‘I assume it was you that told Laura we were digging into the Complaints files on Tynecastle?’

‘Reckoned I owed her a favour. How’s she doing, by the way?’

‘She’s fine – and the noose is tightening around Crosbie.’

‘Find anything at the lock-up?’

‘Plenty of prints on the bottles. They’ve gone for analysis, as have the rags.’ She paused. ‘Team said someone had been there before them, made a bit of a mess.’

‘Oh?’

‘Emptied paint pots everywhere. Whoever it was should have checked the foldaway bed, though – hundreds of bagged pills taped to its underside.’

‘Well, isn’t that something?’

‘One day maybe you’ll share the full story, but right now I’m off for a long soak and a fresh glass of wine. Just out driving, eh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It’s only that when you answered, you said you were busy. To me that means you’ve a destination in mind.’

‘Enjoy your moment of victory, Siobhan. They’re few and far between.’

‘Your way of telling me to mind my own business?’

‘Goodnight, Siobhan.’

He ended the call and pointed the Saab towards Craigmillar.

Bring the stuff …

He was going to have to make something up. Stall them. Prevaricate.

Either that or tell the truth.

He tossed a coin in his mind. Made his decision.

There were lights on in the Moorfoot, but the door was locked. Rebus bunched his fist and gave a confident-sounding thump. The door opened just wide enough to allow him in. The man called Crosbie locked it again after him and gave him a shove, propelling him towards the bar, behind which Beecham stood. Untended glasses sat on tables, some of them barely started.

‘All of this for me?’ Rebus pretended to speculate. ‘Regulars can’t have been happy about early closing.’ There was a glass on the bar with the dregs of a whisky inside. He sniffed it and drained it before scoping the room.

‘How’s the firebombing business?’ he asked casually.

‘Don’t push it,’ Beecham said. ‘Crosbie’s just about ready to start tearing heads off as it is.’

‘I was told Jack Oram would be joining us.’

‘And we were told you’d have something to trade.’

‘I need to see Jack first.’

‘Good luck with that.’ Crosbie’s voice was a low growl. He was behind Rebus, close enough for his sweat to be an issue. Rebus angled his body a little, an eye on both men.

‘Meaning he’s no longer with us,’ he stated.

‘A wetsuit and an oxygen tank, you’d be in with a shout,’ Crosbie said.

‘Off the coast would mean he might be washed up sooner or later,’ Rebus speculated. ‘I’m guessing a quarry?’

‘Where’s the stuff?’ Beecham demanded.