Rebus got stuck into his slice of caramel shortbread while Clarke boiled the kettle. She checked, but there was no sign of Macrae.

'Meeting at HQ,' Rebus explained as she placed a mug on his desk. Then, in an undertone: 'Have you cleared the Sundance Kid with him?'

'Not yet.' She glanced over to where Goodyear was chatting

easily with Tibbet and Hawes, and even managing to make them both laugh.

'Bringing a uniform in on a murder case?' He kept his voice low.

'Sure you know what you're doing?'

'DCI Macrae put me in charge.'

'Meaning you're responsible for any and all fuck-ups.'

'Thanks for reminding me.'

'How much do you know about him?'

'I know he's young and he's keen, and he's spent too long hanging around with a dead weight.'

'I hope you're not drawing parallels, DS Clarke.' Rebus slurped from the mug.

'Perish the thought, DI Rebus.' She looked towards Goodyear again. 'I'm just giving him a taster, that's all – couple of days and he'll be back to West End. Besides, Macrae wanted a few more recruits to the cause…'

Rebus nodded slowly, slid from his chair and wandered over, his hand landing on Goodyear's shoulder.

'It was you who took the statement from Nancy Sievewright?' he checked. Goodyear nodded. 'When she said she'd just been passing by, did you get any sort of an inkling?'

The young man thought for a moment, holding his bottom lip between his teeth. 'Not really,' he said at last.

Tfou either did or you didn't.'

'In which case, I didn't.'

Rebus nodded, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. 'What did you get in Great Stuart Street?'

'Gill Morgan does live there, and she knows Nancy Sievewright.'

Rebus stared at Hawes. 'But?'

Tibbet didn't want to be left out. 'But,' he said, 'we got the feeling she was parroting something she'd been told to say.'

Rebus turned back to Goodyear. 'And DC Tibbet can tell when someone's spinning him a line… What does that tell you?'

Goodyear gave his lip another gnaw. 'She's asked a friend to cover for her, because she was lying to us that night.'

'Lying to you,' Rebus corrected him, 'and you didn't even know it.'

Having made his point, he seemed to dismiss the constable again, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. 'What's Morgan like?'

Hawes: 'Lives in a nice flat… doesn't seem to be sharing with anyone.'

'Just her name on the door,' Tibbet added.

'Works as a model, so she says. But no jobs today. If you're asking me, though, she's got credit at the Bank of Mum and Dad.'

'Different league from Sievewright,' Rebus commented, waiting for Clarke to nod agreement. 'So how do they know one another?'

Hawes and Tibbet seemed at a loss. Rebus made a tutting sound, a teacher whose star pupils had eventually slipped up.

'I think they just know each other socially,' Tibbet blurted out.

Rebus glared at him. 'Attend the same regattas, you mean?'

Hawes felt compelled to come to her partner's defence. 'She wasn't that posh.'

'Just making a point, Phyl,' Rebus told her.

'Maybe we should bring her in,' Clarke suggested.

“Your call, Shiv,' Rebus reminded her. “You're the one Macrae's put in charge.'

This was news to Hawes and Tibbet; news to Goodyear, too, by the look of it. He was studying Rebus as though wondering how a sergeant could suddenly outrank an inspector. The ringing phone broke the silence. Rebus, being closest, picked it up.

'Todorov inquiry, DI Rebus speaking.'

'Oh… hello.' The voice was male and tremulous. 'I called earlier…'

Rebus caught Hawes's eye. 'About a woman, sir? We appreciate you taking the trouble to phone back.'

Tes, well…'

'So what is it I can do for you, Mr…?'

'Do I have to give my name?'

'This can be as confidential as you like, sir, but a name would be nice.'

'By “confidential” you mean…?'

7 mean spit it out! Rebus wanted to yell into the receiver. But instead he kept his voice level and pleasant, thinking of something he'd once been told: sincerity is everything – when you can fake that, the sky's the limit.

'Well, all right then,' the caller was saying, 'my name's-' He broke off again. 'I mean, you can call me George.'

'Thank you, George.'

'George Gaverill.'

'George Gaverill,' Rebus repeated, watching Hawes add the name to her notepad. 'Now what is it you'd like to say, George? My colleague mentioned something about a woman…'

¦Yes.'

'And you're calling because you saw our flyers at the car park?'

'On the sandwich board outside the car park,' the man corrected Rebus. I'm sure it's nothing. I mean, I saw it on the news… the poor guy was mugged, wasn't he? I don't think she could have done it.'

“You're probably right, sir. All the same, we try to gather up as much information as we can, helps us build a picture.' Rebus was rolling his eyes. Clarke made a circular motion with her finger: keep him talking.

'I wouldn't want my wife to think it was anything other than what it actually was,' Gaverill was saying.

'Absolutely. So this woman, sir…?'

'The night that man was murdered-' The voice broke off abruptly and Rebus thought he'd lost him. But then he heard breathing on the line. 'I was walking along King's Stables Road…'

'What time was this?'

'Ten… maybe ten fifteen.'

'And there was a woman?'

Tea.'

'I'm with you so far, sir.' Rebus rolled his eyes again.

'She propositioned me.'

It was Rebus's turn to pause. 'By which you mean…?'

'Just what I say: she wanted to have sex, though she put it rather more crudely.'

'And this was on King's Stables Road?'

Yes.'

'Near the car park?'

'Outside the car park, yes.'

'A prostitute?'

. 'I suppose so. I mean, it's not every day something like that happens – not to me, at any rate.'

'And what did you say to her, sir?'

'I turned her down, naturally.'

'And this was around ten or quarter past?'

'Something like that, yes.'

Rebus shrugged, letting the others know he wasn't sure what he was getting. He really wanted a description, but it would be easier face to face. Moreover, Gaverill's eyes would tell Rebus whether he i was dealing with just another crank.

'Is there any way,' he began quietly, 'I could persuade you to come to the station? I can't stress how vital your information might be.'

'Really?' Gaverill perked up for a moment, but only a moment.

'My wife, though… I couldn't possibly…'

“You could make some excuse, I'm sure.'

'Why do you say that?' the man barked suddenly.

'I just thought…' But the line had gone dead. Rebus cursed under his breath and dropped the phone back on to the desk. 'In the movies, someone would have traced the call.'

'I've never heard of a sex worker operating from that street or anywhere near,' Clarke commented sceptically.

'Sounded genuine enough,' Rebus felt bound to counter.

'Reckon Gaverill's his real name?'

'I'd put money on it.'

'Then we look him up in the phone book.' Clarke turned to Hawes and Tibbet. 'Get on to it.'

They got on to it, while Rebus tapped the phone, willing it to ring again. When it did, he snatched the receiver up.

'I shouldn't have done that,' Gaverill was saying. 'It was rude of me.'

'Don't blame you for being a little cautious, sir,' Rebus assured him. 'We were just hoping you'd phone again. This is one of those cases where we're desperate for a break of some kind.'

'But she wasn't a mugger or anything.'

'Doesn't mean she didn't see something. We reckon the victim was attacked just before eleven. If she was in the area…'

Tes, I see what you mean.'

Hawes and Tibbet had done the deed. A piece of paper was waved under Rebus's nose: phone number and address for George Gaverill.