“Sorry, John,” Macrae said now, taking a deep breath. “How did it go?” Trying to sound concerned.

“It went” was all Rebus said. He watched the helicopter bank steeply as it turned for home.

“Hope to Christ that wasn’t TV,” Macrae commented.

“Not much to see, even supposing it was. Shame to tear you away from Glenrothes, sir. How’s Sorbus looking?”

Operation Sorbus: the policing plan for G8 week. To Rebus, it sounded like something a dieter would use in his tea instead of sugar. Siobhan had set him straight, told him it was a kind of tree.

“We’re prepared for any eventuality,” Macrae stated briskly.

“Except maybe one,” Rebus felt it his duty to add.

“Back burner till next week, John,” his boss muttered.

Rebus nodded his agreement. “Always assuming they agree.”

Macrae followed Rebus’s sight line and saw the car approaching. It was a silver Merc with tinted rear windows.

“Probably means the chopper wasn’t TV,” Rebus added for Macrae’s benefit. He reached into his own car’s passenger seat and brought out what remained of a sandwich. Ham salad: the first had slipped down without touching the sides.

“The hell’s this?” Macrae was asking through gritted teeth. The Merc had pulled to an abrupt stop beside one of the Scene of Crime vans. The driver’s door opened and a man got out. He walked around the car and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. It took several moments for the man inside to emerge. He was tall and narrow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. As he secured all three buttons of his suit coat, he seemed to be studying the two white vans and the three unmarked police cars. Eventually, he peered up at the sky, mouthed something to his driver, and stepped away from the vehicle. Instead of approaching Rebus and Macrae, he walked over to the signpost, the one informing tourists of the Clootie Well’s history. The driver was back behind his steering wheel, eyes on Rebus and Macrae. Rebus blew him a little kiss, content to stand there until the new arrival consented to make introductions. Again, he thought he knew the type: cold and calculating, making a show of being the real power. Had to be security of some kind, following up the chopper’s call.