Rebus couldn’t believe Stacey Webster had been near either of them. The train conductor had assured them they were lucky: past three days, the service had been terminating at Finsbury Park. Rebus could hardly have said that Finsbury Park would have done just as well…

Cafferty was alone in the pool hall. He didn’t even look up when Siobhan walked in, not until he’d played his shot. It was an attempt at a double.

And it missed.

He walked around the table, chalking his cue. Blew away some excess powder from the tip.

“You’ve got all the moves,” Siobhan told him. He gave a grunt and lowered himself over the cue.

Missed again.

“And yet you’re still lousy,” she added. “Just about sums you up really.”

“Good morning to you, too, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Is this a social call?”

“Does it feel like a social call?”

Cafferty glanced up at her. “You’ve been ignoring my little messages.”

“Get used to it.”

“Doesn’t change what happened.”

“And what exactly did happen?”

He seemed to consider the question for a moment. “We both got something we wanted?” he pretended to guess. “Except now you’re feeling guilty.” He rested the cue against the floor. “We both got something we wanted,” he repeated.

“I didn’t want Gareth Tench dead.”

“You wanted him punished.”

She took a couple of steps toward him. “Don’t try to pretend any of this was for my benefit.”

Cafferty made a tutting sound. “You need to start enjoying these little victories, Siobhan. Life doesn’t offer too many, in my experience.”

“I screwed up, Cafferty, but I’m a quick learner. You’ve had a bit of fun down the years with John Rebus, but from now on you’ve got another enemy breathing down your neck.”

Cafferty chuckled. “And that’s you, is it?” He leaned against the cue. “But you have to admit, Siobhan, we made a pretty good team. Imagine how we could run the city between us-information exchanged, tip-offs and trades…me going about my business and you swiftly climbing that promotion ladder. Isn’t that what we both want, when it comes down to it?”

“What I want,” Siobhan said quietly, “is to have nothing to do with you until I’m standing in the witness box and you’re on trial.”

“Good luck with that,” Cafferty said with another low chuckle. He turned his attention back to the table. “Want to thrash me at pool in the meantime? I was never any good at this bloody game.”

But when he turned around, she was heading for the door.

“Siobhan!” he called to her. “Remember the two of us? Upstairs in the office here? And the way that little useless idiot Carberry started squirming? I saw it in your eyes…”

She’d pulled the door open, but couldn’t resist the question. “Saw what, Cafferty?”

“You were starting to like it.” He ran his tongue around his lips. “I’d say you were definitely starting to like it.”

His laughter followed her out into the daylight.

Pentonville Road and then Upper Street…farther than he thought. He stopped at a café opposite the Highbury and Islington subway stop, ate a sandwich, and flicked through the first edition of the day’s Evening Standard. Nobody in the café was speaking English, and when he placed his order they struggled with his accent. Good sandwich though…

He could feel blisters forming on the soles of both feet as he headed back outside again. Turning off St. Paul ’s Road into Highbury Grove. Opposite some tennis courts he found the street he was looking for. Found the block he wanted. Found the apartment number and its buzzer. No name next to it, but he pressed it anyway.

No reply.

Checked his watch, then pushed the other buzzers until someone answered.

“Yeah?” the voice crackled from the intercom.

“Package for number nine,” Rebus said.

“This is sixteen.”

“Thought maybe I could leave it with you.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Outside their door then?”

The voice swore, but the buzzer sounded and Rebus was in. Up the stairs to the door of apartment 9. It boasted a spy hole. He pressed his ear to the wood. Took a step back and studied it. Solid door, with half a dozen locks and a steel plate around the rim.

“Who lives in a place like this?” Rebus asked himself quietly. “David, it’s over to you.” The catchphrase from a TV show called Through the Keyhole. Difference was, Rebus knew exactly who lived here: information gleaned by-and from-Steelforth. Rebus rapped at the door halfheartedly, then headed back downstairs again. Tore the lid from his cigarette pack and wedged it in the main door so it couldn’t lock. Then went outside and waited.

He was good at waiting.

There were a dozen residents’ parking bays, each one protected by a vertical metal pole. The silver-colored Porsche Cayenne came to a stop while its owner got out and undid the padlock on the pole, laying it flat so he could maneuver into the space. He was whistling contentedly as he walked around the car, giving its tires a kick because that was what guys did. He rubbed his sleeve over a spot of dirt and tossed his keys in the air, snatching them and returning them to his pocket. Another bunch of keys emerged, and he sought the one that would unlock the main door to the block. He seemed bemused that the door wasn’t fully closed. Then his face smashed into it as he was propelled from behind, through the door and into the stairwell, Rebus not giving him any sort of a chance. Grabbed him by the hair and pummeled the face into the gray concrete wall, smearing blood across it. A knee in the back and Jacko was on the ground, dazed and semiconscious. A rabbit punch to the neck and another punch to the jaw. The first for me, Rebus thought, the second for Mairie Henderson.

Rebus stared closely at the man’s face. Scar tissue, but well fed. He’d been ex-army for a while, growing fat courtesy of the private sector. The eyes glazed over and then slowly closed. Rebus waited a moment, in case it was a trick. Jacko’s whole body had gone limp. Rebus made sure he still had a pulse and his airway wasn’t blocked. Then he yanked the man’s hands behind his back and secured them with the plastic restraints he’d brought.

Secured them nice and tight.

Climbed to his feet, took the car keys from Jacko’s pocket, and headed back outside, checking no one was watching. Over to the Porsche, where he scored one side of the bodywork with the key before opening the driver’s-side door. Slotted the key home and left the door open invitingly. Paused a moment to catch his breath, and then headed for the main road again. Any passing taxi or bus, he’d take it. Five-o’clock train from King’s Cross would see him back in Edinburgh before closing time. He had an open-return ticket-could have flown to Ibiza for less. But it meant he could catch any train he liked.

He had unfinished business at home, too.

His luck was in: a black cab with its yellow roof light shining. In the back, Rebus reached into his pocket. He’d told the cabbie Euston-knew it was a short walk from there to King’s Cross. He took out the sheet of paper and roll of tape. Unfolded the sheet and studied it-crude but to the point. Two photos of Santal/Stacey: one from Siobhan’s cameraman friend, the other from an old newspaper. Above them in thick black pen the single word MISSING, underlined twice. Below, Rebus’s sixth and final attempt at a credible message:

My two friends, Santal and Stacey, missing since the bombs. Arrived at Euston that morning on night train from Edinburgh. If you have seen them or have any news, please call me. Need to know they are safe and well.

No name at the bottom, just his cell number. And half a dozen copies in his other pocket. He’d already flagged her as a missing person with the police national computer: both identities; height, age, and eye color; a few background snippets. Next week, her description would go out to the homeless charities, the Big Issue sellers. When Eric Bain was out of the hospital, Rebus would ask him about Web sites. Maybe they could even set up one of their own. If she was out there, she was traceable. No way Rebus would be giving up on this one.