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stories would be discarded. They were repetitious, inaccurate, sensationalised. Rebus lingered on one phrase: the tragic boyfriend . He checked his watch: five hours until the news conference.
    With Gill Templer promoted, they were down a DCI at St Leonard’s. Detective Inspector Bill Pryde wanted the job, and was trying to stamp his authority on the Balfour case. Rebus, newly arrived at the Gayfield Square incident room, could only stand and marvel. Pryde had smartened himself up – the suit looked brand new, the shirt laundered, the tie expensive. The black brogues were immaculately polished and, if Rebus wasn’t mistaken, Pryde had been to the barber’s, too. Not that there was too much to trim, but Pryde had made the effort. He’d been put in charge of assignments, which meant putting teams out on the street for the daily drudgery of doorsteppings and interviews. Neighbours were being questioned – sometimes for the second or third time – as were friends, students and university staff. Flights and ferry crossings were being checked, the official photograph faxed to train operators, bus companies and police forces outwith the Lothian and Borders area. It would be someone’s job to collate information on fresh corpses throughout Scotland, while another team would focus on hospital admissions. Then there were the city’s taxi and car hire firms … It all took time and effort. These comprised the public face of the inquiry, but behind the scenes other questions would be asked of the MisPer’s immediate family and circle of friends. Rebus doubted the background checks would amount to anything, not this time round.
    At last, Pryde finished giving instructions to the group of officers around him. As they melted away, he caught sight of Rebus and gave a huge wink, rubbing his hand over his forehead as he approached.
    ‘Got to be careful,’ Rebus said. ‘Power corrupts, and all that.’
    ‘Forgive me,’ Pryde said, dropping his voice, ‘but I’m getting a real buzz.’
    ‘That’s because you can do it, Bill. It’s just taken the Big House twenty years to recognise the fact.’
    Pryde nodded. ‘Rumour is, you turned down DCI a while back.’
    Rebus snorted. ‘Rumours, Bill. Like the Fleetwood Mac album, best left unplayed.’
    The room was a choreography of movement, each participant now working on his or her allotted task. Some were donning coats, picking up keys and notebooks. Others rolled their sleeves as they got comfortable at their computers or telephones. New chairs had appeared from some darkened corner of the budget. Pale blue swivel jobs: those who’d managed to grab one were on the defensive, sliding across the floor on castors rather than getting up to walk, lest someone else snatch the prized possession in the interim.
    ‘We’re done with babysitting the boyfriend,’ Pryde said. ‘Orders from the new boss.’
    ‘I heard.’
    ‘Pressure from the family,’ Pryde added.
    ‘Won’t do any harm to the operation budget,’ Rebus commented, straightening up. ‘So is there work for me today, Bill?’
    Pryde flicked through the sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘Thirty-seven phone calls from the public,’ he said.
    Rebus held up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me. Cranks and desperadoes are for the L-plates, surely?’
    Pryde smiled. ‘Already allocated,’ he admitted, nodding towards where two DCs, recently promoted out of uniform, were looking dismayed at the workload. Cold calls constituted the most thankless task around. Any high-profile case threw up its share of fake confessions and false leads. Some people craved attention, even if it meant becoming a suspect in a police investigation. Rebus knew of several such offenders in Edinburgh.
    ‘Craw Shand?’ he guessed.
    Pryde tapped the sheet of paper. ‘Three times so far, ready to admit to the murder.’
    ‘Bring him in,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s the only way to get rid of him.’
    Pryde brought his free hand to the knot in his tie,