The estate was dimly lit, half the lampposts non-functioning. He could see only a metre or so into the patch of grassland where the footballers had been. Beyond that, anything could be happening. The lane was well lit, though, nor was this the only deterrent to trespassers. The door to Tommy Oram’s lock-up was open, his van parked alongside. Two youths sat astride their bikes and seemed be talking to someone inside – presumably Oram himself. A joint was passed from one figure to another, and Buster emerged, licking his chops and sniffing the ground.

‘Party central,’ Rebus said ruefully, placing his foot down on the accelerator.

Rob Driscoll had been getting grief all day. He was on a double shift, by no means his first this week, covering for yet more COVID cases. So much for the booster jag and all the other needles they’d been given the past year. Money pissed up against a wall. Meantime, chief among the grief-givers were Chris Agnew and Deek Turnbull. They’d even talked of going to Laura Smith’s house and posing for a photo – ‘Put it on our website and see how she likes it.’ Trust the pair of them not to get the ’rona.

Driscoll had considered driving to the infirmary and rubbing himself up against a few of the patients. A couple of bars on his daily LFT and he could stay in bed for a week being waited on hand and foot. Instead of which he was pounding the night-time streets around Haymarket, looking for a psycho. There had been several reports, the first from the railway station itself. Male, late twenties, shaved head, baggy denims, stick-thin. Threatening people, abusive language, needing dealt with. But the suspect had headed elsewhere by the time Driscoll arrived – along West Maitland Street and into Palmerston Place reportedly. They only had one available patrol car, and it was on the prowl. Driscoll’s radio kept squawking, driving him demented.

The sarge had given him a right earful earlier, too, as if everything that had gone wrong could be laid at Driscoll’s door. Why couldn’t he get his house in order? Why didn’t the Crew all jump at his command? ‘It’s because you don’t instil fear, son,’ Fleck had told him. ‘There always has to be a bit of fear.’ Aye, right, phoning from his comfy office in his fancy car showroom before heading home to his twelve-room mansion and his bastard wine cellar.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Driscoll muttered as he strode, his loaded utility belt weighing him down. A couple of pedestrians pointed him in the right direction. Very helpful, yes, thank you very much, and did you try stopping him yourselves? Of course you bloody didn’t. That’s your job, Officer.