‘Well, that’s something we can agree on.’

‘That and Jackie Leven,’ Clarke said.

‘You’ll take a closer look at Chris Agnew? He has a bit of a rep as a ladies’ man. They call him the Swordsman at Tynecastle.’

‘And they tell me the Scottish male lacks romance.’

‘I’ll let you get back to your files,’ Rebus said.

‘And I’ll let you get back to your music.’

‘Hey, I’m working here,’ Rebus said. ‘Oh, one last thing. That bit of bother you and Fox had at the nightclub – one of the bouncers wasn’t called C or Crosbie, was he?’

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘He owns the Moorfoot, meaning the Potter’s Bar as was.’

‘He might also drive a Range Rover bought from your pal Alan Fleck.’

‘Someone mentioned a web to me earlier tonight,’ Rebus said. ‘This feels an awful lot like that.’

‘I’ll add Chris Agnew to my shopping list, John.’

‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to come in for another interview. Thanks, Siobhan.’

He ended the call, sat back and thought about that burst of laughter. Yes, he’d collected some scalps, but at the cost of a higher number of disciplinary hearings. Yes, there were pats on the back from the rank and file, who wished they could get away with the stuff he did. He knew none of that made him a good cop, not in an age of brains rather than brute force. And yes, buried in his past there were probably enough booby-traps to blow him to smither­eens – most months he thought about them, wondering if and when. Scots law – that need for corroboration – had probably saved his skin. He did still feel bad about Tony Barlow, too, though Alan Fleck had been right – the actual blame went back to someone else.

‘I’m not a real criminal, am I?’ he asked Brillo, who lay on the floor next to the radiator, eyes closed. One of the dog’s ears pricked up. ‘Would I be living like this if I was, eh?’ He got up and refilled his glass, adding a decent drop of water. Then, once he’d settled himself in his chair again, he made the second of his planned calls.

‘If you would move just a couple of streets,’ Cafferty drawled, ‘I could see right into you.’

‘What makes you think I’m not out on the Meadows?’

‘You’re playing music. Now, what the hell do you want?’

‘I know who sent you that picture.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You know too, don’t you? Beth Mackenzie?’

‘Ah, you’re getting warm.’

Warmer than you know, Rebus thought to himself.

‘I also know why,’ he continued. ‘Wallpaper’s the same as when you owned the place, left there as a memento of the time you were royally shafted by a bunch of cops.’

‘Is that a fact?’