, each toting a violin case as well as a backpack. Probably first years, Clarke thought, spindly and awkward and with some way to go before adulthood. When the older ones appeared, they had more surface swagger, the boys keen to be noticed, aiming swipes at each other, chasing and being chased. Several already had their phones out, checking them with urgency. A few of the boys sported the beginnings of facial hair. The girls of similar age huddled and gossiped but looked altogether more grown-up.

�Can you remember that far back?� Esson asked, a touch of nostalgia in her voice.

�I was a swot,� Clarke answered. �Had a few friends but we were all like-minded. Homework before boys. Homework before everything.�

�My school was party central. Well, the park behind the school was. Even had a bit of woodland you could disappear into with a bottle or a bloke. Had to watch out for the creeps, though � pervs who seemed to be always hanging about. Glad to put it all behind me.�

�Happiest days of your life, Christine.�

�I know. It�s such a depressing thought. But at least we didn�t have the internet to deal with � the way it is now, I mean, filled with men like Zak Campbell.�

Clarke watched through the windscreen. �Here she comes,� she announced. Carla was alongside the same friend who�d been seated next to her in the classroom during Clarke�s visit � Stephanie, was it? There was a boy with them, too � Craig Fielding. �That�s Jasmine�s ex,� Clarke told Esson. �Lives in a house just behind hers.�

�Who�s he interested in � Carla or her pal?�

�The pal, I�d say.�

�She�s not as bonny, but then he�s hardly catch of the day himself.�

�Jasmine saw something in him, though her dad�s not a fan.�

�Fathers and daughters,� Esson commented. �Shall we?�

They unclipped their seat belts in unison, got out of the car and crossed the road. Craig Fielding saw them first and muttered something to the girls. Some kids started making nee-naw noises, mimicking a police siren � they�d obviously been in class that day and remembered Clarke.

�Lock them up!� someone yelled from a safe distance, to peals of laughter.

�Anyone want some weed?� another joker called out.

Clarke took up position in front of Carla, who averted her eyes. �You�re Stephanie, right?� she asked Carla�s companion. The girl looked to Carla for advice, but none was forthcoming.

�You don�t have to tell them anything,� Craig Fielding said in a show of bravado.

�At least they�re not panicking, Craig,� Clarke shot back. �Did he tell you he tried to outrun a police car? Just a silly wee boy.� Craig immediately backed down and started shuffling his feet, eyes cast downwards.

�Yes, I�m Stephanie,� Carla�s friend admitted.

�Nice to meet you. Would you mind if we had a word in private with Carla? I�m sure she�ll fill you in later.�

�What about me?� Craig asked. Clarke turned towards him.

�You still here?� She managed to sound incredulous. Craig took the hint and started walking. Other boys were waiting for him, wanting to know the score. He pulled back his shoulders, ready to put on an act.

�I�ll message you,� Carla told Stephanie, who nodded and moved away, albeit with some reluctance.

�Let�s go sit in the car for a minute, Carla,� Clarke said. They flanked her as they crossed the street. The nee-naws were rising into the air again. Phones were out, recording the moment for posterity. Clarke opened the rear door and waited till Carla was in before heading around the car and climbing in next to her. Esson got the hint and settled in the driver�s seat, knowing full well that she was really a passenger in this scene.

�You know what�s interesting, Carla?� Clarke asked. The girl�s lips were pressed together. She held her backpack on her lap, gripping its handle. �What�s interesting � to me at least,� Clarke continued, �is that you never asked us if there�s news or what we�re doing here. That�s what a friend would do, a friend who didn�t know anything.�

�Is there news?� Carla blurted out. Clarke eventually smiled.

�Bit late for that,� she said.

�Stephanie and Craig didn�t ask either.�

�But it�s you we�re talking about here, Carla, Jasmine�s closest friend and confidante, even if she maybe wasn�t yours. We haven�t spoken since news broke of that website. Must have come as a surprise � or maybe not?�

�Of course it was.�

�She never said a word, dropped any hints? It�s a hellish big secret to keep.�

Esson had started the car and was moving off. Clarke realised it was because some of Carla�s schoolmates were still filming on their phones.

�Are we going to the police station?� Carla asked.

�We�re just driving,� Esson informed her. �We can drop you home if you like?�

�We can just drive,� Carla said.

�So when you found out what Jasmine was doing online,� Clarke continued, �you must have thought the same as us...�

�What?�

�That she killed him and that�s why she ran.�

�She�s not...� Carla broke off and bit her bottom lip. Clarke leaned in towards her.

�You know where she is, don�t you, Carla?�

The girl gave a vigorous shake of the head.

�She�s a murder suspect, and she�ll remain one until we find her and she talks to us. We will find her, by the way � no one stays hidden for ever. But the sooner we hear her side of the story, the better.�

�She didn�t do anything.� The words were spoken so softly, Clarke almost didn�t catch them.

�You know that for a fact? Because she told you? Meaning you�re in touch with her.�

Now that they were a few streets clear of the school, Esson had pulled over to the side of the road again, watching proceedings on the back seat from the rear-view mirror.

�Carla,� Clarke went on, trying to soften her voice, even though a current was coursing through her, �the only way we can know for sure that she�s innocent is if she tells us herself.�

�She could write it all down, no?�

�Tells us herself,� Clarke repeated. �She�s not been using her debit card for food. We know she had a bit of cash, but that would mean going to a shop or paying a delivery driver. Her photo�s been everywhere for days now � someone would have come forward if they�d seen her. That tells me she�s lying low, protected by a friend or friends.� She paused. �Does Craig know?�

Carla snorted. �All Craig knows is that he fancies Steph.�

�How does Jasmine feel about that?�

�She�s not bothered. Craig and her were never really...� She broke off, realising she�d already said too much. �I think I�m going to be sick.�

Esson got out of the car and opened the rear door for her. Clarke emerged too, watching as Carla bent forward, hands on her black-stockinged knees, taking gulps of air, producing nothing but some dry heaves. After a few moments she reached into the car and pulled a water bottle from the side pocket of her backpack, taking sips from it.

�Better?� Clarke asked. The girl nodded, but there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

�I could tell her to get in touch with you,� she offered, eyes focused on Clarke.

�That all takes time, though, and she might say no. You�re her friend, Carla, and she trusts you, but we�re having to depend on you now, too. The running-away has to stop. We have to hear the story from her own mouth. After that, everything will be a lot easier for everybody. So what do you say? I think you know in your heart that it�s time � and it really is time.� Clarke pressed her palm gently against the shoulder of Carla�s blazer. Carla looked back at her unblinkingly.

�You offered me a lift home...�

Clarke nodded. �And then we�ll go and see Jasmine, yes?� Carla was still staring at her. Clarke sucked in some breath as the truth struck. �She�s at yours? Has been all this time?� She watched the girl give a slow nod. �How did you keep it from your parents, Carla?�

�You�ll see,� Carla said, climbing back into the car.

The child protection officer was called Terence Hayes. He sat alongside Jasmine in the interview room while her parents waited outside. Their reunion had been emotional, though some anger seemed to be simmering just below the surface of both wife and husband. The mood in the MIT office had been buzzy when Clarke and Esson arrived with Jasmine.

�Long way still to go,� Clarke warned Gillian Reeves. �Make sure everyone gets the message.�

Hayes had asked for a couple of minutes alone with Jasmine. The DCI had offered the parents his office, telling them it was �just a bit more comfortable�. Clarke caught his eye and nodded, knowing Helena and James Andrews were being kept out of the way.

When Hayes announced that they were ready, Esson and Clarke entered the interview room and started the recording. Once preliminaries had been dispensed with, Clarke took a moment to clear her head. She hadn�t brought any of the paperwork with her. Esson had a small blank notepad in front of her and was holding a ballpoint pen. Probably nothing was going to put Jasmine at ease, but they were trying their best. Her blonde hair had been washed recently and her clothes were clean, though she looked awkward in them. Clarke guessed they belonged to Carla.

�You did well to hide for as long as you did,� Clarke began. �Can�t have been easy.�

�Carla looked after me.�

�How did you manage to use the bathroom?�

�Waited till her parents were out.�

�What made you do it in the first place, Jasmine?�

�Hide, you mean? Or the other thing?�

Clarke found herself swallowing, her throat dry. �What other thing?�

�Letting Zak film me.�

She gave a slow exhalation. �How did you get to know him?�

�Online. He liked the TikToks that Carla and me did. We started messaging on Snapchat.�

�Did you know how old he was back then?� Clarke watched Jasmine nod.

�First time I went to his house, he took some photos in the living room. On his phone, I mean, some of the two of us and some just of me. He said I was like a model.� She raised her chin, but then dropped it again. �Second time I went, he was busy in his studio.�

�Meaning the spare bedroom?�

�When the girl left, he told me all about it. Then he showed me the pictures on his site. Good money, he said. We had a drink and a smoke, but nothing else happened. Third time I went...� Her voice trailed off and she reached for the glass in front of her. Having swallowed some water, she spoke again. �I didn�t want to let him down.� She used the sleeve of her jumper to wipe a tear from her cheek. Hayes produced an unopened packet of tissues, which she took from him. The room remained silent until she was ready. �Then that one time I turned up at the house... He knew I was coming, but he didn�t answer the door. And when I went to see if the back door was maybe unlocked, I saw him through the window... lying there in the kitchen in all that blood. I just freaked.�

�And ran to Carla�s?� Clarke asked. �Why not go home?�

�To my mum? Fat chance. Tell her what I�d been doing at Zak�s? Besides, we�d had a falling-out.�

�Oh?�

�Over her and Craig.�

�Craig Fielding?�

�She couldn�t bear the thought of him fancying me. She was always hovering, getting his attention � at her age. �Mrs Robinson�, Dad calls her � that�s from some old film. Drives him mad as well. And Craig fucking fell for it.�

It suddenly made sense to Clarke � Fielding asking after Jasmine�s mum. She remembered him saying something like Helena must be worried sick. Not just the genuine concern, but the casual use of her first name. She should have seen it at the time. And then Craig visiting the house after Jasmine�s disappearance... She knew now why James Andrews had attacked the boy.

�Zak would have sent Mum tonto,� Jasmine went on. �And if not her, then Dad.� She broke off and looked at both detectives in turn. �And I couldn�t go to the police, could I? Not without you asking what I was doing there in the first place. Besides, somebody�d killed Zak � maybe I was on their list too. Carla eventually told me I was being stupid, but by then I�d made my little nest at hers. I was happy enough there.� She had finished her water and shook her head when Hayes suggested a refill.

�Who do you think killed Zak, Jasmine?� Clarke asked.

�No idea.�

�Did you know any of the people who used his website?�

�God, no.�

�So the name Valerio doesn�t mean anything to you? He�s one of Zak�s customers.�

�I know the name. He... watched me a few times.�

�No actual interaction, though?� Clarke watched the girl shake her head. �What can you tell us about him?�

�He always wanted... more. Zak sat at the camera and computer. He�d monitor what was being asked. I�d see him shake his head if he didn�t like it. Valerio was willing to pay, but Zak said no.� She paused. �This Valerio � he�ll be in the black book, won�t he?�

Clarke�s eyes narrowed. �What black book?�

�Zak kept it in his pocket � used to take it out and wave it about, saying my head would melt if I knew who was in it. He kept teasing, but I don�t think he ever showed it to anyone.�

Clarke made eye contact with Esson: no book, black or otherwise, had been found on Zak Campbell�s body, or anywhere else for that matter.

�You met some of the other models, didn�t you?� Esson asked Jasmine.

�Zak threw a few parties. I know some of them did twosomes for him, but I didn�t want that and he never pushed it. That was the thing, he wasn�t pushy. You felt like you were the one in charge.� She paused. �But he was a prick, wasn�t he? A complete fucking scumbag.�

�Maybe one of the other models came to that realisation a while back,� Esson commented.

�And killed him? I can�t think of any of them who�d have done that.�

�You did confide in Carla, though,� Clarke said. �You know who her dad is?�

�He�s hardly ever around. I know he has shouting matches with Carla�s mum after a drink � no surprises there.� Her eyes met Clarke�s. �He�s some sort of gangster, isn�t he?�

�Do you think Carla could have told him about Zak?�

�She promised not to tell a soul.�

�How about Marcus Simpson? He had a falling-out with Zak, didn�t he?�

Jasmine shrugged. �Zak never said anything about that. I only met Marcus one time, I think...� She paused again. �My mum and dad are raging, aren�t they?�

�I�ll explain things to them if you like?�

Clarke watched the girl nod. Esson seemed to have nothing to add. Hayes looked from one detective to the other.

�We�re done here?� he guessed.

�For now, though we�ll need prints and a swab.�

A look of alarm flitted across Jasmine�s face. �Nothing to worry about,� Hayes tried to assure her. Jasmine was wiping away more tears as they got to their feet. Clarke reckoned she knew what the girl was seeing and would continue to see for months, maybe even years to come.

A kitchen floor.

A body lying there.

And blood, copious amounts of blood...

After breakfast, Rebus visited Everett Harrison in his cell.

�What the hell do you want, Rocky?� Harrison growled.

�Just a bit of clarity. Did you know who Jackie Simpson was? Why he was inside, I mean?�

�Breaking and entering, as per.�

�It was your nail bar he went into, though, the one with the stash in the back room.�

�You�re shitting me.�

Rebus shook his head. �You didn�t know until now?�

�No.�

�And if you had known?�

�I�d have ripped his throat out.�

�Exactly.�

�But I didn�t.� Harrison scratched a hand across his jawline. �So was it a coincidence or what?�

�No coincidence. Police knew your boss had trafficked stuff to that location. They wanted to search it for proof.�

�Simpson was working for your lot? That�s what you�re saying? Well they�re not getting me for stiffing him � go tell them that.�

�So if not you and not Novak...�

�Who says it wasn�t Novak?�

�I do.�

�You sure about that?�

Rebus gave a nod. �One more thing,� he said. �Does your boss know Darryl�s put a hit out on him, money no object?�

�Yeah, right,� Harrison sneered. �You think Christie�s reach stretches more than half a mile beyond the city bypass, never mind halfway round the world?�

�Hanlon really isn�t interested in Edinburgh, despite the dope haul that put you in here?�

�Because of the dope haul that put me in here,� Harrison corrected him. �Shay wants cities with a big enough market to make the occasional bust worthwhile � turns out Edinburgh�s not worth the hassle.�

�Even so, doesn�t do any harm to make Christie think he has competition.�

�He obviously has got competition � pistol-packing biker�s proof of that. Local scrotes, though, if you ask me. That�s just about the level of threat Darryl Christie merits.� Harrison broke off as Kyle Jacobs appeared in the doorway.

�Change your top, John, you�ve got a visitor.�

�He�s a popular fellow, is our Rocky,� Harrison commented as Rebus was led away.

Rebus was surprised to see Megan Keighley standing in his cell doorway. He had heard a few whistles but reckoned they were aimed at the TV or some new female officer. Jacobs, who had escorted the librarian to Rebus�s cell, was scowling in the direction of the whistlers. The inmates, undeterred, were already starting to parade past the door, checking Keighley out from behind her back.

�Megan,� Rebus said, rising from his bed. She was casting an eye over the interior.

�You keep it neat,� she said.

�Spartans had the right idea,� he answered. She rewarded him with a smile.

�I wanted to see how you were doing after yesterday.�

�Surviving,� he offered.

�Looks sore.� She was studying his face.

�I�ve had worse.� He paused. �By the way, it�s bad news about your film � police lab only has the case it came in.�

�Oh.� She looked over her shoulder towards Jackie Simpson�s cell. It had been unlocked after repainting. Rebus had been told that a couple of cops had visited it earlier while he�d been with his visitors. They�d given the nod for it to get back to being used. �It couldn�t still be in the machine, could it?� she asked.

�We don�t have DVD players as such.� Rebus gestured towards his own wall-mounted TV. �There�s a slot in the back for DVDs. SOCOs aren�t that sloppy.�

�SOCOs?�

�Scene-of-crime,� Rebus explained. She nodded her understanding as more prisoners sauntered past, Jacobs having given up trying to warn them off.

�Tidy,� one of them called out once he was safely past the doorway. �I definitely would...�

�You�re excused library duties,� Keighley was telling Rebus. �If you�re not up to it, I mean.�

�I�m fine, Megan. The man who went for me is the one you won�t be seeing for a while.�

�That�s good.� She noticed the photo lying on his bed, the one he�d been holding when she arrived. �Your family?�

�Daughter and granddaughter.�

She angled her head. �A good-looking pair. Did you pass the reading habit on to them?�

�I�m not sure about that, but my granddaughter�s turned into a bit of an artist.� He unfolded Carrie�s drawing.

�Impressive. Will you stick it on the wall?�

�And spoil the aesthetic?� He made show of looking around the bare cell.

�You don�t like to give much of yourself away, John, do you?�

He answered with a shrug.

�How long till the puffiness goes down?�

�You don�t think I look good as Jabba the Hutt?�

�I wouldn�t have taken you for a Star Wars fan.�

�I saw the DVD case in the library.�

She smiled, but then thought better of it. �That man was going to kill you, wasn�t he?�

�I reckon so.�

�Until Billy Groam stepped in.� She was running a finger up and down her crucifix. �He�s in the next cell along, isn�t he? Billy, I mean?�

�But at the gym right now, as far as I know.�

Her face fell a little. �Well, I�ll see you back in the library soon.�

�I really appreciate you dropping by, Megan.�

Jacobs ushered her away, a line of prisoners following in close procession. Rebus lay back down again. He didn�t think he would put Carrie�s drawing on display. It would stay hidden, alongside the photograph. He turned his head towards the doorway. With the entertainment over, the noise level was settling down. A couple of younger prisoners strode past in their underwear, flip-flops clacking, headed for the showers. Rebus thought about the phone hidden in the drain there. Hiding places: prisons were full of them. Hiding places and secrets. He remembered the arrival of Haj Atwal�s SOCOs. They would have stepped into many a crime scene, but none quite as intimidating or as strange and disorientating as a jail. Shouts from the locked cells all around them; doors and gates that had to be opened and closed as they made their way inwards from the reception desk. ID checks and scanners. Uniforms and creeping claustrophobia, the smells and sights, a secret world to which they resolutely did not belong.

No wonder one or two of them had looked unnerved, minds not wholly committed to the job at hand. Wanting out asap.

SOCOs aren�t that sloppy...

But what if...

What if, this one time, they were?

There was a new arrival standing just outside his cell: his neighbour, Billy Groam, fresh from his workout, sweat glistening on his skin.

�I think your librarian�s taken a shine to me,� he said. �Bit of colour in her cheeks as she passed me just now. Reckon I could be in there?�

�I�d see you swing first.�

�They don�t do hangings in here any more, John.�

�Has peace broken out between your boss and Harrison?�

�I wouldn�t go that far.�

�No more of Darryl�s boys have been targeted on the outside, though?�

Groam shook his head. �And Jake Morris is back in town. Whether he�ll live down the embarrassment of doing a runner is another thing.� He paused. �You know his girl is friends with the one who went missing? Seems she was keeping her hidden in Jake�s house without him knowing.�

�He doesn�t exactly sound like the brightest and best.�

�Jake�s all right. Just not sure he�s cut out for the life.�

�The life you introduced him to,� Rebus reminded him. Groam�s face hardened.

�I�ll see you in the library, John. I think I�m going to become a regular. Just don�t rely on me always being there at the same time as that maniac.�

After Groam had left, Rebus waited a couple of minutes before rising from his bed and leaving the cell. He was crossing the hall when Valerie Watts intercepted him.

�Off somewhere nice, John?� she asked.

�Library is missing one of its DVDs. Jackie Simpson had it last. Just wondered if it might still be inside.�

�Jackie�s cell�s been stripped, though.�

�Inside the TV,� he explained. �The slot at the back.� Watts considered for a moment before nodding.

�Let�s take a look then.�

She accompanied him into the cell. They stood for a moment smelling the fresh paint, both of them staring towards where Jackie Simpson had spent his last night on earth. Then Rebus walked over to the TV, switched it on and pressed eject. There was a brief whirring noise but nothing else.

�Slot�s empty,� Watts said.

But Rebus was peering into it as best he could. �No, it�s definitely in there,� he said. �But it looks...� He tried focusing his swollen eyes.

�Looks what, John?� she asked as he straightened up.

�Looks as though someone from Haj Atwal�s team will be getting a rocket,� Rebus eventually answered. He fixed her with a look. �We need to step back outside. And you need to call the MIT.�

She frowned and brushed past him, staring into the slot for herself.

Without waiting, Rebus was on his way back to his cell. He pulled out his chair and sat down, elbows on the desk. For five or so minutes he didn�t move. When he did exit into the hall, he saw that Simpson�s cell was being locked again, Watts standing some distance away, walkie-talkie pressed to her mouth so she could keep her voice low.

He settled himself at a table, watching a game of pool, and then another, the players pleased to have their cues returned. Watts was a pro, her demeanour giving nothing away. None of the prisoners had taken much notice of the door being locked or the conversation Watts was presumably having with the governor. Someone tried handing Rebus a cue, but he shook his head. The Wizard was seated a few feet away, studying him as though seeing him through fresh eyes. Another prisoner, high on something, was marching up and down, counting as he went. Rebus joined him, remaining a few steps behind. At a certain point, he stopped, rooted to the spot, the other prisoner having eventually to manoeuvre past him. He ran the palm of his hand across his jaw.

�Yes,� he said to himself, starting to walk again, this time in the direction of the Wizard�s cell.

Mark Jamieson was seated at the desk, playing patience with a greasy set of cards.

�No king or queen of diamonds,� he told Rebus. �Probably used for roaches.�

�Can I show you something, Mark?�

Jamieson looked up from his game. �What?�

Rather than say anything, Rebus gestured for the young man to follow him into the hall. �I�m going to get the quote wrong,� he began, �but it�s from a Sherlock Holmes story, I think. Did you know Conan Doyle was born here in Edinburgh? Got out as soon as he could, mind.�

�What are you on about?�

�The quote�s something to do with ruling out the probable and improbable. Once you�ve done that, even if the solution seems impossible, that�s what it has to be.�

�You taken some gear, John?� Jamieson enquired. But Rebus just shook his head and nodded towards Jackie Simpson�s cell, which was being unlocked again while the governor stood by, accompanied by two detectives Rebus didn�t recognise. He watched for a reaction from Jamieson and was about to get one when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Darryl Christie had arrived behind both men.

�A word, please, John,� he said, plenty of steel beneath the calm.

�What happens now, Darryl?� Jamieson stammered, the blood draining from his face.

�You keep your trap shut, Mark, that�s what happens. I�ve got the best defence lawyer in the country on speed dial. It�s all going to be okay and your mum�s being taken care of � remember that.� Christie steered Rebus away.

�His mum?� Rebus asked.

�MS � needs a ton of help, and none of it comes cheap.�

�That was the deal? Easy enough to convince him, I suppose, since you also control the tap that drips out his various fixes. Free highs for life, was it?� Rebus paused. They had reached a neutral stretch of wall between cells and rec area. �Why Simpson, though?�

Christie looked around for potential eavesdroppers. �Can�t you guess?�

�Because Novak would be the obvious suspect, and it was him you were really after. Meaning you�d no actual beef with Jackie?�

�They call it collateral damage.� Christie stared at Rebus, his eyes gleaming. There was that madness again, never far from the surface, same as when he�d shot a man, same as when he�d so nearly turned the gun on Rebus. �Novak�s a pain in the hole,� he went on. �I�ve enjoyed watching him sweat.�

Rebus swallowed back the temptation to say that Novak had been a bigger pain than Christie knew. �Why not get Samms to do it?�

Christie screwed up his face. �Samms isn�t my guy. I don�t need any of that these days. A drone can deliver to the exact open window you tell it to. But Novak wants cameras on the outside walls, pointed at the skies rather than the ground.� He gave a shake of the head. �Very bad for business.�

�And Billy Groam didn�t really hear a cell door being unlocked? That was just another piece of misdirection?�

Christie gave a slow wink.

Rebus turned towards the murder cell. �It�s about to come spilling out, Darryl.�

�Not if Mark does what he�s told. All they know now is the how.�

�They�ll put together a case whether he talks or not. You robbed a man of his life � that can�t go unpunished.�

�Listen to yourself! Look at where you are! How exactly are they going to punish me?� Christie burst out laughing, the laughter so sudden and loud that the governor emerged from Simpson�s cell. Christie lifted his hand in apology.

�You know I�m going to tell them,� Rebus stated.

�You do that. I can help you get onto the roof if you like � you can shout it from there, for all the good it�ll do. Welcome to the real world � and you didn�t even have to choose a pill.� He paused, leaning in a little closer. �Remember when you first arrived here? I told you I could get you anything. I was so hoping you�d say yes. Know why? Control. The idea I could control you was catnip to me. Something I could use to make the walls melt away.�

�Sorry if I disappointed you.�

�You seldom disappoint me, John.� Christie stared in the direction of Jackie Simpson�s cell. �Though you can be full of surprises.� He paused. �Not all of them pleasant, and some loaded with repercussions.�

�How do you mean?�

But Christie had already turned and walked away, accepting a proffered pool cue and lining up his shot.

Jason Mulgrew�s legal team reckoned the case might not even reach court. They had statements from DCs Allbright and Tilley to the effect that DS Christine Esson had made a search of her colleague�s desk without a warrant. Same went for his car. His mobile phone and computer showed evidence of deletion, but MIT had yet to find a bank account with evidence of money paid to Zak Campbell. At each recorded interview, Mulgrew said the same two words � �No comment.� His lawyers agreed that samples of his hair might well have been found in Campbell�s kitchen, but their client had explained the momentary lapse in concentration that had led him to give his head a good scratch while the hood of his overalls hung loosely down around his neck.

At the end of one of the interviews, after the equipment had been switched off, Siobhan Clarke had placed a hand on Mulgrew�s arm as he went to join his lawyer in the corridor.

�Why hang on to the book, Jason? Just tell me that?�

He leaned in so his lips were almost touching her ear. �All those names, Siobhan. I just got greedy...� His lawyer cleared his throat in warning and Clarke released her hold.

There was tidying-up to be done elsewhere. Jasmine�s parents had started the process of filing for divorce and Jasmine wasn�t sure if she would stay with her mother or travel south with her father. The media clamour had died down and would only be rekindled if and when the Zak Campbell murder trial started. The names in Campbell�s little black book would become public property then. Proceedings were actually being considered against at least three of his clients who had pestered him for younger and younger models. Siobhan Clarke wondered if Peter �Pedro� Cowan would be the only one to take his own life.

She went to see Rebus, knowing that Samantha had set up her own schedule of visits with Carrie. There was still some bruising on his face, but his eyes were back to normal, more or less.

�Good result,� she told him, having fetched cold drinks and chocolate from the vending machines.

�Except that with Mark Jamieson dead, you lot will draw a line under it.�

��You lot�?�

�I�d probably have done the same back in the day. Mystery solved, end of. But it was Darryl Christie who plotted it and Darryl Christie who made it happen.�

�The only thing missing is concrete evidence.�

�I�m the evidence, Siobhan.�

�Which is why you need to play nice, John � you�ve seen what can happen when Christie feels cornered. Gartcosh reckon you should leave it to them.�

Rebus snorted. �I wouldn�t trust Fox to take down a shower curtain, never mind organised crime.�

�You�ve not heard?�

Rebus took a bite of chocolate. �What?�

�Fox has tendered his resignation. He was grooming Jason Mulgrew for greatness. That didn�t go down too well. Added to everything else, there�s a good chance he was due to be bounced down the ladder anyway.�

�Just like him to take the coward�s way out.�

Clarke gave him a look. �I�m not sure that�s strictly fair.�

�Do I have time to phone him for a gloat?�

�Stop it.� She sipped from her can, stifling a burp. �It�s good that you�ve agreed to let Carrie come visit.� Rebus just shrugged. �Are things settling down now? In here, I mean?�

�Harrison�s being moved to Perth. Darryl Christie seems to have grown a couple of inches. Everyone knows what he did to Mark Jamieson. No way I�m ever forgiving him for that.�

�Remember what I said about playing nice?�

�I�m not sure I can, though.� He was wrapping up what was left of the chocolate, ready to tuck it into his pocket for later consumption or bartering. �Every day I�m in here, the feeling gets stronger � somebody needs to do something to take the bastard down.�

�Doesn�t have to be a retired cop who�s pushing seventy, though, does it?�

�You think I�ve not got it in me?� Rebus made show of puffing out his chest. Clarke gave a little laugh and shook her head.

They chatted more generally until time was up. Chris Novak was standing ready to escort Rebus back to Trinity Hall.

�Everything all right with you?� Rebus asked him.

�We seem to have got away with you paying me a visit,� Novak answered under his breath.

�What about Valerie?�

�We�ve decided to break things off.�

�Her heart was in the right place, you know � telling the investigation about your relationship, bringing me to see you...�

�I know that, John. But I can�t live two lives.�

�It was three, actually, with your vigilante act.�

�Aye, well that�s gone, too.�

�And yet Christie�s operation needs bringing down more than ever.�

Novak nodded solemnly. �I got a message from DI Fox, you know.�

�Oh aye?�

�He said he knew who it was under that bike helmet. He�d looked at which POs had family or friends in CID. He also said you�d done your best to throw him off the scent. But one other thing he�d heard was that some gangster in Glasgow had come to realise how fragile Christie�s hold on Edinburgh was...�

�Mickey Mason,� Rebus stated, his eyes on Novak. �And you think the city would be better off in Glasgow�s hands than Darryl Christie�s?�

�I think a lot of threatened prison officers might be.�

�Speaking of threats, the governor still owes me a favour.�

�I know you want Bobby Briggs sent elsewhere. Governor�s doing his level best...�

Rebus had stopped walking and was holding up a finger, face angled upwards. �Do you hear that, Chris?�

�What?�

�I thought I heard bells.�

�No churches near here, John.� Novak listened and then shook his head.

Rebus was readying to move off towards Trinity Hall, but Novak tapped him on the arm.

�We�re taking a detour,� he said, leading him towards the row of clear-walled cubicles set aside for private visits. �You�ve got someone waiting.� He indicated the booth at the far end. Then he held out his hand and shook Rebus�s. �I�ll be here when you�re done, John. Fingers crossed...�

As Rebus walked towards the booth, he saw his solicitor already seated, sorting through some paperwork in front of him. He hesitated a moment before opening the door and stepping through.

�John.� The lawyer reached across the gap to grasp his hand. �Take a seat, please.�

Rebus did so, his fingers seeking a grip around the smooth lip of the table. The solicitor read on for a few further seconds, then looked up at him. The man�s mouth broke into a widening smile.

�Finally there�s news, John,� he began. �There�s very good news indeed...�