‘Of course, sir.’ The manager sat down opposite him. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘A young man called Allan Mitchison used to eat here regularly, about once a fortnight.’

The manager nodded. ‘A policeman came in to ask me about him.’

Aberdeen CID: Bain had asked them to check up on Mitchison, their report back an almost total blank.

‘Do you remember him? The customer, I mean?’

The manager nodded. ‘Very nice man, very quiet. He came maybe ten times.’

‘Alone?’

‘Sometimes alone, sometimes with a lady.’

‘Can you describe her?’

The manager shook his head. There was a clatter from the kitchen, distracting him. ‘I just remember he was not always alone.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the other policeman this?’

The man didn’t seem to understand the question. He got to his feet, the kitchen decidedly on his mind. ‘But I did,’ he said, moving away.

Something Aberdeen CID had conveniently left out of their report …

There was a different bouncer on the door at Burke’s Club, and Rebus paid his entrance money the same as everybody else. Inside, it was seventies night, with prizes for the best period costume. Rebus watched the parade of platform shoes, Oxford bags, midis and maxis, kipper ties. Nightmare stuff: it all reminded him of his wedding photos. There was a Saturday Night Fever John Travolta, and a girl who was doing a passable imitation of Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.

The music was a mix of kitsch disco and regressive rock: Chic, Donna Summer, Mud, Showaddywaddy, Rubettes, interspersed with Rod Stewart, the Stones, Status Quo, a blast of Hawkwind and bloody ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’.

Jeff Beck: up against the wall now!

The odd song clicked with him, had the power to send him reeling in the years. The DJ somehow still had a copy of Montrose’s ‘Connection’, one of the very best cover versions of a Stones song. Rebus in the army listened to it in his billet late at night, playing on an early Sanyo cassette player, an earpiece plugged in so nobody else could hear. Next morning, he’d be deaf in one ear. He switched the earpiece about each night so he wouldn’t suffer long-term damage.

He sat at the bar. That seemed to be where the single men congregated in silent appraisal of the dance floor. The booths and tables were for couples and office parties, squawks of women who genuinely looked to be enjoying themselves. They wore low-cut tops and short tight skirts, and in the shadowy half-light they all looked terrific. Rebus decided he was drinking too quickly, poured more water into his whisky and asked the barman for more ice, too. He was seated at the corner of the bar, less than six feet from the payphone. Impossible to use it when the music was pounding, and there hadn’t been much of a let-up yet. Which made Rebus think – the only sensible time to use the payphone would be out of hours, when the place was quiet. But at that time there’d be no punters on the premises, just staff …