‘It’s five in the morning,’ Alan Fleck said, answering his phone. He was in the kitchen of his home, his wife asleep upstairs. Two or three times a night he got up for a piss, and the third time he usually didn’t bother going back to bed. Instead he would settle at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, or maybe go for a walk around the garden if the weather allowed. He might read the news online or switch on the radio. He might think about cars he’d like to have on his books. Just now, as the phone buzzed, he’d been remembering a vintage Aston Martin, sold too cheaply, just before the market for them went mega. No power steering meant the thing had been a pig to drive, otherwise he might have hung onto it for himself. Still, everyone had regrets, didn’t they?

‘I took you for an early riser,’ Rob Driscoll said.

‘And it just so happens you’re right – didn’t think you were a fellow traveller, though.’

‘I get alerts on my phone. Have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘Laura Smith got firebombed a few hours back.’

Fleck narrowed his eyes. ‘The reporter?’

‘The same. And here’s the thing – the Courant had it before anyone else. Had it suspiciously quickly, if you ask me.’

‘Smith is behind the Courant?’

‘Tell me I’m wrong. I’m not, though. And when I think of the tip-offs I’ve given her in the past … then she goes and shits all over us.’

‘Is she hurt?’

‘Her living room’s a mess, but that’s about all.’

‘One of our lot?’

‘None of us knew she was the blogger, did we?’

‘If you say so.’ Fleck lifted his mug and sipped from it. ‘So who was being targeted, the journalist or the blogger?’

‘I’m just happy some bastard’s got her in their sights. Might keep her off our backs for a while.’

‘Like she’s our biggest problem.’

‘You’re thinking John Rebus might be, after last night?’

‘He’s not the sort to take kindly to his nose getting mashed.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I suggest you keep everyone focused. More MIT interviews with the Crew today, aye? Pep talk for each one of them before they head in. I’ll do some thinking about everything else. Who’s in charge of investigating the fire-raising, do we know?’

‘I can find out.’

‘Might be an idea to do that then. If it’s a friendly face, so much the better.’

‘No way they can tie it to us.’

‘That won’t stop fuckers like Fox trying. Once everybody knows it was Smith who snapped that photo outside the pub, there’ll be fingers pointing our way.’ Fleck paused. ‘You’re sure none of your boys could have worked it out?’

‘Fairly sure.’

‘Say one of them did – who would your money be on?’