‘How rough do you want?’

‘As rough as it gets.’

The man nodded, started off. Rebus leaned forward in his seat. ‘I thought the city would be livelier.’

‘Ach, it’s a bit early yet. And mind, the weekends are wild. Pay-packets coming off the rigs.’

‘A lot of drinking.’

‘A lot of everything.’

‘I hear all the clubs are owned by Americans.’

‘Yanks,’ the driver said. ‘They’re everywhere.’

‘Illegal as well as legal?’

The driver stared at him in his rearview. ‘What were you after in particular?’

‘Maybe something to get me high.’

‘You don’t look the type.’

‘What does the type look like?’

‘It doesn’t look like a copper.’

Rebus laughed. ‘Off-duty and playing away from home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Edinburgh.’

The driver nodded thoughtfully. ‘If I wanted to get high,’ he said, ‘I’d maybe think about Burke’s Club on College Street. This is us.’

He pulled the cab to a stop. The meter read just over two pounds; Rebus handed over five and told him to keep the change. The driver leaned out of his window.

‘You weren’t a hundred yards from Burke’s when I picked you up.’

‘I know.’ Of course he knew: Burke’s was where Johnny Bible had met Michelle.

As the cab drew away, he took stock of his surroundings. Right across the road was the harbour, boats moored there, lights showing where men were still working – maintenance crews probably. This side of the road was a mix of tenements, shops and pubs. A couple of girls were working the street, but traffic was quiet. Rebus was outside a place called the Yardarm. It promised karaoke nights, exotic dancers, a happy hour, guest beers, satellite TV, and ‘a warm welcome’.

As Rebus pushed open the door, he felt the warmth straight off. It was broiling inside. It took him a full minute to work his way to the bar, by which time the smoke was stinging even his hardened eyes. Some of the customers looked like fishermen – cherry faces, slick hair and thick jerseys. Others had hands blackened with oil – dockside mechanics. The women had eyes drooping from drunkenness, faces either too heavily made-up or else needing to be. At the bar, he ordered a double whisky. Now that the metric system had taken over, he could never remember whether thirty-five mils was less or more than a quarter gill. Last time he’d seen so many drunks in the same place had been after a Hibs/Hearts match. He’d been drinking down Easter Road, and Hibs had won. Pandemonium.

It took him five minutes to engage in conversation with his neighbour, who used to work on the rigs. He was short and wiry, already completely bald in his thirties, and wore Buddy Holly glasses with jam-jar lenses. He had worked in the canteen.

‘Best of fucking food every day. Three menus, two shifts. Top quality. The new arrivals always stuffed themselves, but they soon learned.’

‘Did you work two weeks on, two off?’

‘Everybody did. Seven-day weeks at that.’ The man’s face was pointing down at the bar as he spoke, like his head was too heavy to lift. ‘You got hooked on it. The time I spent on land, I couldn’t settle, couldn’t wait to get back offshore.’