The pub he was in today was on Brougham Place. He had walked Brillo across Bruntsfield Links in low winter sun, dog and owner casting long shadows. There was the usual traffic on Melville Drive and plenty of students using the footpaths. He supposed the university was back in business. Things had been very quiet for a while, Rebus confined to barracks with his COPD until the vaccine programme kicked in. But now he was a free man, and boosted to boot. No more distanced meetings with his daughter and granddaughter, them one side of the garden gate and him the other, shopping left outside the door for him to collect. People could go about their lives again. He could give Samantha and Carrie a hug, though he sensed a reticence still in his granddaughter, who was yet to be jabbed. Were things really getting back to normal, or was there no longer any normal for them to get back to? The drinkers in today’s pub still slipped their masks back on if they wanted to move about the place. They still twitched if anyone had a sudden coughing fit. Lockdown had offered Rebus the perfect excuse not to try seeing his doctor about the dizzy spells and chest pain. Maybe he’d do something about that now.

Aye, maybe.

For the present, he contented himself with the evening paper. There was a story about local businesses on the Royal Mile that felt under siege, shoplifters and addicts menacing them and taking from them with seeming impunity. Meanwhile in West Lothian a car had been vandalised with acid and a nearby house attacked with a petrol bomb. Rebus knew that probably meant a gang feud. Not that it was any of his business, not any more. When his phone pinged, a drinker at the next table visibly flinched. Rebus gave a slow shake of the head to reassure the man that it was just a normal text rather than a COVID alert. But when he checked his screen, he realised it was anything but normal, insofar as it was from a man called Cafferty. Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as Big Ger.

You not out with the dog?

Rebus thought about ignoring the question, but he doubted Cafferty would give up.

Yes, was his one-word reply. Cafferty’s response was immediate.

How come I can’t see you?

Pub.

Which one?

Why?

Are you on some sort of miser’s contract that means you can only type three-letter texts?

Apparently not.

Rebus waited, took a sip from his pint, and waited some more. Brillo was curled at his feet, not asleep but doing a passable impression. Rebus rested his phone on the table and swirled the contents of his glass, renewing its foamy head. He’d been told once that he shouldn’t do that, but he couldn’t remember why.

Ping. I need to see you.

Ping. Come to the flat.