Neither man paid much notice that Rebus was taking a step back at the same time as he reached into his coat. He whipped out the crowbar and swung it at Crosbie’s head. It was a glancing blow at best, but better than nothing. Beecham grabbed the record player and heaved it in Rebus’s direction before following it over the bar. Rebus aimed the crowbar at his knuckles and struck gold. Beecham howled as he retreated, grabbing a bottle and smashing it to give himself a ragged-edged weapon.

Rebus turned and made for the door, but Crosbie slammed into him from behind, buffeting him against the solid wood, the air flying from his lungs. He managed to turn the lock, but had only opened the door an inch when he was dragged back into the bar, by which time Beecham had joined his partner. The crowbar was prised from his grip, Crosbie flinging it across the floor. Still winded, Rebus had little resistance to offer, every breath sending stabs of pain through him. Crosbie forced him to his knees, hands around his throat, the pressure intensifying. Rebus’s own hands were clasped around Crosbie’s, but no way he could loosen the grip. His eyes began bulging, choking sounds gurgling from his throat, the blood roaring in his ears …

Suddenly there was a fourth voice in the bar.

‘Thought that was your car.’

Rebus’s vision was fogged as he looked up towards the doorway. Tommy Oram stood there, aiming a pistol. Looked to Rebus a lot like the one the kid on the bike had been brandishing earlier.

‘Step away from him,’ Tommy ordered. Beecham and Crosbie shuffled backwards, making sure there was some distance between them. If he tried firing at one, the other would make his move. Rebus was gasping as he rose shakily to his feet, one hand at his throat, feeling for damage.

‘Your nose is bleeding,’ Tommy informed him.

‘I’m getting used to it.’ Rebus swiped at the blood with the back of his free hand.

‘Some mess you and your police pals made of my lock-up. Don’t know what made me think I might find you here or hereabouts.’

Rebus nodded towards Beecham and Crosbie. ‘They killed your dad, right here in this pub.’

‘He’s fucking lying!’ Beecham roared.