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needed a wash. ‘I’m thinking maybe he wasn’t insured, or he had something in his system. All minor stuff as far as it goes, but fleeing the scene of an accident . . . and tampering with the scene . . .’
    ‘Placing Jessica in the driver’s seat, you mean?’ The muscles in Traynor’s face had tightened. He went to the side of the bed, looming over his daughter. ‘Is that what happened? Did that little shit leave you there, not even phoning an ambulance?’
    But Jessica’s eyes were closing. ‘He wasn’t there,’ she said, her voice just above a whisper. ‘He wasn’t there, he wasn’t there.’
    Traynor saw Rebus out, walking with him all the way to the main foyer.
    ‘We’ll question him in the morning,’ Rebus explained. ‘See if we can move things along.’
    ‘And if not?’
    ‘No huge harm done, I wouldn’t have thought. I mean, you can blame him for speeding maybe, but unless one of them tells us the truth . . .’ Rebus paused. ‘You know he’s the son of a prominent politician?’
    ‘Is he?’
    Rebus smiled. ‘You pretended earlier you barely knew his name, but you seem the meticulous type to me – and you obviously dote on your daughter. I’d say you’d have checked up on any boyfriends she happened to mention.’
    ‘Okay,’ Traynor conceded, ‘maybe I do know who he is. Is this you telling me to let it drop?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Because I know how it can be with the police and politicians . . .’
    ‘Not around here, sir.’
    ‘Sure about that?’
    Rebus nodded, and Traynor seemed to relax a little, staring past Rebus, eyes losing their focus. Then he blinked himself back awake, took Rebus’s hand and shook it.
    ‘Try to get some sleep, sir,’ Rebus advised. ‘And maybe buy Jessica a scooter next time.’
    This elicited the thinnest of smiles before Traynor turned and walked back into the hospital building. Rebus’s phone was vibrating: a message from Siobhan. He opened the text.
    CHECK OUT OWEN TRAYNOR’S BIO!
    Owen Traynor’s bio? Rebus watched as the tall, well-built figure receded, rounding a corner and disappearing from view. He tapped in Clarke’s number but she wasn’t answering, so he wandered outside, spat the chewing gum on to the roadway and lifted a cigarette from its packet.

3
    Forbes McCuskey was a few minutes early. He carried a Harris Tweed satchel over one shoulder and wore a three-quarter-length military-style coat, powder blue with brass buttons. Rebus led him to an interview room, where Siobhan Clarke was waiting. She had placed her folder – the one from the crash site – on the table in front of her. She gestured for McCuskey to sit down opposite. There was no chair for Rebus, but that was by agreement – he preferred to lean against a wall, always in the eyeline of the person being questioned.
    ‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke. You’ve already met Detective Sergeant Rebus.’
    ‘So you’re his superior?’ McCuskey broke in.
    ‘I’m the senior officer here, yes.’
    McCuskey nodded his understanding. He sat low in the metal chair with his legs splayed, as if he didn’t find it uncomfortable in the least. Clarke had opened the folder. She positioned a photo of the VW Golf in front of the young man.
    ‘Jessica was incredibly fortunate.’
    ‘I can see that,’ he said, nodding again.
    ‘Lucky someone was driving past – they phoned for an ambulance.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘If someone had been with her in the car, they could have called the ambulance sooner. Might have made all the difference.’
    ‘But she’s going to be okay – she told me.’
    ‘It’s still going to take her longer to recover,’ Clarke bluffed, giving the news time to sink in. ‘Odd place for her to be. Has she told you what she was doing there?’
    ‘Said she just felt like a drive.’
    ‘Her father tells us she’s not the kind to put her foot down . . .’
    ‘Maybe she hit a patch of oil.’
    ‘Road looked fine when we checked.’ Clarke made show of