Siobhan was aware that there was a backlog on her desk. Because of Fairstone, her work had been suffering. She could still feel his presence. If a phone rang, she would freeze, and a couple of times she caught herself heading for the window, to check if his car was out there. She knew she was being irrational, but couldn’t help it. Knew, too, that it wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to someone about… not without seeming weak.

The phone was ringing now. Not on her own desk, but on Rebus’s. If no one answered, the switchboard might try another extension. She crossed the floor, willing the sound to stop. It did so only when she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Who’s that?” A male voice. Brisk, businesslike.

“DS Clarke.”

“Hiya, Shiv. It’s Bobby Hogan here.” Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan. She’d asked him before not to call her Shiv. A lot of people tried it. Siobhan, pronounced “Shi-vawn,” shortened to Shiv. When people wrote her name down, it turned into all sorts of erroneous spellings. She remembered that Fairstone had called her Shiv a few times, attempting familiarity. She hated it and knew she should correct Hogan, but she didn’t.

“Keeping busy?” she asked instead.

“You know I’m handling Port Edgar?” He broke off. ’Course you do, stupid question.”

“You come over well on TV, Bobby.”

“I’m always open to flattery, Shiv, and the answer is ‘no.’”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not exactly snowed under here,” she lied, glancing across at the folders on her desk.

“If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know. Is John around?”

“Mr. Popular? He’s taken a sickie. What do you want him for?”

“Is he at home?”

“I can probably get a message to him.” She was intrigued now. There was some urgency in Hogan’s voice.

“You know where he is?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You never answered my question: what do you want him for?”