So they sat at Millie's desk, like customers and assistant. Clarke, who liked computers, had actually picked up a couple of brochures.

'That's got a twenty-five megahertz microprocessor,' Millie said, pointing to one of the brochures.

'What size memory?’

'Four meg RAM, I think, but you can select a hard disk up to one-sixty.’

`Does this one have a 486 chip?’

Good girl, thought Rebus. Clarke was calming Millie down, taking her mind off both Billy Cunningham and her recent outburst. Steve brought the customer through to show him a certain screen. He gave the three of them a look full of curiosity.

'Sorry, Steve,' said Millie, 'forgot your coffee.’

Her smile would not have passed a polygraph.

Rebus waited till Steve and the customer had retreated. 'Did Billy ever bring friends back to the flat?’

'I've given you a list.’

Rebus nodded. 'Nobody else you've thought of since?’

'No.’

'Can I try you with a couple of names?. Davey Soutar and Jamesie MacMurray.’

'Last names don't mean much in our flat. Davey and Jamesie… I don't think so.’

Rebus willed her to look at him. She did so then locked away again quickly. You're lying, he thought.

They left the shop ten minutes later. Clarke looked up and down the pavement. 'Want to go see Murdock now?’

'I don't think so. What do you suppose it was she didn't want us to see?’

‘Sorry?’

'You look up, see the police coming towards you, why do you blank your computer screen pronto and then come flying off your seat all bounce and flounce?’

'You think there was something on the computer she didn't want us to see?’

'I thought I just said that,' said Rebus. He got into the Renault's passenger seat and waited for Clarke. 'Jamesie MacMurray knows about The Shield. They killed Billy.’

'So why aren't we pulling him in?’

'We've nothing on him, nothing that would stick. That's not the way to work it.’

She looked at him. 'Too mundane?’

He shook his head. `Like a golf course, too full of holes: We need to get him scared.’

She thought about this. 'Why did they kill Billy?’

'I think he was about to talk, maybe he'd threatened to come to us.’

'Could he be that stupid?’

'Maybe he had insurance, something he thought would save his skin.’

Siobhan Clarke looked at him. 'It didn't work,' she said.

Back at St Leonard's, there was a message for him to call Kilpatrick.

'Some magazine,' Kilpatrick said, 'is about to run with a story about Calumn Smylie's murder, specifically that he was working undercover at the time.’

'How did they get hold of that?’

'Maybe someone talked, maybe they just burrowed deep enohgh. Whatever, a certain local reporter has made no friends for herself.’

'Not Mairle Henderson?’

'That's the name. You know her, don't you?’

'Not particularly,' Rebus lied. He knew Kilpatrick was fishing. If someone in the notoriously tight-upped SCS was blabbing, who better to point the finger at than the new boy? He phoned the news desk while Siobhan fetched them coffee.

'Mairie Henderson, please. What? Since when? Right, thanks.’

He put the phone down. 'She's resigned,' he said, not quite believing it. 'Since last week. She's gone freelance apparently.’

'Good for her,' said Siobhan, handing over a cup. But Rebus wasn't so sure. He called Mairie's home number, but got her answering machine. Its message was succinct: 'I'm busy with an assignment, so I can't promise a quick reply unless you're offering work. If you are offering work, leave your number. You can see how dedicated I am. Here comes the beep.’

Rebus waited for it. 'Mairie, it's John Rebus. Here are three numbers you can get me on.’

He gave her St Leonard's, Fettes, and Patience's flat, not feeling entirely confident about this last, wondering if any message from a woman would reach him with Patience on the intercept.

Then he made an internal call to the station's liaison officer.

'Have you seen Mairie Henderson around?’

'Not for a wee while. The paper seems to have switched her for someone else, a right dozy wee nyafl.’

'Thanks.’

Rebus thought about the last time he'd seen her, in the corridor after Lauderdale's conference. She hadn't mentioned any story, or any plan of going freelance. He made one more call, external this time. It was to DCI Kilpatrick.

'What is it, John?’

'That magazine, sir, the one doing the story about Calumn Smylie, what's it called?’

'It's some London rag…’

There were sounds of papers being shuffled. 'Yes, here it is. Snoop.’

'Snoop?’

Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who nodded, signalling she'd heard of it. 'Right, thank you, sir.’

He put the receiver down before Kilpatrick could ask any questions.

'Want me to phone them and ask?’

Rebus nodded. He saw Brian Holmes come into the room. 'Just the man,' he said. Holmes saw them and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.

'So,' said Rebus, 'what did you get from the builders?’

'Everything but an estimate for repointing my house.’

He took out his notebook. 'Where do you want me to start?’

19

Davey Soutar had agreed to meet Rebus in the community hall.