There was an underground car park opposite Cafferty’s building. The lift took Rebus down to the first level, but all the spaces there were for visitors rather than residents. The private parking was a further storey down. The strip lighting overhead flickered into life when the sensors picked up movement. About half the available bays were occupied. A smattering of electric vehicles sat charging. One or two cars looked to have been there for a while, wrapped in dust sheets. The white Audi was squeezed in between two other cars, its bonnet cool to the touch. Rebus knew it would be locked, but he tried the doors anyway. He stared at the boot for fifteen or twenty seconds, gave the rear bumper a kick, then headed for the lift again.

So many lives tainted by association with Cafferty and his ilk, and it never seemed to stop, each new generation suckered in or repeating the mistakes of their elders. Tommy Oram’s father had twice been snatched from him. Beth Mackenzie had learned from her old boyfriend and shared those lessons with her daughter. Rob Driscoll, like so many others, had fallen under Alan Fleck’s spell. There seemed no end to it.

The night was frosty. Rebus could see his breath in front of him as he pressed the buzzer and waited. A few food delivery drivers were still plying their trade, but none stopped at Cafferty’s block. The sound of exuberant singing drifted towards him from the Meadows. Young voices, female and male, a reminder that there was another world out there. He punched in the number for Cafferty’s flat a second time.

‘What?’ Cafferty’s voice eventually barked from the intercom. There was a camera there too, so Rebus knew he was being watched.

‘Need a word,’ he said.

‘This time of night?’

‘Jack Oram has surfaced.’

‘Has he now?’

‘And that means there’s something we have to discuss.’

Rebus waited, folding his arms around himself for warmth. He wondered if he was maybe suffering a delayed reaction from the Moorfoot. Couldn’t seem to stop trembling. When the door gave a click, he shoved it open and took the lift to the penthouse, all the time feeling as if he were descending rather than going up.

The door to Cafferty’s flat was closed but not locked. Rebus went in and found the man in his usual place by the windows and the telescope. There was just the one floor-standing lamp illuminating a corner of the huge room, the rest left in shadow.

‘Do you never go to bed?’ he asked, looking around for something to drink. He found whisky and a glass, poured out a generous measure.

‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ Cafferty said. ‘My casa is your casa, et cetera.’ Then, taking a good look at Rebus, ‘The absolute fucking state of you.’ He watched as Rebus refilled the glass. ‘Did Andrew do that?’