‘Oh aye, blame me. Is that where this is all headed? You don’t think it’s enough I’ve got a murder inquiry on my back?’ When Fleck failed to respond, some of the fire seemed to leave Driscoll, and he turned his attention to Rebus. ‘Lost it there for a second, John. No hard feelings, eh?’ He held out a hand, which Rebus studiously ignored until Driscoll took the hint and retracted it. ‘I won’t be anybody’s fall guy, Alan,’ he said, his voice low and controlled. ‘If anyone tries, they’re dead meat, understood? You old fuckers can plot all you want between you, but you’re not taking me down, not without a fight that’ll make you wish you’d never started it.’ He nodded to himself as if to stiffen his resolve, then, finally lighting the cigarette that had been bobbing in his mouth, he began to follow Agnew back towards the pub.

Rebus lifted the handkerchief away and studied the blobs of scarlet. The flow had slowed to a trickle. He kept up the pressure with his thumb and forefinger.

‘Just a silly laddie, John,’ Fleck commented. ‘Francis’s death, it’s got us all …’ He broke off. ‘I’ll see to it that he apologises properly.’

‘Will he try fobbing me off with a ton?’

‘Why? Do you need it?’

‘What I need is not to have short-fuse merchants getting in my face.’

‘You’ve got to understand, Rob was Francis’s best friend – or at least assumed he was. He’s been feeling the betrayal more than most.’ Fleck was staring at the retreating figure. ‘He’s a good kid really.’

‘They’re not kids, though, or laddies. They’re fully grown men who know what they’re doing.’

‘As if you never did anything daft when you were young.’

‘Nothing as stupid as ripping off a gangster.’

‘Some of which you took for organising the meet with Cafferty.’

‘I wish to hell I’d never set foot inside Tynecastle, or let you worm your way into my life.’

Fleck’s face darkened. ‘Remember, nothing you heard tonight goes anywhere, or there’ll be payback.’

Rebus bunched up the handkerchief and stuffed it into Fleck’s breast pocket. ‘One last question,’ he said. ‘What happened to the guy in jail?’

Fleck thought for a moment. ‘Did his time and broke free of the drugs – Christ knows how. Runs a pub these days and gives Cafferty a cut.’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Moorfoot in Craigmillar. He’s called Kenny Beecham.’

‘That wasn’t the name of the licensee last time I was there.’

‘Ex-cons tend not to get alcohol licences, John. There’ll be a second party involved.’ Fleck was holding out a hand towards Rebus, same as Driscoll had done. Rebus stared at it.