He watched them turn and pedal back the way they’d come, then returned to the Saab, unlocking it and getting in. He sat for a moment, then turned the ignition, got the heater working, and started driving around the streets. It didn’t take him long before he passed a hatchback with racing stripes and a modified exhaust. It was idling kerbside, making a racket. Rebus’s two young friends had stopped alongside, next to the open window on the driver’s side, while an exchange of some kind took place. A few streets further on, a different bicycle had stopped in front of one of the terraced houses, the occupier opening his door just wide enough for another transaction.

‘Home deliveries,’ Rebus said to himself. Well, why not? In his CID days he’d known school-age children used as couriers, but never as young as these. These were kids who should have been at home with their games consoles and loving parents. At one time Cafferty had controlled most of the trade in the city, but he’d never used kids, not as far as Rebus knew. But then this was a different world, a less furtive culture. You could hardly walk down a pavement these days without catching a whiff of blaw. Bedrooms and attics were being turned into hothouses for growing the stuff. One such property had gone up in flames a while back and neighbours had been warned to keep their windows shut if they didn’t want to feel the effects. Users and dealers had stopped fearing law and order because law and order had stopped being overly bothered about a bit of weed or a few pills or wraps of powder.

When his phone buzzed, he saw that the incoming call was from Alan Fleck. He let it ring without answering. Fleck tried again a minute later, but Rebus still wasn’t in the mood. Instead he drove the relatively short distance to Tynecastle cop shop. He had to double-park, but that was okay, he wasn’t planning on getting out of the car. The place had the same soul-crushing air that it had always had. Inside, however, with Fleck and his ilk running the show, the staff had acted like princes and soldiers in some grand fiefdom. Rebus had been treated like a valued emissary, gifted bottles of malt and promises of bills waived in some of the best of the city’s restaurants.

‘Just give them my name,’ Fleck would say with a wink or a tap of the nose. He would pat Rebus’s chest or arm, and at some point Rebus would realise a wad of banknotes had been added to that day’s wardrobe.