He’d never said no, rationalising that to do so would be to give offence. He was reminded of a sign that used to be widespread in business premises: Please do not ask for credit as a refusal often offends. And besides, Fleck was a good cop, wasn’t he, the kind that got results? Loved by those who served under him, admired by those higher up the tree. Rebus had once, after a drink too many, wondered aloud why he stayed stuck at sergeant.

‘I keep turning them down when they offer,’ Fleck had answered. ‘Nothing beats where I am now, John, nothing. You and your CID pals, I wouldn’t swap with you if you offered me a diamond mine.’

Was it because he enjoyed being close to the front line? Rebus had often thought about that. He reckoned now that it had more to do with the strings that could be pulled and the power he wielded. When Alan Fleck walked down the street, everyone knew him, or else they wanted to know him. What he said and did mattered. And when some graffiti had gone up not too many streets from the police station stating in metre-high capital letters that SGT ALAN FLECK = BASTARD, Fleck had insisted on being photographed next to it. He’d then had the photo copied, framed and wrapped as Christmas gifts for every person, cop and non-cop, who worked at Tynecastle. There had been one for Rebus, too, though he wasn’t sure now what he’d done with it.

And yes, he’d granted Fleck and his crew a few favours along the way, of course he had. Because to say no was to become an outsider, and maybe even the enemy, no longer trusted, no longer part of that seemingly charmed circle.

Whisky and cigarettes, dinners and bungs – Rebus guessed people had sold themselves for less. And better Alan Fleck than the likes of Big Ger Cafferty. Fleck had always framed it as if it were a question of us and them, two teams in polarised competition.

‘But you have to watch out for the goalposts, John,’ he’d said. ‘Those sleekit damned things have a way of shifting, and they can do it in the blink of an eye.’