It was the ogre from the corner. Oram managed a nervous smile. Not that the man was paying attention. His eyes were drilling into Rebus’s. ‘Yeah, fine, fine. Cheers, man. Might see you later?’

The heavyweight was pulling the hood of his dark fleece over the dome of his head. Rebus probably looked to him like one of his easier KOs.

‘You should see the other guy,’ Rebus commented.

The man seemed unwilling to pull his stare away, but eventually he left, letting in a blast of cold clear air.

‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked Oram.

‘Crosbie,’ the young man answered. ‘Most folk call him C.’

‘This is his pub?’

‘Sort of, I suppose.’

‘Him and Kenny Beecham are buddies?’

‘Since school.’

‘He’s a doorman, aye?’ Oram looked up at Rebus from his phone. ‘I saw what he was clutching in that paw of his,’ Rebus explained. ‘One of those armbands they all wear these days. He’ll be working Gaby’s nightclub, then? That’s why you might see him later?’ He leaned in towards Oram. ‘I know Gaby owns the club as well as doing the DJing.’ He started holding up his fingers one by one. ‘Gaby – doormen – enforcers – drugs – the Mackenzies.’ His palm was now splayed. ‘You’re the webbing between them, Tommy. And if I’ve worked it out, maybe your dad did too …’

A hand snaked between Rebus and Oram, scooping up the empty glasses. Beecham waited for Rebus to give him his undivided attention.

‘I told you to offski,’ he announced.

‘It’s not even half-time,’ Rebus complained, nodding in the direction of the screens.

‘Game’s over for you, pal. All the floodlights are going dark.’

‘I need to fetch the pizza anyway,’ Oram explained, rising to his feet and starting to zip up his thin jacket.

‘Maybe see you at that club, eh?’ Rebus said. Then, to Beecham, ‘Your mate Crosbie’s putting me on the guest list.’

‘Shit list more like,’ Beecham said.

Drinkers waiting to be served had started yelling about the drought conditions. He headed off in their direction. Rebus focused on Oram.

‘Remember what I said – don’t get in more trouble than you can handle.’

‘You’re not my dad.’

‘He’d want what’s best for you.’

‘Maybe that’s not what I want, though.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Be nice to your mum – no olives for a change.’

‘You were joking about the club, right? You’re not going there?’

‘Not a chance in hell, son,’ Rebus said, the bar erupting as the ball went into a net.

Rebus had walked Brillo, fed both dog and owner, and then poured himself into the armchair in his living room alongside a second whisky. The hi-fi system was playing Jackie Leven at barely discernible volume. Even so, as Siobhan Clarke answered his call, she recognised the song.

‘“Single Father”?’ she said.

‘I taught you well.’

‘In some respects maybe. What can I do for you, John?’