‘Even games can have consequences.’

‘So one minute you’re getting called St Francis, the next you’re thumping your wife?’

‘Wasn’t just about the nicknames, John. It’s everything that happened after.’ She peered through the windscreen. ‘Better to turn here and park on Wellington Place. Main road’s blocked top and bottom for the tram works.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Rebus said through gritted teeth.

She was right, though, and a couple of minutes later he was bringing the Saab to a halt as close to the cut-through as possible. Clarke thanked him and got out, then stuck her head back inside the car.

‘Straight home,’ she warned him.

‘Yes, Mum.’

Then she was gone. Rebus let the engine idle for a couple of minutes, then turned off the ignition and got out. The evening was bitter, felt like some sleet blowing in. He fastened his jacket, started whistling softly again, and began to follow her.

One side of the pavement was out of use altogether, as was the carriageway. Two uniforms were waiting at the door to one of the tenements, along with Christine Esson. Rebus stayed back until they’d gained entry to the building. When he got to the main door, it had locked itself again. None of the buzzers had names next to them, just flat numbers. Two key boxes had been affixed to the door frame, a sign that there were short-term lets on the stairwell. He tried a buzzer at random.

‘Fuck is it now?’ a hoarse male voice crackled from the tiny speaker.

‘Food delivery for your neighbour. They’re not answering.’

There was another muttered curse, but the door clicked open and Rebus was in. He could hear noises from above, a fist thumping at a door. Then Clarke’s voice: ‘Definitely the right flat?’

‘Well, he’s either comatose or not at home,’ a male voice replied. ‘Want us to wait or what?’

‘Could be anywhere between here and Corstorphine,’ Esson then said. Rebus heard the clatter of a letter-box flap being closed. He guessed Clarke had bent down to take a look. She had, after all, learned from the best. ‘Pubs will be open for a while yet,’ Esson was saying. ‘We could put out a description?’

Rebus had heard enough. He retraced his steps silently to the main door, pulled it open as stealthily as he could, and came face to face with Malcolm Fox. Fox eased his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said.

‘I could say the same,’ Rebus countered. ‘But your bird has flown, so he won’t be going to any safe house with you tonight, DI Fox.’

‘Why am I not surprised you’re so well informed? Though that does beg the question as to how. Did Alan Fleck send you?’

‘No.’