Rebus suddenly knew. It was Bobby Hogan. Maybe not on the phone-Hogan could have gone over Templer’s head, got the deputy chief constable to make the call on his behalf. Needing that favor from Rebus. Hogan had a certain measure of power right now, power gifted him along with his latest case. Rebus wondered what sort of favor he wanted.

Templer put down the phone. “You’re to report to South Queensferry. Seems DI Hogan needs his hand-holding.” She was staring at her desktop.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Rebus said.

“Fairstone won’t be going anywhere, John, remember that. Soon as Hogan’s finished with you, you’re mine again.”

“Understood.”

Templer looked past him to where Siobhan was still standing. “Meantime, maybe DS Clarke will shed some light -”

Rebus cleared his throat. “Might be a problem there, ma’am.”

“In what way?”

Rebus held up his arms again and turned his wrists slowly. “I might be all right for holding Bobby Hogan’s hand, but I’ll need a bit of help for everything else.” He half turned in the chair. “So if I could just borrow DS Clarke for a little while…”

“I can get you a driver,” Templer snapped.

“But for writing notes… making and taking calls… needs to be CID. And from what I saw in the office, that narrows things down.” He paused. “With your permission.”

“Get out then, the pair of you.” Templer made a show of reaching for some paperwork. “Soon as there’s news from the fire investigators, I’ll let you know.”

“Very decent of you, boss,” Rebus said, rising to his feet.

Back in the CID room, he had Siobhan slide a hand into his jacket pocket, bringing out a small plastic jar of pills. “Bastards measured them out like gold,” he complained. “Get me some water, will you?”

She fetched a bottle from her desk and helped him wash down two tablets. When he demanded a third, she checked the label.

“Says to take two every four hours.”

“One more won’t do any harm.”

“Not going to last long at this rate.”

“There’s a prescription in my other pocket. We’ll stop at a chemist’s once we’re on the road.”

She screwed the top of the jar back on. “Thanks for taking me with you.”

“No problem.” He paused. “Want to talk about Fairstone?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m assuming neither of us is responsible.” Her eyes bored into his.

“Correct,” he said. “Which means we can concentrate on helping Bobby Hogan instead. But there’s one last thing before we start…”

“What?”

“Any chance you could do my tie properly? Nurse hadn’t a clue.”

She smiled. “I’ve been waiting to get my hands around your throat.”

“Any more of that and I’ll throw you back to the boss.”

But he didn’t, even when she proved incapable of following his instructions for knotting a tie. In the end, the woman at the chemist’s did it for him while they waited for the pharmacist to fill his prescription.

“Used to do it for my husband all the time,” she said. “God rest his soul.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Rebus looked up and down the street. “I need cigarettes,” he said.

“Don’t expect me to light them for you,” Siobhan said, folding her arms. He stared at her. “I’m serious,” she added. “This is the best chance of quitting that you’re ever likely to have.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Beginning to,” she admitted, opening the car door for him with a flourish of her arm.

2

There was no quick route to South Queensferry. They headed across the city center and down Queensferry Road, picking up speed only when they hit the A90. The town they were approaching seemed to be nestled between the two bridges-road and rail-that spanned the Firth of Forth.

“Haven’t been out here in years,” Siobhan said, just to fill the silence inside the car. Rebus didn’t bother answering. It seemed to him as if the whole world had been bandaged, muffled. He guessed the tablets were to blame. One weekend, a couple of months back, he’d brought Jean to South Queensferry. They’d had a bar lunch, a walk along the promenade. They’d watched the lifeboat being launched-no urgency about it, probably an exercise. Then they’d driven to Hopetoun House, taking a guided tour of the stately home’s ornate interior. He knew from the news that Port Edgar Academy was near Hopetoun House, thought he remembered driving past its gates, no building visible from the road. He gave Siobhan directions, only for them to end up in a cul-de-sac. She did a three-point turn and found Hopetoun Road without further help from the passenger seat. As they neared the gates to the school, they had to squeeze past news vans and reporters’ cars.

“Hit as many as you like,” Rebus muttered. A uniform checked their ID and opened the wrought-iron gates. Siobhan drove through.

“I thought it would be on the waterfront,” she said, “with a name like Port Edgar.”

“There’s a marina called Port Edgar. Can’t be too far away.” As the car climbed a winding slope, he turned to look back. He could see the water, masts seeming to rise from it like spikes. But then it was lost behind trees, and turning again, he saw the school come into view. It was built in the Scots baronial style: dark slabs of stone topped with gables and turrets. A saltire flew at half-mast. The car park had been taken over by official vehicles, people milling around a Portakabin. The town boasted only a single, tiny police substation, probably not big enough to cope. As their tires crunched over gravel, eyes turned to check them out. Rebus recognized a few faces, and those faces knew him, too. Nobody bothered to smile or wave. As the car stopped, Rebus made an attempt to pull the door handle but had to wait for Siobhan to get out, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.

“Thanks,” he said, easing himself out. A uniformed constable walked over. Rebus knew him from Leith. His name was Brendan Innes, an Australian. Rebus had never got around to asking him how he’d ended up in Scotland.

“DI Rebus?” Innes was saying. “DI Hogan’s up at the school. Told me to tell you.”

Rebus nodded. “Got a cigarette on you?”

“Don’t smoke.”

Rebus looked around, seeking out a likely candidate.

“He said you’re to go right up,” Innes was stressing. Both men turned at a noise from the Portakabin’s interior. The door flew open and a man stomped down the three exterior steps. He was dressed as if for a funeral: somber suit, white shirt, black tie. It was the hair Rebus recognized, in all its silvery back-combed glory: Jack Bell, MSP. Bell was in his mid-forties, face square-jawed, permanently tanned. Tall and wide-bodied, he had the look of a man who’d always be surprised not to get his own way.

“I’ve every right!” he was yelling. “Every bloody right in the world! But I might’ve known to expect nothing from you lot but utter bloody downright obstructiveness!” Grant Hood, liaison officer on the case, had come to the doorway.

“You’re welcome to your opinion, sir,” he tried remonstrating.

“It’s not an opinion, it’s an absolute, undeniable fact! You got egg all over your faces six months ago, and that’s not something you’re ever likely to forget or forgive, is it?”

Rebus had taken a step forward. “Excuse me, sir…?”

Bell spun around to face him. “Yes? What is it?”

“I just thought you might want to keep your voice down… out of respect.”

Bell jabbed a forefinger at Rebus. “Don’t you dare start playing that card! I’ll have you know my son could have been killed at the hands of that maniac!”

“I’m well aware of that, sir.”

“But I’m here representing my constituents, and as such I demand to be allowed inside…” Bell paused for breath. “Who are you anyway?”

“The name’s DI Rebus.”

“Then you’re no bloody good to me. It’s Hogan I need to see.”