‘Surprised you don’t recognise him. He used to own this joint, back when it was the Potter’s Bar.’

‘Well before my time.’

‘You’ll have heard the story, though.’

‘Got into trouble and headed for the hills.’

‘Except it seems he’s back on the scene and calling himself Davie Loach.’

‘Is he aye?’ The barman was pouring himself some lemonade from a nozzle. He set the glass aside as the young couple approached. The man wanted a note changed for coins he could feed into the machine.

‘Losing streaks never last for ever,’ the barman commiserated. The customer made a clucking sound. He noticed that Rebus was holding a photograph up for inspection, but quickly decided he could safely ignore it and its owner.

‘Two more rum cola,’ he said. His date was stroking the back of his neck and he turned to give her a kiss. Once their mouths had met, neither seemed in any hurry to come up for air, the barman watching as if he had front-row seats at the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Rebus reckoned he was left with two options – finish the beer or walk over to the table in the corner. He opted for the latter.

The man seated there didn’t look up at his approach, or even when Rebus held the photograph out in front of him. He lowered it a little so it rested next to the man’s beer glass.

‘Not ringing any bells?’ he cajoled. ‘Maybe the belfry’s empty, eh?’ The man looked up at him then, but his mind seemed to loiter elsewhere. Fair enough. Rebus would have been the same if the alternative was facing the reality of this soulless room. Contrary to the barman’s words, here was incontestable evidence that some losing streaks were for life.

‘You’ve been a wonderful audience,’ he concluded, folding the photo back into his pocket.

‘Missing you already,’ the barman said as he made his exit. ‘Bring some records next time.’

‘Not sure I’ve got anything suitable for a wake,’ Rebus retorted, giving the bar and everyone in it a final look before leaving.

4

Clarke was on her way to the interview room when her phone alerted her to an incoming call. When she saw Rebus’s name, she almost didn’t answer, but she knew he wouldn’t give up.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Top of the world, DI Clarke. How about you – blood pressure higher than normal?’

‘What makes you ask?’

‘You sound like an elastic band that’s about to snap.’

‘You freelancing for NHS 24?’

‘Just friendly concern. I take it you’ve a pressing engagement with a crime scene?’

‘In a manner of speaking. I’m working the Francis Haggard case.’ There was silence on the other end. ‘He’s a uniform at Tynecastle, but more pertinently, he thumps his wife – or at least he used to.’

‘That’s never good.’

‘No, it’s not.’