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I want you to abide by it.’
    ‘Alfalfa and carrot juice?’
    ‘You’ll see a doctor, John.’ It was a statement. Rebus just snorted and drained his coffee, then held up the beaker.
    ‘Half-fat milk.’
    She almost smiled. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
    ‘Look, Gill …’ He got up, tipped the beaker into the otherwise pristine waste-bin. ‘My drinking’s not a problem. It doesn’t interfere with my work.’
    ‘It did last night.’
    He shook his head, but her face had hardened. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘Just before you left the club … you remember that?’
    ‘Sure.’ He hadn’t sat down; was standing in front of her desk, hands by his sides.
    ‘You remember what you said to me?’ His face told her all she needed to know. ‘You wanted me to go home with you.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ He was trying to remember, but nothing was coming. He couldn’t remember leaving the club at all …
    ‘On you go, John. I’ll make that appointment for you.’
    He turned, pulled open the door. He was halfway out when she called him back.
    ‘I lied,’ she said with a smile. ‘You didn’t say anything. Going to wish me well in the new job?’
    Rebus tried for a sneer but couldn’t quite manage one. Gill held her smile until he’d slammed shut the door; after he’d gone, it fell away again. Watson had given her chapter and verse all right, but nothing she hadn’t already known: Enjoys his drink a bit too much, maybe, but he’s a good cop, Gill. He just likes to pretend he can do without the rest of us … Maybe that was true, as far as it went, but maybe, too, the time was coming fast when John Rebus would have to learn that they could do without him .
    It was easy to spot the crew from the leaving do: local chemists had probably sold out of aspirin, vitamin C and patented hangover cures. Dehydration seemed a major factor. Rebus had seldom seen so many bottles of Irn-Bru, Lucozade and Coke in the grip of so many pallid hands. The sobersides – who’d either not been to the party or who’d stuck to soft drinks – were gloating, whistling shrilly and slamming drawers and cupboards wherever possible. The main incident room for the Philippa Balfour inquiry was based at Gayfield Square – much closer to her flat – but with so many officers involved, space was an issue, so a corner of the CID room at St Leonard’s had been set aside. Siobhan was there now, busy at her terminal. A spare hard disk sat on the floor, and Rebus realised that she was using Balfour’s computer. She held a telephone receiver between cheek and shoulder, and typed as she talked.
    ‘No luck there either,’ Rebus heard her say.
    He was sharing his own desk with three other officers, and it showed. He brushed the remnants from a bag of crisps on to the floor and deposited two empty Fanta cans in the nearest bin. When the phone rang he picked it up, but it was just the local evening paper trying to pull a flanker.
    ‘Talk to Press Liaison,’ Rebus told the journalist.
    ‘Give me a break.’
    Rebus was thoughtful. Liaison had been Gill Templer’s speciality. He glanced across towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘Who’s in charge of PL anyway?’
    ‘DS Ellen Wylie,’ the journalist said.
    Rebus said thanks and cut the connection. Liaison would have been a step up for Siobhan, especially on a high-profile case. Ellen Wylie was a good officer based at Torphichen. As a liaison specialist, Gill Templer would have been asked for advice on the appointment, maybe even made the decision herself. She’d chosen Ellen Wylie. He wondered if there was anything in it.
    He rose from the desk and studied the paperwork now pinned to the wall behind him. Duty rosters, faxes, lists of contact numbers and addresses. Two photos of the missing woman. One of them had been released to the press, and it was duplicated in a dozen news stories, clipped and displayed. Soon, if she wasn’t found safe and well, space would be at a premium on the wall, and those news