Rebus had wrenched his shoulder but knew he could live with it. The door gave with a clank and he hauled it open, keeping hold of the crowbar as he walked in. He made straight for the workbench with the shelves of paint pots above. Lifted one down and prised it open. Pale green matt emulsion, matching some of the blotches on the bench’s surface, the ones that had been tacky to the touch. He upended the can slowly, paint splattering out. When he peered inside the emptied pot, he saw something wedged against its bottom.

He took out the rubber gloves he’d bought and slipped them on before reaching in to ease out the wrapped package. A lesson learned from Cafferty, he reckoned – storing something of value in an innocuous setting. Drugs would surely be kept in a secure vault, not left lying in a lock-up in one of the less salubrious parts of town. Looking around, he found an old newspaper. He separated its sheets and placed the package on one of them before starting on the next tin.

His phone pinged with a message, Sammy checking he was still okay for Sunday lunch and warning that Carrie had a new piano tune for him to hear.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world, he texted back.

When he looked up from his phone, two bikes had arrived outside, the one from before plus backup. Still no sign of Buster or his owner. The riders tried a few blasphemous threats, but Rebus ignored them, except to pick up the crowbar, giving it a brief wave in their direction.

He had six more pots to go. It took only a few minutes to relieve them of their contents. He used more sheets of newspaper to wrap the packets, then started carrying everything out to the Saab, opening the boot and loading up. He guessed there to be a couple of kilos, maybe closer to three. If it was cocaine, that probably made it worth six figures; more if it was heroin. He would have known the going rate at one time. Had Jack Oram discovered the drugs, or had his son maybe hinted or said something? Rebus knew he’d find out eventually.

He took a final look around. There could be other hiding places, but trouble was almost certainly only moments away. His eyes settled on the box of empty spirits bottles – litre sizes, the kind you only got duty-free or in pubs and clubs. Cheap brands of vodka, gin and whisky. Then there was the mound of rags. And on the floor beneath the workbench a couple of plastic jerrycans.