‘And go see a doctor,’ she called out to him. As she stuffed her bacon roll into her bag and made to follow suit, the owner called her back.

‘Eight pounds fifty,’ he announced.

Clarke squeezed past the line of workmen, listening to their tuts of disapproval. Well, of course John Rebus had left her with the bill. What else was he going to do?

Out on the pavement, she called Laura Smith. Rebus was walking towards Bruntsfield Links. His shoulders were hunched, and he seemed to be finding each step ponderous. Her heart sank slightly, remembering him as he had once been.

‘I’m okay,’ Smith assured her.

‘Are you going to do anything about it, though?’

‘I’m writing it up right this minute for the Courant. It’ll go live in about an hour. No names, obviously, but at least it’s on the record.’

‘Meaning Pelham will probably see it. You’re sure he knows? If he doesn’t, you’re not leaving him in any doubt.’

‘That’s why the wording’s important. So what have you got on today?’

‘Interviews mostly.’

‘The victim’s friends and associates? That’ll be fun.’ Clarke could hear Smith typing as she spoke.

‘It’s given you your mojo back, hasn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The Courant, I mean.’

‘It really has. Sooner I can monetise my way out of print journalism, the better.’

‘Any blowback from that photo of the Crew?’

‘An email from a certain car dealer’s solicitors, sent via the website.’

‘Cease and desist?’

‘The way they worded it, they might as well have been using a quill.’

‘You’re going to ignore it?’

‘Yep.’ Smith seemed to hit one final key of her computer with a flourish. ‘Worth my while heading to Leith to get a shot of the Tynecastle lot when they start arriving?’

‘My guess is, they’ll be on the lookout for exactly that.’

‘Good point. I’ll maybe stay here with my coffee and biscuits then.’

‘Just don’t get too comfortable, Laura. Ask yourself how James Pelham found out who you are. If he can do it, others can too.’

Leighton and Esson had been dispatched to interview Tommy Oram. When Clarke found out, she phoned Esson and told her to bring him in instead.

‘Isn’t the station going to be busy enough with the Tynecastle interviews?’

‘Always room for one more,’ she said, ending the call.

Fox stuck his head around the office doorway. ‘Ready when you are,’ he announced.

She was ready.

Rob Driscoll sat slouched in the interview room, legs splayed.

‘Interesting,’ Clarke said as she pulled out the chair alongside Fox.

‘What?’ Driscoll asked.

‘Francis Haggard sat in that chair the exact same way as you.’ She paused and watched Driscoll slowly draw himself upright, knees closing, unhappy perhaps to be too closely compared to his friend.

‘Everyone must be in shock,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘At the ­station, I mean.’

‘Obviously.’