The hands went around Rebus’s ribs, up under his arms and down his back. When the man crouched to check the legs of his trousers, Rebus had a mind to plant a knee in his face, but he reckoned there might be consequences.

‘I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did,’ he said as the man rose to his full height again. Instead of replying, the assistant grabbed the letters Rebus had taken from him, then led the way into the flat’s cavernous open-plan living area.

Rebus noted that the staircase had had a stairlift fitted, but otherwise the place was as he remembered it. Cafferty was in an electric wheelchair over by the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a telescope there on a lowered tripod, just the right height for someone seated.

‘I suppose you have to get your kicks somehow,’ Rebus commented.

Cafferty half turned his head and offered a thin smile. He had lost some weight and there was an unhealthy pallor to his face. The eyes were still the same steely orbs, though, the large clenched fists a reminder of past, bruising endeavours.

‘No flowers or chocolates?’ he asked, looking Rebus up and down.

‘I’ve a dozen white lilies ordered for when the time comes.’ Rebus pretended to be interested in the view across The Meadows to the chimneypots of Marchmont. ‘They still haven’t found him, have they?’ he mused. ‘The guy who shot you? Thinking is, they never will.’

‘Andrew, get John here a drink, will you? Maybe some coffee to counteract the alcohol?’

‘What’s the point of alcohol if you counteract it?’

‘A whisky, then? I don’t have any beer.’

‘I don’t need anything, other than to know what I’m doing here.’

Cafferty stared at him. ‘It’s good to see you too.’ He turned the wheelchair and aimed it at the long glass coffee table across the room, at the same time gesturing to Andrew that he should leave.

‘Which is he, carer or bodyguard?’ Rebus asked as he followed.

Cafferty gestured towards the cream leather sofa and Rebus lowered himself onto it, moving a large cushion emblazoned with a saltire out of the way. The only thing on the table was the mail Andrew had placed there. Cafferty’s gaze settled on him.

‘How about you?’ he enquired. ‘Did you have a good pandemic?’

‘I appear to have survived.’

‘Sums up the pair of us, wouldn’t you say? On the other hand, you probably feel it as much as I do.’

‘Feel what?’

‘Mortality, chapping at the door.’ To reinforce the point, Cafferty rapped the knuckles of his left hand against the arm of his wheelchair.

‘Well, this is cheery.’ Rebus leaned back, getting as comfortable as the sofa would allow.