‘I’d say that’s one hell of a coincidence.’

‘You might even say we shouldn’t be discussing it on mobile phones.’

‘That’s a good point. Are the Crew still due to meet later?’

‘Four o’clock onwards. You didn’t invite Rebus, by any chance?’

‘You know what, I nearly did.’

‘Lucky you didn’t. Might need to turn it into a council of war.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time, Rob. I’ll be there on the dot of four. Still haven’t found you an M4, by the way, but I’ve got feelers out. Sure you don’t want to go hybrid? Petrol’s going to be red-flagged in the city centre sooner rather than later.’

‘Just keep looking, Alan. I’ll see you at four.’

Driscoll ended the call and made another, but it went straight to messaging. ‘I want to help,’ he said, holding the phone in front of him, his eyes reflected in its glass. ‘And I can help. But not if you keep avoiding me, Francis. The Crew’s meeting at the usual place, but I’ll be free from six onwards. So let’s do this – you say when and where. It’ll just be the two of us, swear to God. I really do want to see you, mate. And I really do want to help.’ He tried to think what else to say, ending the call when he couldn’t come up with anything. Was it worth having eyes and ears on Constitution Street? Maybe even the Newhaven flat, despite what he’d said to Chris? Where the hell else would Francis go when he was busy burning bridges? He brought out the little packet of powder from his pocket, snorted some of it off the back of his hand right there and then.

Constitution Street … I’d say that’s one hell of a coincidence. It wasn’t, though, was it? It couldn’t possibly be …

10

There was no one at the Oram home when Rebus got there. He walked around to the back door and peered through the kitchen window: a sink half filled with dishes, and a cat staring back at him from above the plate it had been licking on the drop-leaf table. The garden itself was tidy enough, and a new-looking barbecue sat under its covering on the patio. The garage was locked and there were no windows for him to look through. He had just finished retracing his steps to the pavement when he saw Ishbel Oram and her distinctive orange hair heading his way, two bags of shopping hanging heavily from her arms.

‘You again,’ she said.

‘The proverbial bad penny.’

‘Still ghost-hunting?’