He recalled his early days on the force. He’d joined in his twenties, by which time a stint in the army had scraped away any youthful idealism. He knew from the start that he was destined to shore up defences that would always remain permeable. His mentors had all been from the old school. The station at Summerhall – one of his very earliest postings – hadn’t been too dissimilar from Tynecastle in its culture. You either clicked or you didn’t stick around. Rebus hadn’t minded bending rules and crossing lines. Everybody knew that the real trouble started when there was no one at the top of the criminal heap. Petty rivalries and vying to fill the vacuum caused all manner of problems. Better by far to have a Big Ger Cafferty keeping order and stability – even if that meant doing him the occasional favour. Rivals had come and gone, having found Cafferty to be a formidable mix of the shrewd and the ruthless. Rebus wondered how the man was feeling now, perched in his penthouse, weakened and isolated. He knew Cafferty hardly went out, didn’t want people to see him in a wheelchair, his physical heft diminished. New players had run onto the field, and all Cafferty could do was watch.

‘Aye, maybe,’ Rebus said out loud.

Siobhan Clarke had once told him that he shared more with Cafferty than he liked to think. And maybe that was true. Could old men affect the world around them, play a part, still make their mark? The world itself might not want them, but sometimes that could make you all the more determined not to be shut out. You would be heard. You would be seen. Rebus was aware of how nobody looked at him twice these days as he walked down the street, queued to pay for a newspaper, stood at a bar waiting for his eye to be caught. He was nobody special, just one among multitudes. Sitting there in his Saab, he felt more than anonymous. He felt invisible.

Beth Mackenzie, on the other hand, drove into the car park as if launching an attack. Her cherry-red sports car was meant to be seen, as was the person who eventually climbed out. Make-up and hair immaculate; large sunglasses; a coat pretending to be an animal pelt; two-inch heels. She had tucked her rolled-up yoga mat under her arm. Having locked the car, she noticed Rebus walking towards her.

‘They have an off-peak rate for pensioners,’ she said, indicating the gym’s door. If she had noticed his bruised face, she wasn’t about to mention it.

‘No Gaby today?’

‘She doesn’t have my dedication. What the hell do you want, John?’

‘Why did you send Big Ger that photo?’

She removed her sunglasses and folded them. ‘Still harping on?’

‘Francis Haggard was one of the cops who turned him over that time.’

‘What?’